The Sealord's Palace managed to impress even a Prince of royal blood who had been a guest of the Prince of Pentos with its luxury. In Westeros, such buildings were usually not built—lords lived in castle-fortresses with limited opportunities for their embellishment; even the Red Keep was primarily a castle. The master of Braavos lived in a magnificent palace having no fortifications, with the most wonderful garden, beautiful even in late autumn, and the richest menagerie in the whole wide world.
For more than an hour Aegon and Dennis could enjoy all the comforts of the interior decoration of one of the palace's reception rooms. Walls were covered with blue silk embroidered with silver crests of sea foam; a flame burned hotly in a white marble fireplace, and sofas and armchairs were softer than the softest featherbeds in a pillow house. The windows offered a wonderful view of the garden losing its gold, crimson, and copper foliage, the area of ten Harrenhal godswoods, and the clean waters of the Braavosi lagoon. Aegon would have surrendered long ago and dozed off among velvet cushions, giving rest to an unbearably buzzing head, but the presence of four guards watching at two doors prevented this circumstance.
The position of the Westerosis was far from the position of honored and welcome guests. In the gondola, the First Sword Prestayn did not speak with them, citing the Sealord's order; windows, small and barred with wood, were curtained with thick fabric and did not let in light. They were landed at a covered pier which was part of the palace itself, insistently offered to leave all excess things, including Dennis's sword and spare knives, as well as the sack with Valyrian statuettes. They likely did not know the secret of Aegon's cane, but a chance to take advantage of it did not present itself: a convoy of eight men led by Moredo Prestayn escorted them into one of the rooms, leaving them to await the Sealord.
The "guests" dared not speak in the presence of overseers—they might well know Common—and alien glances drilling into backs did not facilitate the exchange of opinions. Thoughts tiredly swarmed like sluggish flies; the Prince tried to force himself to think how they deserved such a warm reception or to what they owed the interesting meeting in the Warren, but every time returned to the statuettes, whose images seemed vaguely familiar to him, but he could not recall them at all.
But lo, the doors swung open, admitting the Sealord into the hall. The ruler of Braavos turned out to be a black-skinned man, rather plump, though not reaching Ser Warrick's size, with a spade-shaped white beard. He was clad in a purple spacious robe somewhat resembling Aegon's favorite gowns, in the slits of which a blue silk shirt was visible; a gold and iron chain hung on his neck, as well as a string of large pearls; a soft cap of delicate lavender color covered his head. The man did not look old, Aegon would rather give him some fifty years—just right to break through to the peaks of power.
"Prince Aegon, Ser Dennis," greeted them the Sealord. He spoke Andal quite well, almost without an accent. "Glad to welcome you to this palace."
"Cannot share this joy with you," Aegon, measuring the master of the house with an icy gaze, was in no hurry to rise from his seat. "We were brought here against our will. Secretly. Our property was taken away. They refuse to answer our questions. I am a Prince of House Targaryen, damn it, and I demand an answer!"
"I ask you, calm yourself," the Sealord raised yellowish-pink palms in a placating gesture.
He snapped his fingers and Moredo Prestayn himself replaced the four guards. His master meanwhile settled in an armchair opposite the Prince.
"I fear we began our acquaintance on the wrong note," remarked the ruler of Braavos. "My name is Tycho Ortheris. For the last eight years, I have served as Sealord of Braavos."
"Very pleased," answered Aegon venomously.
"You asked several questions, and I feel obliged to answer them."
"Be so kind."
"You asked why you were brought here. I answer: for the sake of your safety. I assure you, this is one of the safest places in Braavos, more reliable than the palace—only the treasury of the Iron Bank and the armories of the Arsenal."
"And in what does our safety consist? From whom do you protect us?"
"Do you need another answer?" tilted his head to the side Ortheris. "In my opinion, the body of the Faceless Man we found in the Warren testifies eloquently enough to the level of threat to your life."
"Faceless Man?" asked the Prince again. It did not fit in his head—rumors considered at least controversial in the Citadel turned out to be truth.
"Yes. His remains charred in less than a couple of hours, and this is the first sign that the deceased was an acolyte of the House of Black and White. He took another's face to kill you."
"Kill me? For what?"
"Only for being Aegon Targaryen, rider of Vermithor the Bronze Fury," simply said the Sealord. "To be more precise, you were to be killed so this conversation would not take place. Actually, this leads us to the main reason for our meeting..."
"No, no, no, wait," intervened Dennis. "And what of the killer?"
"You killed him," answered Prestayn and added just in case: "To death."
"Will he not resurrect, not return to finish what he started?" inquired the knight with skepticism; what they heard about Faceless Men in Oldtown looked more like fairy tales: killers changing faces as others change clothes, capable of fulfilling any order, even the most impossible. As it turned out, tales did not always correspond to reality.
"You exaggerate the capabilities of Faceless Men," reassured him Ortheris. "They are mortal, as are we all, and no magical means are needed for this."
"We were told Faceless Men make no mistakes and do not miss," remarked Aegon.
"That is so, they are good at their deadly business," admitted the Sealord. "Good, but not perfect. Of twenty-four hundred deaths only one may not be crowned with success. You were very, incredibly, unbelievably lucky."
"That means they will simply try again. Who knows, maybe you are the killer? Or your First Sword?"
"Calm yourself, no need to worry so," laughed Ortheris lightly. "You think in categories of mercenaries, but they are primarily priests. Death from their point of view is a gift freeing from worldly suffering. Anyone coming to them with an order for murder shows mercy to him whom he wants to kill. A Faceless Man, having renounced his own 'self', pulls on another's guise—only do not ask how they take them, no one knows this—and becomes a blind instrument of death. He has only one attempt—the guise will burn his body to ashes in any case. If he succeeds, he will free the 'unfortunate' from life, and free himself. If he does not succeed and the ordered person does not die, then the order was not pleasing to the Many-Faced God of death whom they worship. That means it is too early for this person to leave the vale of sorrow. The House of Black and White will not take the same order twice. You will have to suffer a while longer together with us, Prince."
"Cannot understand whether to get drunk from joy or from anguish," grumbled Aegon, strenuously massaging the bridge of his nose; his head stubbornly resisted the attempt to involve it in a theological discussion about existential problems.
"I would wait with alcohol," smiled the Sealord. "If your ill-wishers had enough money for a Faceless Man, then they will have enough money for other mercenaries too. Quantity breeds quality. One of them may succeed."
"So why do they want to kill me?"
A small hitch arose; Braavosi quickly exchanged glances, and it seemed to Aegon something resembling... guilt flashed in Prestayn's eyes?
"However strange it may sound, Prince, we are guilty of this together with you," pronounced Ortheris carefully. Aegon kept silent, waiting for continuation. "You should not have come to Braavos. At least at this time."
"Why?"
The Sealord ran a five-fingered comb into his beard and fell silent, weighing further steps. Aegon shifted his gaze to Prestayn, but the First Sword kept an impassive expression. Nearby Dennis sniffled impatiently, and Aegon felt ashamed: his sworn shield fought such a dangerous opponent, suffered, and he, as his suzerain, did not even care to provide him worthy help. Finally, Tycho Ortheris decided something, and, nodding to himself, began:
"Braavos is on the verge of war. Perhaps you heard of the Lorathi-Ibbenese alliance?"
"Yes, in Pentos they spoke of it."
"Even Pentos is concerned about this!.. The alliance formed not from nothing. The last few years our relations with Lorath became worse and worse. They dispute our power in the Shivering Sea, squeeze our merchants out of Norvoshi, Qohorik, and Ibbenese ports, they even send pirates to intercept our trade with the North of Westeros!"
"What insolence," sympathized the Prince.
"Unthinkable insolence! We could not endure this and undertook... an expedition against Lorathi privateers. Unfortunately, we have no power over the weather, and northern storms are merciless... I shall be honest with you, Prince, our fleet is halved."
"I do not think this is a big problem for you," remarked Aegon. "You can easily build as many galleys and galleons as you like."
"So it is," nodded the Sealord. "But ships are needed right now. Existing forces would suffice to blockade Lorath and force them to an agreement, but these seal spawns concluded an alliance with Ibbenese. Have you seen their ships?"
"Saw them. Unpleasant sight."
"The most unpleasant thing in them is that they are big, they are real floating fortresses! Only a siege catapult will pierce their decks, but you cannot squeeze it onto a ship. But even this is only half the trouble: Lorath managed to reconcile Norvos with Ibben."
Aegon became wary: the former Valyrian colony and the state of hairy men long disputed various pieces of the Shivering Sea coast with each other, periodically changing hands. An unthinkable amount of gold would be required just to force them to sit at the negotiating table.
"Now you deal with a triple alliance?" clarified the Prince.
"No, may the gods save us from it!" threw up his hands Ortheris. "However, Norvos now does not consider us... good neighbors and allowed Lorath to recruit mercenaries on its lands. Furthermore, we have proof that Norvos and Lorath exerted pressure on some religious communities of Braavos. Disciples of bearded priests proclaimed the war unrighteous and forbade their parishioners to participate in it. Followers of Aquan the Red Bull, the Patternmaker, and Trios are also against it. We know our enemies make generous gifts to Red Priests, and if R'hllor's servants turn away from us... We cannot wage war when more than half the city is set against it."
"This is sad," agreed Aegon with the Sealord. "But how is this connected with me?"
"To tell the truth, we wanted to ask you for help," admitted the ruler.
"Me?!"
"You. You possess the most flawless weapon in the world. A dragon."
"A dragon is not a slave and not a weapon," corrected him the Prince automatically.
"But your great namesake conquered a whole continent with their aid. You understand, Prince Aegon, rumors of your journey have already spread across the Narrow Sea. You stayed in Pentos, then you were seen flying north. In the north are only we and Lorath. The fact that you arrived in Braavos the Lorathi interpreted as an offer already accepted by you, and hastened to eliminate you."
"What offer?" Aegon was tired and understood little.
"To become our main striking force in the war," answered his First Sword instead of the Sealord.
Silence reigned in the hall.
"You want to hire me?" They want to send him to war? Aegon could hardly believe it.
"Together with the dragon," clarified Prestayn.
"I am not a knight. I am not even a warrior."
"You are a dragonrider, and the rest is unimportant. Vermithor already participated in wars under your late grandfather's saddle, so it is not new to him."
"I cannot," protested Aegon. "I have no right to interfere in the internal affairs of other states without the knowledge and permission of my brother-king."
"You said yourself you arrived here as a private person," remarked Ortheris, to whom, evidently, all details of the conversation at the Warren were reported.
"I cannot participate in another's war without my brother's permission. It is not my thing at all, I am not a warrior, I know not how to fight..."
"Lie," the Sealord's voice was as soft as it was adamant. "Your blade testifies against you. Yes, I know about it too. Moredo serves as my First Sword not for nothing, he has a trained eye."
"That I carry a blade in a cane means nothing. I am still a cripple."
"And again a lie."
"And who testifies against me now?" raised an eyebrow Aegon.
"Rumors," smiled Ortheris gently, like to a child. "And my ears. Imagine, I have far more than two. You are, of course, not a knight, but you are blood of the dragon's blood. In your hands Valyrian steel itself becomes a formidable weapon, and you definitely know how to handle it. So let us be honest, Prince. No gods like lies. By the way, about gods..."
He clapped his hands twice; one of the doors opened and two servants carried in a heavy chest of bog oak with a massive brass buckle. The Sealord lovingly ran a hand over the wood and clicked a nail on the metal.
"Of course, its burden deserves only Valyrian steel, but who after the Doom wastes it on locks and keys?" he remarked and threw back the lid.
As Aegon expected, in the chest on dark velvet cushions lay three statuettes they took (no, not stole) from the Warren. Ortheris picked up the one depicting a man and began to examine it, now extending arms, now bringing the stone figure to his very nose; must be, until this day he did not know of their existence.
"Fine work," he admitted, tapping a finger on the crown of swirling hair; now, under normal lighting, Aegon thought they resembled strange flame or a cloud hanging over the vent of the Dragonmont. "To work dragon glass so finely... Wonder what he holds in his hands?"
"Death."
Aegon himself did not understand how the word flew from his tongue; at first, he even thought someone else said it, but the Sealord and his first guardsman looked at him with such great surprise that doubts fell away. A second ago the Prince knew nothing about the statuette of the Valyrian god, but suddenly he remembered the Valyrian sphinx in Andalos and the prayer carved on its pedestal. Something clicked in his head, and the mosaic came together.
"This is Balerion, and he holds death," repeated Aegon more confidently. "In Old Valyria Balerion was asked to accept a man's death."
"Why ask for what has already happened and cannot be avoided?" marveled Moredo.
Aegon only shrugged; he had no answer to this question yet. However, his interest in the Valyrian curiosity did not go unnoticed; Ortheris glanced askance at the Prince, smiled slyly and handed him the stone-obsidian Balerion.
"Accept these statuettes, Prince, as a sign of Illustrious Braavos's apologies to the Iron Throne for the regrettable incident."
"Does this not contradict the tolerant laws of Illustrious Braavos?" arched an eyebrow Aegon, taking the Valyrian sculpture in his hands.
"The Holy Refuge and all altars in it are property of the city. As Sealord, I can dispose of it for the good of the people, and now the good of the people demands that these sacred figures be used to preserve good relations with the Seven Kingdoms. Illustrious Braavos brings official apologies to House Targaryen."
Ortheris bowed shallowly and made an inviting gesture to the chest. Aegon chuckled; perhaps, one should not refuse a gift, after all, they were giving voluntarily what they stole. And Tycho mentioned city property not without reason, that was a very veiled hint at possible consequences of theft; hardly was the Sealord so arrogant as to directly persecute the Prince as a thief, but relations of the Seven Kingdoms with the Free City would certainly be spoiled. Therefore he nodded, returning Balerion to his place and closing the chest; without thinking long, Dennis moved it closer to himself.
"Apologies accepted. But I would be far more grateful to you if you remembered the treaty signed by Ser Bartimos Celtigar in my brother's name."
"Dear Prince," Ortheris pressed hands to his chest, and the expression on his face became simultaneously touchingly guilty and offended, like a lady who cuckolded her husband and now denies accusations. "Braavos always fulfills obligations taken upon itself, but now, when a threat hangs over our trade—nay, over the city itself!—we are obliged to ensure our own safety first. Does it not seem natural to you that any state thinks of its own interests first?"
"It seems so," nodded Aegon in agreement. "But my brother wants guarantees that you will fulfill obligations."
"The desire of His Grace King Viserys is quite legitimate, however, what will our obligations be worth if we lose the war?"
"You know, dear Sealord," Aegon sat again in the armchair and neatly crossed his legs, right over left. "I have a feeling you want to get a bribe from the Iron Throne, with me and my dragon."
"Bribe?" it seemed the Sealord was sincerely insulted, but the Prince was in no hurry to be deceived. "Gods, what bribe?! I wanted to ask you for help!"
"I refused you."
"You did not say 'No'," caught him Tycho. "And you did not hear me out. Of course, we do not ask you to help for free. Braavos will take upon itself the maintenance of you and the mighty Bronze Fury. You can fly on him right here, my gardens will become his lair. We do not demand personal, direct participation in battles from you: only burning the Lorathi-Ibbenese fleet and forcing Lorath to capitulation. Both are questions of one or two days, we shall not detain you for long. Finally, we are ready to pay generously both you personally and your crowned brother, may the gods bless him with a long reign."
Aegon fought with difficulty a smile ready to spread on his face; against his will he became curious what price the Iron Bank put on him.
"How much?"
"There!" triumphantly raised a finger Tycho Ortheris. "You began to speak like a business man! A million golden dragons to the Iron Throne, and as much to you personally. Furthermore, we are ready to give you a fourteenth part of what will be received from the losers."
"A fourteenth part of ash, charred wood, and bones?" clarified the Prince ironically. "Do you understand how a dragon fights? From a height it is not visible which buildings can be burned and which not."
"The Stone Maze—that is the main treasury of Lorath. Even dragonfire does not take it, your ancestors already tried, so using it as a repository is quite logical."
"And it is also logical to hide in it and sting invaders painfully."
"We reckon you will suppress resistance before the population has time to hide in the Maze."
"Ah, so that is it," chuckled Aegon and pretended to think. Seeing he hesitated, Ortheris decided to throw "cavalry" into the battle for the dragonrider.
"Rumors reached me, Prince, that in Pentos you sought Valyrian candles, but found nothing..."
"You have good ears."
"The secret of making candles of dragon glass sank into oblivion together with Valyria, but, fortunately... In the treasury of Braavos there are three candles. One of our brave captains brought them from Elyria, he knew no fear, only courage, fervor, and thirst for adventure."
"Yes, yes, we have a similar one. He is my cousin's husband."
"The famous Corlys the Sea Snake," nodded Ortheris. "His name is known from here to Asshai itself. But he brought no Valyrian candles, since you are interested in them. Braavos can add a glass candle to your million dragons too."
"Only one?"
"Have mercy, Prince! Valyrian candles are as rare as dragons! Even the Iron Bank finds it difficult to determine their exact value, so consider we give you not one, but two million, if not more."
Precisely at this moment Aegon surrendered to himself; in the end, he set off across the Narrow Sea exactly for this, and if to get a candle one has to fight, then so be it. For order's sake, however, he chewed his lips, wound a strand of silvery hair on a finger and reminded:
"My brother still needs a fleet."
"The Arsenal and shipyards will set to construction as soon as we return to the Titan with victory," nodded Ortheris. "Your order will be realized even before our own. So it means... We agreed?"
"The Prince, his dragon, and his knight for two million dragons, a Valyrian candle, and a seventh part of the loot."
"Precisely," the Sealord knew how to keep face and reacted in no way to the "inexact" share. "I hope you will forgive us if we do not conclude a written agreement with you? In old times merchants took each other's word."
With these words, he extended a hand to the Prince, which he, thinking for order's sake, shook. The Sealord's palm was warm, dry, and slightly rough.
"Agreed," nodded Aegon.
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