Chapter 53
"By the time the wisdom of her actions comes into question, it's safer to follow through without hesitation now that the course has been decided." -From the Saga of Tanya the Evil Vol. 7
Kevan smiled as he saw little Alys trace her tiny fingers over the words while he read them aloud to her. She was a curious child, and no doubt before long she would begin reading just as fast as Fraedrik had. The little pale blonde mop on her head indicated her Westerlands blood, but the purplish tint to her eyes came from the House of the Dragon.
Elaena had once explained to him that just because her own eyes were blue did not mean that her blood did not contain the schematics for purple eyes. As an example she used her late grandmother, Princess Alyssa, who had one eye green and the other violet, yet both her great-grandparents had only purple or blue eyes. It was one of those pieces of lore that he simply trusted her to be correct about when it came to the ways of House Targaryen.
Regardless, little Alys joining their family became the next treasure in his heart.
His father had been moved greatly by the decision to name her after Kevan's grandmother, his father's mother, Alys Lefford née Westerling. Elaena had said that it was appropriate and fair, since she had pushed for her firstborn's name to honor her own history, so the next child should honor Kevan's. He had not thought such equity was needed, but he did not protest greatly. His father's joyous smile was quite pleasing to him.
Kevan was sure his own lips were caught in similar smiles all the time, these days.
After finishing her story, he put little Alys to bed and walked out of her room, nodding to the two guards who quietly intoned, "Ser Kevan."
The men who guarded his family were chosen for their loyalty and their ability. Kevan was told that they had undergone a rather rigorous winnowing process overseen by his lady and several of the Knights of Victory whom Elaena employed. From the tales he'd heard, it was not a process for the faint of heart, but that any who succeeded could be relied upon to the extreme.
On this, he and Elaena readily agreed, even if he was lacking experience as to her methods. Kevan would have none but the best protecting his family. Assassins had once gotten far too near his wife all those years ago, and despite all the love and joy in his life he would never forget the cold resolve those events had built at his core. No blades in the dark would ever be allowed near her again, let alone their children.
The new keep they'd designed and built together was key to this, as the place where their family would reside and be protected for the foreseeable future. It was located near the center of Silvervale, the completed city.
Well, mostly complete.
For over half a decade the city and its defenses had been built up, truly staggering sums of gold invested in its completion as the Crown and the Dragon Bank prospered like never before.
The roads were all paved in gray, with marble, gray granite, and slate being the most common building materials. Mostly due to Lady Selene's influence, even colorful banners flying throughout the city and the clothes of its people often included silver designs, while most decorative filigree was done in polished gray metals or even real silver in wealthier areas.
A city of gray and silver tones, situated in the vale below the Golden Tooth, over which a magnificent silver dragon oft flew. There had been talk of other names, but Silvervale had stuck. His lady wife had been a bit amusingly exasperated about that, but in her own words, a recognizable brand held its own kind of power.
And Silvervale was a name on many tongues indeed.
The keep itself was part family home and part vicious fortress. Half of it was underground with extensive shelters and reserves of its own, which was somewhat surprising, because the bunker project had separate construction sites well outside of Silvervale. But if one factored in all of the defensible locations built throughout the city, the entire extent of Silvervale itself could be considered mere outlying defenses for the central keep.
Assaulting the city was guaranteed to make any invader suffer horrendously bloody losses, while still providing infrastructure for regular guard patrols and keeping order on the streets.
Districts segmented the city crosswise, with walls and gated guardposts between each. Intruders attempting to storm from one district to another could be trapped within enclosed spaces and fired upon from every angle. When fully garrisoned, every step of the main roads would be within range of tower outposts. Mandatory 'building codes' and firebreaks were set in place to prevent fires from spreading, and the use of stone in construction reduce that danger further.
On and on the defenses went, every bit of it planned or approved, built hand in hand with city gardens and tree-lined boulevards, decorative fountains and separate wells, expansive sewers and cisterns.
By every measure, Silvervale was a marvel and testament to his lady wife's vision for a city planned out in near entirety ahead of its construction.
Despite his father being the Lord of Golden Tooth, he too oft stayed in the new city.
The great baths were almost certainly a reason, alongside being near his grandchildren.
Elaena, with the aid of several ingenious craftsmen, had devised a way to harness dragon fire to heat water. A stone furnace was built for Viktoriya to loose her flame into, and great bronze pipes ran from the heated chamber into a network of channels and pumps. With the pull of a lever, steaming water flowed as though by magic.
Kevan had been particularly intrigued by a complex mechanism to super-heat and funnel boiling waters from the same reservoir as the bathhouses out onto attackers attempting to breach a specific trapped zone by the entrance to the inner keep.
There were smaller tubs for private bathing, but Kevan's favored luxury, as with many others, was the great ever-heated bath, vast as a feast hall and warm as summer. Steam drifted lazily across the surface and clung to the air like a soft veil, while the stone floors around it were always pleasantly warm beneath the feet. Kevan knew the water circulated and was 'filtered' of dirt and detritus. It was a luxury that not even King's Landing or Oldtown could boast.
When he arrived, his beautiful lady was waiting for him. The bath was open to others at times, but after the hour of the bat, it was reserved just for his family. Over the last several years, she had matured into her appearance. Stately and striking all at once, she had never grown quite to the height of most ladies, but her manner and poise always made her shadow seem cast tall. Her figure had grown fuller as a mother, yet even more elegant in proportion. Her hair remained long and silvery-white, held in braids when she rode Viktoriya, but now hung loose as she lounged in nothing but her skin.
She shifted her eyes to him over her shoulder, tired blue irises seeming to glow warm as they met his own.
"Husband, did Alys give you any problems?"
"Nay, she has her usual quiet disposition. I believe she will be gentler than our spirited Fraedrik."
He had finished disrobing and savored the warmth on his skin before pushing himself through the water to glide toward his wife, enjoying a quiet kiss upon his arrival. Elaena had been so… transactional during the early days of their marriage when it came to affection. His quiet, gentle efforts had paid off over the years, and the hesitation was gone. Their touches were easy and lingering, and it was not just for the purpose of conceiving that they lay together as man and wife.
"With Fraedrik having just celebrated his sixth name day, it is time for him to have his own dragon. The smallfolk on Dragonstone have occasionally glimpsed a dragon they call Gray Ghost, and I believe I can corral it for our son to attempt a bond."
Kevan nodded. The thought of his son being near a dragon not yet bonded was a fearful one, but he trusted his wife in all things, draconic or otherwise. Indeed, Elaena's incredible affinity with her Viktoriya still astounded, for never would he have imagined in his youth a dragon mirroring its rider's will so effortlessly. Still, he could not help but feel a trace of bitterness over the situation.
"Are we sure your sister will not object to you poaching a dragon on her island?"
Rhaenyra had gifted the egg they had hoped to have for their son to Daemon and Laena for their daughter Visenya. Since then, no other eggs had been recovered from Meleys or Syrax. In King's Landing, Helaena's Dreamfyre had laid a clutch of three eggs. When they had arrived, it was shortly after Helaena had given birth to the twins, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera. Two of the three eggs had been given to those twins, and both had hatched. The third egg had been given to Helaena's brother Uthor, though it had not hatched.
Kevan had been in King's Landing when the Maesters predicted a difficult birth for Helaena. Her abdomen had swollen faster than that of a normal woman carrying a child. Princess Helaena had predicted she was carrying not just one, but two babes. Maester Mellos said that was just an idle fancy of hers, but Elaena had declared it true and spent months in King's Landing with her sister. In Kevan's eyes, that should have meant the third egg could have gone to Fraedrik instead of Uthor.
Elaena does not like me speaking ill of Helaena, so I will not bring it up again. Still, to have two of her sisters deny eggs to her own line was hurtful. Though I feel this pain largely at the thought of how it must hurt for her, she herself hardly seems to pay it much mind. I fear her family is oft more callous to her love for them than they ought be.
Elaena's eyes flashed. "It is a wild dragon; it is not even known if it nests properly on Dragonstone. I do not believe it will cause any issues. Rhaenyra may nurse a grudge, but they would not be able to catch Gray Ghost safely, so it is not as if I am taking anything from her. She welcomes me easily enough when I visit."
Kevan knew that was true, as he often joined her on her excursions. Rhaenyra was an affable host, though there was often a tension in the air between jests and toasts. He wondered if it was all due to Rhaenyra's anger at Elaena for her temporary exile half a decade ago, or if it was some other spark. Harwin's wife seemed troubled, and Laenor ever seemed like a caged beast. Were he not the Dark Storm, Kevan would have taken Laenor's sweating, worried expressions, and too-quick movements as signs of anxiety, but the heir of Golden Tooth knew they could be nothing more than a desire to wage the brand of warfare he had mastered in the Stepstones and Tyrosh.
Though I do not know why, my wife finds my thoughts on Laenor quite amusing. In this one area, I am bemused by her seeming misunderstanding of the martial bearing and nature of the Dark Storm. He has doted upon my clever Elaena all her life, even heeded her sage council on matters of strategy, as is appropriate for all she has done. Unlike nearly everyone else in the realm, I am confident Laenor would not vent his wrath on me, thanks to my marriage to her. Yet it has surely painted a different image of the kind of man Laenor is in her mind. Between his chained frustration, whatever had Lyra so concerned, and past slights, some days in Dragonstone feel far too fraught with tension to make for a truly enjoyable visit.
Elaena traveled to and fro across the realm. Visiting King's Landing and Dragonstone was common, but she also journeyed to other locales, most recently White Harbor. The North had called their banners and won a sharp victory over the Wildlings. The young Lord Stark had told the King that no aid in men and arms was needed, but supplies and food would be welcome, as Winter was nearing and aiding the Night's Watch on a deeper ranging to end the threat of Wildlings for generations was his desire.
The King had told his small council that he wondered if young Cregan was overeager to make a name for himself. Some argued it would be a waste of coin in pursuit of one lord's vainglory, with the Wall standing proud and well-manned. Elaena, however, had spoken with her father and convinced him that the treasury could easily bear the costs. With the new crops and glass gardens now available in many of the strongholds of the North, Elaena was confident that even a harsh Winter would not lead to starvation as it normally had, though it would still be difficult with so many men called to fight beyond the Wall.
"You know your sister best, my love. Will I be joining you?"
Elaena shook her head. "No, it would be best with just the two of us." She relaxed into his embrace.
Some time passed in easy silence as Kevan combed his fingers through his wife's hair, gently scratching her scalp and tracing soothing patterns upon her neck.
She loosed a long breath of pleased comfort, nestling her head to rest more fully into his collar. Kevan held her closer and tucked her deeper into the crook of his neck.
Warmth and smooth skin shared with such a heartfelt embrace... it brought a euphoric satisfaction to the efforts he'd long devoted. A dream come true.
"We had agreed upon two children, Kevan, but Fraedrik and Alys have brought me such joy that I would not mind another. Only… when I am with child, I cannot be fully ready if ill befalls my family."
Kevan smiled gently; his wife always took on so much herself.
"I am in no hurry. I would be delighted with another child, but it sounds as if you have some concerns."
"Indeed, I do. Another assassination attempt on Daemon occurred. Hamish writes that he is not sure if it is a genuine one or not. My uncle has enemies aplenty, but false flag or no, he will once more attempt to present his case to my father. The troubles in the North concern me, and Aemond… Aemond is stirring trouble in Essos all on his own as well. The small council will likely see a number of retirements soon, and ears are killing ears in Gulltown, King's Landing, and Lannisport. Knives are being sharpened, and while we are safe in Silvervale, the rest of my family is not."
Kevan held her tighter in his arms, and with a squeeze of reassurance added, "As the Starks are wont to say, Winter is Coming as well. You are still only five-and-twenty, plenty of years of left to birth more children, if that is what you desire. There is time if you would prefer to wait until after the winter has passed."
"I am of two minds, but let us see how my undertaking with Gray Ghost goes first."
Kevan nodded his agreement. "In the meantime, we can always practice." She lifted her head and met his gaze with a sultry smirk, no longer awkward or cheeks dusting red at the idea of pleasure for pleasure's sake.
Gods, I am a blessed man.
***
Ser Medrick Manderly watched as Lord Umber swatted down two Wildlings with one sweep of his great blade. The heavy weapon bit deep, sending a spray of blood that steamed briefly in the frigid air before freezing into red crystals on the snow. The North's warriors surged, and the half-starved Wildlings came undone. This was not the knightly jousting of tournaments in the south, but butchery in the frozen snow. Battle was dangerous, even if Medrick was more than a match for any foe he had come across. There were other dangers, however. The cold itself had led to more injuries than clashes with the enemy. Toes and fingers were the most common casualties over the last month. Many men had awoken to find their extremities black and lifeless. The Maesters had been forced to saw them off amid curses and screams.
Medrick smashed his shield into the face of a man in furs. Without armor or a shield of his own, the man was open to countless attacks. On the other hand, Medrick was fully armored and nearly invulnerable to his foe's weapons. They often used not even proper castle-forged steel, but poor-edged weapons prone to breakage. A bone-tipped spear glanced off his vambrace with a dull thud. It was a simple truth: a man in plate armor could be far less skilled than a man not in plate armor and still easily prove the victor. Medrick Manderly was not unskilled, and his battle reflexes more than matched his foes'. Those twin advantages combined to allow him to cut a bloody swathe that his squires and men-at-arms were hard-pressed to keep up with in the now pink-colored snow.
Medrick did not relish this duty. He had been wed for only a few weeks before the banners were called by Lord Stark. Bella Frey was a delightful young woman, quite enamored with him and pleasing to look upon. She was loyal, devoted, kind, and agreeable to be around. And yet… he could not help but wonder what life would have been like with someone like Princess Elaena.
In the post-battle celebration Lord Cregan Stark spoke with his commanders, which included Ser Medrick.
"The stories they tell beggar belief. The dead walking? Ridiculous, it would seem. And yet there is little cause to doubt that that is what they truly believe," Lord Stark said in a cold tone.
"Something sent the Wildling tribes south. They weren't ready for this conflict; half of them are starved, and winter has yet to truly come," Lord Umber rumbled. The man was even bigger than Lord Selmy and Ser Harwin Strong, the two largest men Medrick could recall ever seeing.
Medrick knew that was true, though it was colder where he was beyond the Wall at the moment than what White Harbor would face even in the harshest of winters. He shivered; he couldn't quite imagine so harsh an icy temperament as true winter this far north.
"Might it be a trick?" Medrick asked. "A rival group of Wildlings creating fear through clever use of disguise and sleight of hand? Or perhaps some woods witch brewed some sort of poison or vapor that makes men see horrors, and then the tale spreads?"
Stark grimly chuckled. "Wildlings don't tend to be that clever. You've been in the south too long and picked up all their games, ser. Take it as no slight, for your time in the south has proven a great boon to the North." Stark's lips curled into a smile, "And, if needs must I ever venture into the south, I would have you at my side to explain the twisted ways of the lower Seven Kingdoms. But as to the Wildlings, no, I do not think it likely."
"Surely you do not think the dead truly walk?" Lord Bolton said with an air of skepticism.
Cregan grimaced. "The Wall was built for more than to keep Wildlings away. The old tales are not the pretty songs southron children sing by the hearth. They are the words our fathers carved into weirwood hearts when the world was younger and darker."
Seven preserve us. Is Cregan suggesting the dead do truly walk?
"I do not ask you to believe in children's tales. I ask you to look at the fear in the eyes of men who have lived their whole lives beyond the Wall, men who eat their own dead when hunger bites deep enough, and tell me what could frighten them more than starvation?"
The lords murmured among themselves, some carefully scoffing at the conceit. Others declared that strategy should never be based on Wildling belief, for they are wild and strange to other men. Medrick finally cleared his throat.
"Lord Stark, I cannot say whether your words are true or not. But my father's house has pledged itself to your family. I will ride where you command. What do you intend to do about this threat?"
Cregan's eyes met his own. They were unflinching, and Medrick returned the gaze evenly. He recalled the tales of how the old Kings of Winter could see beyond the ordinary, glimpsing the fate of men and lands alike. How Torrhen Stark had knelt – not from fear, for all knew he had none, but because he foresaw the devastation that would befall his realm had he resisted the Conqueror.
"Our task is not done. We go further north, either to end the threat of more Wildlings or to uncover the truth for ourselves."
***
Helaena rarely remembered her dreams these days. Their importance had retreated in her mind, as she could still never understand what was true and what was mere flights of fancy. With them no longer as memorable, potentially due to the dietary changes her sister had suggested, and her coming to peace with the thought that it was impossible to tell if one were true or not, she was far less concerned when one stood out.
It did not, however, stop her from waking with a scream of terror. Her husband lightly embraced her, whispering softly, "All is well. I am here, Helaena."
Helaena clung to him for a moment, the dream far starker than any she had had in the last couple of years. As usual, it was all a jumble. She grabbed the parchment and quickly sketched what she still recalled.
Aegon looked over her shoulder as the pair of too-blue eyes appeared under Helaena's hands. Then came another sketch, a large dragon consuming a smaller one. She could not recall, or perhaps had not seen in her mind's eye, the coloration of either, but it was clear that one was far larger. The final image, the one that filled her with fear, showed a rat biting her son, Jaehaerys.
Jaehaerys and Jaehaera were born together, something she suspected had caused the exasperated and venerable old Maester Mellos to resign his position and allow it to someone who might have better fortune in understanding the House of the Dragon. She wished him well and wondered what he would write in that book he was laboring over.
The new Grand Maester was less sour of disposition than the old one, though Maester Orwyle's selection by the Maesters of Oldtown had caused friction with Princess Rhaenyra, who had urged her father to select someone else regardless of the Conclave's decision. Helaena preferred not to pay too much attention to the noisier individuals of the court, as it only made her head throb.
It was with some humor that she realized her twin babes were quite noisy, yet she found she did not mind when it was them. Like the sound of heavy rain upon the window, she quite liked being around them and being their mother.
Even Alicent… ah, my mother, seems to treat them with patience and adoration, more so than I ever felt from her when I was being reared. Father had once said that being a grandsire was a precious, unmatched joy. 'Tis good for her to have time with them, for I can see the cares of the court melt away when she is with them.
Sometimes Helaena felt guilty that she did not shoulder a larger burden for her mother, but it was not who she was. She knew Aegon was to be King after their father passed, yet the careful plotting and whispered, honeyed words to the right noble or knight were a game she knew she would never be good at. What concerned her was how Elaena would react to such a thing. She had always been clear that all were duty-bound to obey the lawful sovereign, and that the King had the power to appoint an heir. Aegon had said that Elaena would be unhappy, but if all the lords raised up their voices as one and backed him, their sister would come around as well.
"What do you think these mean? Do they worry you?" Aegon asked, lifting one of the sheets. "You've drawn these eyes before, with a backdrop of snow. The Citadel says we are in autumn now, and the air has taken a cooler turn. Is that why this might have come to you?"
"Perhaps," Helaena said softly, "those eyes scare me. See how I have drawn them? They are unlike the eyes of any person."
"A beast then? Perhaps some Northern monster, a cousin of a dragon? The old tales, with the recent trouble with the Wildlings, have grown quite fanciful."
It didn't sound right to Helaena, but she did not know what would sound correct either. Speaking of dragons, it was nearly time for her children's dragons to be moved to the Dragonpit. The risk of them sparking flame accidentally was too great.
"I know not. It is the dragon consuming another that feels more pressing. I know you tell me to fret not over the succession, and that all is well, but it has the feel of an omen."
Aegon sighed and took her hand, pressing it to his lips. "I do not wish you to worry, so I do not share my fears with you. I hope that the succession will be clear. Grandfather says he has things well in hand, but I do worry. With Aemond taking the Bronze Fury to Essos, I sometimes wonder if it would be easier just to follow him there, despite our differences."
Helaena shook her head. "Essos? No, we could just live in Silvervale. Rhaenyra may mislike Ali–our mother, and you and your brothers, but if we sheltered under Elaena's wings we would be safe."
Aegon gave her a sad smile. "The bond between the children of Aemma may not be what it once was, and who would truly rule if Rhaenyra sat atop the Iron Throne? Daemon? The Dark Storm? Even if it is her, her children hate us. I fear we would only bring trouble to one who deserves it least. Essos would be better if the worst comes, but even that may not be safe. So, I will do what I must."
Helaena did not know enough about the intrigues, but she knew he looked every bit a King in that moment. Resolute, solemn, and while fearful, he also possessed a quiet, courageous strength that made her proud of her brother – her husband.
The last drawing he looked at with a frown, then his lips turned upward. "Rats, again. We now employ an army of cats; I think our son shall be safe from those vermin."
"I am sure you are right. Come, let us return to bed. I will not let dreams overworry me. I know you will keep us all safe."
***
Laena Targaryen made her way through the crowded streets of Tyrosh, her eyes taking in the lively bustle around her. The air held a mix of saltwater from the harbor and the sweetness of wine and perfumes. Around her, her bodyguards created a protective cordon. She knew there were others among them, dressed in the clothes of merchants and smallfolk along her route to the Dragon Bank. Princess Elaena had provided sound advice indeed all those years ago, and despite the tension in the air, she did not fear assault by the people she and Daemon ruled.
The riot of color gave way to the black, red, and gold of the Dragon Bank offices. Out front stood several more armored men. She was escorted inside and soon brought to one of the sitting rooms, where Hamish Arryn greeted her.
Time had brought a steadiness to his stature and a knowing confidence to his eyes, almost always paired with his easy smiles. The man had relished his position at the Bank for years, every challenge being met with clever ploys or decisive cunning, and his enthusiasm for handling such responsibilities showed no signs of waning.
He always dressed in fine attire with a neat appearance, a well-kept beard now framing his jaw and granting his smirks a particularly mischievous tilt, especially when he had a jest or jape to tell. What Laena found most amusing was his insistence on silver accessories ever since her husband had stuck him with that silly little moniker out of spite. The 'Silver Falcon' was meant as a lesser shadow of the Gilded one in Gulltown, but from what Laena had heard, few in Tyrosh would ever compare Hamish Arryn of the Dragon Bank unfavorably.
None seemed to enjoy the jest more than Hamish himself though, for he'd embraced it fully and had in recent years taken to wearing a half-cape over one shoulder made of metallic silk, layered with falcon feathers of polished silver and affixed at his collar with a silver-winged dragon pendant.
"Ah, Lady Laena, a pleasure as always." Hamish greeted her warmly.
Twice a week they met and went over the finances for Daemon's realm. Daemon made many broad decisions, but the minutiae were left to Laena. She, in turn, was familiar with all of the details, but leaned on the young lord from Gulltown to review the ledgers. He always wore a friendly face, and her daughters got on well with him. There were others from Westeros in Tyrosh, but they did not have Hamish's refinement.
"The streets remain on edge; what troubles the people?" Laena asked.
"They fear reprisal over the latest attack on Daemon. The games grow bloodier, and those accused of treason may not be truly guilty. They are afraid of whom Daemon's men will accuse next, and then sentence to fight or die. More oft than not, it ends in fighting and dying."
Laena frowned. "There is evidence, testimony from others of their guilt."
"Yes," Hamish drawled, "evidence from guardsmen and friends of the guardsmen. You should speak with your husband; it is evident there is a quota now to keep the numbers up for the pits. Still, we dance upon a knife's edge. The fear and displeasure they hold toward Daemon are dulled by the excitement of the games. I recommend pressing for other amusements, more contests not to the death, but to first blood, or even matches against wild beasts, where the pit fighters have hope of victory."
Daemon would not like that. Her husband was wroth over the state of the world. Rhaenyra had allowed Aelyx to be named heir to Tyrosh and the Stepstones, yet she insisted he divide his time, half the year on Dragonstone and half with Daemon. Laena had managed to convince Daemon that it would look better to the Realm and cause less grief toward Rhaenyra's claim if they announced the betrothal of Visenya and Aelyx as well. The wedding would occur when Visenya came of age and that would befog the situation enough, while Daemon would have the leeway to groom his bastard as his heir.
Laena lamented that she had not been able to give him a son without affliction, which would have precluded the entire ordeal. Her latest attempt had nearly killed her, and it would have been a pitiful death, one where she had neither Rhaenyra nor Elaena at her side. Her mother and brother had come, but even then the tension with Daemon was strained, for he had raged at 'yet another girl.'
Her final daughter, Naerys, was a delight to her, but Daemon paid her little mind.
At least 'tis indifference instead of loathing.
Daemon longed to go to war with Essos. He longed for a trueborn son unlike Maegor. He longed for Rhaenyra to return to the more biddable woman she had been years ago. He longed to strike down Otto, Alicent, and the rest of the Greens. He longed for much, and for the last several years he had been stymied.
Now that thoughts of her son had come to mind, she asked, "How is Maegor doing with his duties? One-and-ten still seems young to be tasked with such important work."
Hamish grinned. "He is doing more than well; your son's mind is a rare thing. Though I must confess, my pride is stung, for I have not bested him even once this year at Cyvasse. I almost feel he is wasted on financial matters; it seems as if he should be working with craftsmen to invent new tools and new applications for existing ones. The Dragon Bank funds quite a few of such creative enterprises in Westeros."
Laena felt warm pride suffuse her. The boy had been primarily raised by Elaena, but she credited herself for making him feel welcome here in Tyrosh and furthering his studies. She had told her daughters to do the same, and they had listened. Maegor was cherished here among his closest kin, all save Daemon.
"That is wonderful to hear. If he wishes to be a Maester, he can attend the Citadel. If he prefers to design devices, I will see that he has coin. If he wishes to continue work at the Dragon Bank, all the better. I am glad he will have a place in this life where his talents are of use."
They went over the accounts, and Hamish again urged her to speak with Daemon. He also suggested that with some of the surplus, feast days for the people, where free food and wine might be provided, could ease rising tensions. Feasts with roasted meats, fresh breads, and flowing Essosi wines might remind the people of Daemon's generosity rather than his wrath.
Attempting such a thing with Daemon is difficult, for he almost relishes the thought of a rebellion as an excuse to use Caraxes again. If he could wage his war with Lys and Myr, he would gladly have a feast day commemorating additional jewels being added to the crown of his kingdom. Alas, that will have to wait until Rhaenyra is Queen.
She wished him well and returned to the manse. The heavily guarded building was adjacent to the recently constructed barracks. It housed Targaryen, Stepstones, and Velaryon knights, men-at-arms, and sellswords. A few Knights of Victory served as officers there, and it was a strong bulwark in case of direct attack. It was a pity that their dragons were far too large to be housed next to their estate.
Her four daughters were well protected there, though soon it would be time for Baela to fly with Moondancer to Dragonstone. She was betrothed to the future King of Westeros, a future that promised much for her. It would be difficult for her to be parted from the rest of the family, especially her twin sister, Rhaena.
Daemon was lounging in bed with a pretty thing from Lys, Saenya, who had already borne one bastard son for him. She had purple eyes and silver-gold hair. She claimed that her ancestors were of Old Valyria, and that the blood of the Dragon ran down to her. The woman was a full decade and a half younger than Laena, and while time had only lightly touched her and Daemon, it still had left its mark upon them.
Laena's bosom had swollen quite full over the course of her many pregnancies, but somewhat unevenly, and her skin was a little less taut. While clothed, few could tell; but unclothed, she knew she was not as perfect as she once was. Saenya's own breasts were perky and plush, and currently pressed into Daemon, causing Laena to feel a pang of rare envy.
"Welcome back, my lady. I was growing impatient for your return. Were the Arryn boy not so craven, I'd worry over the time you spent with him."
Laena smiled and advanced forward, gracing Daemon with a long kiss. "He manages to live in a city ruled by a man who still bears a grudge against him, from when he acknowledged that man as so far superior a warrior as to make any crossing of blades pointless. He cannot be that craven, my love."
Daemon waved the topic of Hamish aside with a sneer of contempt and questioned her about her recent trip to Dragonstone.
"Rhaenyra remains the same as ever. I dare not try to breach her prohibition on advice, but I am hopeful that when weighty decisions come to her, she will seek counsel from me. I jest with Joffrey and my brother, and seek to make a good impression on her children. I fly Vhagar with my nephews and make plans for the upcoming wedding with Jace and Baela." She smiled at her husband. "It will take time, but a wedding with a tournament, and the hope of grandchildren, will soften her heart, you will see."
"I tire of waiting. The amusements of Tyrosh grow stale."
"Do they, my lord?" Saenya giggled, still at his side. "My sincerest apologies. Once you have freed Lys and our kin from Old Valyria, you will find fresh pleasures."
Laena ignored her. "If they grow stale, then perhaps it is time to begin to slow the extent of pit fighting. Allow for more battles to first blood, as opposed to death. Perhaps create unique games and challenges. The city is nervous; thousands die during the games, and they fear your guard sees treason where there is none."
Daemon looked vexed.
"We have bloody spectacles, costly in lives, yes, but they keep the populace in line. As a distraction, and as a reminder that any betrayal of my family will lead them to the pits."
Laena suppressed a sigh. Her husband was not interested in changing how things were run at the moment. She did not let any of her disquiet appear on her features. She knew his heart, and her annoyance at his decision would only compound his frustration with her inability to bring Rhaenyra to heel.
"As you say, Daemon. Now, remove this distraction; let it be just the two of us."
Daemon looked from her to Saenya.
"No, I would have the company of you both tonight."
Her blood boiled, even as she kept the smile upon her visage while the former slave from Lys smirked at her. Laena was hurt by her husband's dismissal of her requests, and she felt a pang in her heart. In her youth, the idea of Daemon doing this would have been a welcome challenge – a fight, a torrid contest to win. But now… she had only wished to rest with her husband and enjoy a gentle night together, just the two of them.
I grow weary of these games as I age. Or perhaps it is that I feel I am failing my prince. I am… unused to it. I dare not push Rhaenyra, but perhaps I can find a way for others to press a difficult decision on her shortly before I arrive…
Chapter 54
"Hope is a wonderful thing. But even the most delicious of dishes can leave you feeling sick. That's why I continue to be hounded by vague suspicion. Have we… fallen for something awful? Fallen for a scam? -From the Saga of Tanya the Evil Vol. 13
Aemond Targaryen, rider of Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, was peevish at having been wounded by the Dothraki. He'd massacred an army's worth, and their bows, even if they were stronger than most Westerosi ones, were no threat to Vermithor. However, one lucky shot had struck almost perfectly and punctured the crook of the inside of his elbow as he had swooped low to unleash flame.
His pride was more pricked than anything, but the wound would heal quickly enough. Payment from Selhorys would be added to his already healthy accounts with the Bank of Braavos. His failure to wed a Baratheon girl had left him bitter. The other matches that his grandfather had tried to pair him with were pathetic. Matches far beneath his station and with idiot girls who were beneath contempt.
Where are the Elaenas, the Rhaenyses, the Visenyas?
He was thinking of Visenya, the Conqueror's sister, not his cousin, the daughter of Daemon. However, he concluded that it might be a tolerable match if she did not grow up to be a simpering fool. Her lineage was impeccable, from both the Targaryen and Velaryon sides. Not that it was a possibility, with how the Blacks and the Greens had drawn lines in the sand at the moment.
Perhaps when they are dead, I can claim her. I would wait, as I cannot stand the thought of marrying a child who cannot keep up with my brilliance, and I would need to see if she had a spine before I would consent to it. But 'tis a thought.
He had thought that perhaps in Braavos, Volantis, or Pentos he could find a worthy partner. It had been a disappointment. He'd had to dodge more than one attempt on his life in Essos. A death after a battle with a skilled opponent was one thing, but dying via cowardly ambush or poison was not the legacy he would end his story on.
In cities, he would typically remain disguised and would be wary of dangers. Despite supreme confidence in his own abilities, he did miss having secure lodgings and dedicated protectors like the Kingsguard about him. Aemond had much time to think as he found himself alone, riding Vermithor, and ponder what he wished to do next.
It is a pity that I could not convince Elaena to support war with Essos. With her backing, our father could have been convinced. He has ever minded her, and that is most like the only reason the realm is as prosperous as it is.
His feelings regarding his father were complicated. Aemond perceived him as a weak King, but results, not theory, were what mattered. Elaena's lessons had been clear that no matter how good something sounded on parchment, the proof of a theory was real-world application, and by that standard Viserys had been an effective King. He had attempted to turn that argument to his own end when he pointed out that war with Tyrosh had yielded some friction, but had been a boon for the economic expansion of the Seven Kingdoms.
She in turn had said that replicating the circumstances and preparations which enabled such a feat would not only be difficult, but that even succeeding in further conquests would strain the social cohesion of the Seven Kingdoms as a whole. She claimed that even with the Tyroshi integrating and assimilating, it had taken persistent, systematic efforts on her part to ease tensions and make allowances.
She and her proxies had to shepherd those efforts, pressure Westerosi nobility, exert considerable leverage in a variety of locations, and without this active management a more organic attempt could have ended in disaster. However, if another wave of freed or resettled populations came from Myr or Lys, it would not be nearly so simple as the already quite complex task she had undertaken, and there would be many more risks in the process, not the least of which being the collapse of all prior diplomatic arrangements with Essos.
Elaena had been all too patient and willing to explain the many nuanced agreements, concessions, and carefully balanced incentives she had helped negotiate for each and every polity within or around the Narrow Sea to secure the Iron Throne's hold over Tyrosh and the Stepstones, to prevent chaos from rendering their economic expansion into a sunk cost.
Aemond knew better than to argue that they had dragons and that fear would keep their enemies in line.
Elaena was not as gentle as people seemed to believe. What she had ordered done to those who had tried to defraud the Bank of the Dragon should have revealed it, but no, the people of the Seven Kingdoms, lords and smallfolk alike, were fools. Her politely poised features and never-failing diplomatic demeanor led many to believe she was a delicate flower. Despite knowing the strength lying under that enchanting exterior, Aemond knew the two of them were very different.
She was a planner, a woman who preferred to 'measure thrice and cut once,' and her plans wished to account for all potential factors. Her desires for safety, prosperity, security, and comfort were not his own. He craved the challenge, whereas Elaena would prefer any conflict between nations to be a foregone conclusion before it even began. Diplomacy was her weapon of choice, and she had educated him well enough in how brutally it too might be wielded. How comprehensively one could dismantle foes with words, trade, the mere threat losing mutual benefits, and a willingness to wait so very patiently.
He could even see the shape of it, upon realizing the scope of her action. Decades of pressure and 'soft-power' exerting ever greater influence on their neighbors until Westerosi control and economic might became more and more concrete holds upon them. Holds that, should the so-called Free Cities seek to shed them, would cripple their economies and see them descend into chaos and infighting, ripe for swift, easy, and total victories.
He understood why she preferred it that way, but it did not suit his ends. He wanted his name on every tongue; every Maester who taught history would place his accomplishments there with Aegon the Conqueror if he had his way. He did not want decades of slow bites taken out of a disorganized mob of infighting fools, followed by longer periods of patient, peaceful biding of time as one amassed wealth taken right from the hands of one's eventual prey.
He did not want to grind all his enemies to dust under the weight of an entire continent, his name a mere footnote on the council which decided the fates that nations would only see in the time of his own grandchildren.
He had tried multiple bits of rhetoric, such as appealing to her womanly heart about the plight of the slaves in Essos. There, she had earned his respect all over again, because unlike what she presented to others, she was not swayed by such puerile notions. Elaena had pointed out the risks, the practical flaws in his intentions, and the consequences of shattering diplomatic stability: the increase in assassination attempts, exotic poisons, even the darker stories of the Faceless Men, Shadow Binders of Asshai, and the Warlocks of Qarth were unknowns, so caution should be taken.
Much are overstated stories, but there is power there. More subtle than a dragon, but dangerous. Where Elaena sees danger, I see opportunity. How much greater will my tale be if I face the foulest and darkest of sorceries and still prevail?
He pondered if it was time to journey to the far reaches of the east. Perhaps even visit Asshai by the Shadow. Aemond ultimately decided it was too far. He knew not when his father would die. Rhaenyra and his brother Aegon would both put forth their respective claims, and he was eager for the conflict. There he could slay the likes of Daemon, the Rogue Prince. Slay mighty Vhagar. Perhaps even the greatest of clashes the world had ever seen: him against the Dark Storm.
That is one where I may need the assistance of Tessarion, Dreamfyre, and Sunfyre. But prevail we shall.
For now, he had an appointment to keep in Volon Therys. It was smaller than Volantis but still larger than King's Landing or Oldtown. The cities of Essos were like that, their populations immense, which is what appealed to Aemond so greatly. After traveling to the great cities of Essos, Westeros seemed… small. The architecture in general was grander than in Westeros, save for some notable exceptions like the Hightower of Oldtown, the Wall in the North, and Harrenhal.
The Magister of the Volantene city was not of pure Valyrian blood. After centuries of dilution, it was rare to see Aemond's own features reflected, especially in lesser 'towns,' as Essos inexplicably referred to Volon Therys. His hair, once perhaps the pale silver-gold of true dragonlords, had darkened from that color. It was oiled and braided with threads of gold into a crown that sat on his head like a merchant's mockery of a conqueror's helm. Strands of it clung to his sweat-damp temples in the humid heat.
"Be welcome, Prince Aemond, it is an honor to host the rider of the great Vermithor. I had hoped to bend your ear and discuss events in Westeros," Horvys said in perfect High Valyrian.
Aemond looked at the purple eyes of the man. He held wealth that would only be rivaled by the likes of the Velaryons, Lannisters, and Targaryens, yet here in Essos he was only a minor power compared to the rulers of Volantis or Braavos.
"Your message spoke of an opportunity for coin, not gossip. What would you have of me?"
The man's smile was innocuous. "A gift then, suitable for your lineage. All I ask is an evening of your time to obtain your thoughts on our neighbors to the west."
A slave approached and knelt. Upon a satin pillow was a dagger of Valyrian steel, the hilt made of ivory from a tusk, wrapped in the pelt of a shadowcat. The Magister explained the three components of the gift, and Aemond twirled the blade in his hand. It was well balanced.
"The gift pleases me; we will discuss matters as you like for the evening."
Horvys and Aemond continued speaking the ancient tongue. Despite himself, he was pleased to find someone who had mastered it. It had been some time since he was last able to converse with Elaena. Some elements of the language were tricky and did not have precise translations. Certain terms, like prince and princess, were just one word in Valyrian, and they were not the only examples of such. When Horvys had greeted him he had called him Dārilaros Aemond. If he had been greeting Rhaenys he would also have still said Dārilaros Rhaenys. Much of High Valyrian did not distinguish male or female connotation, even as he mentally translated the appropriate pronouns for current context as they would be in the Westerosi tongue.
The Magister was well-informed already of the political situation in Westeros. He asked about the Greens and the Blacks, and what would happen once Viserys the Prosperous was no more.
"So that you can let my half-sister know what treasons we might commit once our father passes? I'll not say it outright, but few will tolerate the whore ascending the throne," Aemond said, with contempt lacing his voice.
"Few may fear her, but what of her husband? The Dark Storm will keep any intractable lords in line, or so we believe in Essos."
Aemond knew it was a good argument. The lords may not respect the Realm's Delight, but Laenor Velaryon? That was another matter.
"None doubt his strength, but he is still but one warrior, and his mount is much smaller than the likes of Vermithor," Aemond stated this with a confidence that he did not truly have of his chances alone against Laenor.
The Magister raised a golden eyebrow.
"But if we were to go by dragon sizes, then Vhagar is the largest. And if we were to compare the sheer number of dragons Rhaenyra can call upon, such as Caraxes, Meleys, Syrax, Vermax, Thraezarys, Moondancer, Arrax, and Tyraxes… to say nothing of financial matters, such as control of the Dragon Bank."
Aemond did not let his resolve waver. "Most have not seen war on dragonback; they are inexperienced as riders, and their dragons will act on instinct and be brought low by superior riders. As to the Dragon Bank, it will most like stay neutral – only a fool would want to make an enemy of its master."
Elaena is skilled at dragon riding, and I suspect she and Viktoriya would attend to matters of battle with the same efficacy she applies to everything else. But she would not yearn for conflict, and would likely encourage all to avoid doing harm to the lifeblood of the economy.
The Magister seemed surprised. "You mean they are not wedded to the Black cause?"
Aemon laughed. "So long as Viserys lives, of course they will back his chosen course. Viserys is the King, even if her tune is the one to which he dances. It is almost amusing how much an art she has made of guiding the King to her favored outcome with little more than the right words."
The Magister was nodding, though Aemond suspected he was still confused, so he explained further. Explaining how the realm's safety and security was paramount, that the economic progress and growth mattered more to the dārilaros than who would sit the Iron throne.
"Ah, is that the courtesy one should use when addressing the master of the Bank?"
Aemond squinted at him.
I cannot believe he is ignorant of Westerosi custom. She may have married Lefford, but the Lady of Silvervale is still a princess, now and forever.
Souring a bit, he took a sip from the wine. "If you seek to protect an investment, know that I am prepared to face the Dark Storm, Daemon, and Laena in battle. But I would not seek out battle, nor do undue harm to the Dragon Bank." Aemond laughed. "Only a fool would underestimate her importance, or attack a potentially neutral party so crucial to the Realm."
The Magister was stroking his chin. "A fascinating discourse, you have given me much to think on and revealed an insight that many of my peerage have missed. You will always be welcome in my home, Dārilaros Aemond.
***
Luke and Braxton were in the yard. Luke looked at his half-brother and saw so many of the similar features they shared with Ser Harwin Strong.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! The whole world knows!
Luke had just reached his maturity, while Braxton still trailed it by two years. Both were already the size of most men, and their practice blades were swung with vicious strength.
He was to be the Master of High Tide one day, the Lord of the Driftwood Throne, inheritor of the vast riches of House Velaryon. One day it would be his duty to keep the people of Driftmark safe and to hunt down pirate trash wherever they sailed. But now? Now he felt a fraud.
Laenor, his false father, had told him he still viewed him as his son. Luke had many conflicting emotions about that. Blood mattered; his uncle Daemon had always been clear on that. Velaryon and Targaryen were houses birthed from Old Valyria. Him being Harwin's son lessened him.
But worst of all, it meant that dung-head Daeron was right. Argh!
He slashed low then came up high and body-checked Braxton in the chest. It was like ramming a wall, a wall that struck back, but Luke, even in his anger, was mindful of the lessons Ser Joffrey taught and managed to parry the blow. The two continued their spar in earnest.
Luke heard the distant screech of a dragon and called a halt to scan the skies.
Moondancer.
His brother's betrothed, Baela, had arrived. She was funny, far more entertaining than his own more serious bride-to-be. For once, he thought he might actually prefer Rhaena's company. He was in no mood for jests or japes.
"We have a guest and should go be made presentable. You did well, Braxton."
"Thank you, my Prince."
He washed his face and changed into black velvet, and was in time with the rest of his family to greet the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Baela would make a great Queen, to be sure, but he hoped that day was still more than half a century away. She was witty, fearless in her dragon flights with Moondancer, and naturally had a beauty that outshone nearly anyone. She had more Valyrian blood than most, more than his own mother, and certainly more than him.
Luke's mother looked regal, marred a bit by the excess around her middle, but still queenly. Dark rubies shaped into three-headed dragons were set into her black dress. The man who claimed to be his father stood next to her, a smile on his face as he greeted his niece.
I was so proud that the blood that flowed through my veins came from the Dark Storm. Never has there been a greater scourge against piracy than him.
Luke learned his lessons well. Of blood by his Uncle Daemon. Of the finer arts of dragon riding by Aunt Elaena. Of the wickedness of piracy by both his 'grandfather' the Sea Snake and Elaena. Of the importance of personally inspecting ledgers by his grandmother Princess Rhaenys, of his courtesies by his mother, and of battle by Ser Joffrey and Ser Harwin. Laenor had taught him the importance of family, and now he found it a sour jest.
Baela embraced Rhaenyra and his mother spun the girl around with glee, formality forgotten.
"I trust the journey did not overly tire you?"
"Nay, I spent the night at Stonedance. Lord Massey was honored to host me and he asked that he pass my regards onto you."
"And how are your siblings? Your parents? We've heard all sorts of rumors from Tyrosh." Rhaenyra asked.
"All is well. You know how the Essosi are, they chafe under proper Westerosi rule. Father wasn't even injured; his guard stopped the fool before he even got close. Mother hopes to visit you again soon; she says her one regret in the conquest of Tyrosh was how far they are now from Dragonstone."
As she spoke, she greeted the others, a hug from her uncle, a chaste kiss on the lips to her betrothed, and hugs for Luke, Aenar, and Corwyn.
"Maegor is doing well in his new role at the bank. Hamish, I mean Lord Arryn, sings his praises. It is work Maegor takes to, as well. Rhaena sometimes spends time with him going over books, says it will be good practice when she is the Lady of Driftmark."
Good, ledgers are a dull affair. I understand the import, but if my lady wife can handle it, so much the better.
"Aelyx is squiring for father and doing well, he misses you and sends his love, but also doesn't wish his training to be interrupted too much. We can speak of it later, but I believe he is eager to continue his arms training under the Prince-Paramount of Tyrosh."
His mother frowned at that, pursing her lips. "We shall discuss it anon. For now, we shall speak of more pleasant matters, such as the wedding that must be planned!"
Baela laughed and finished speaking of the rest of her family, on how quickly Visenya and Naerys were growing. As Rhaenyra absconded with her niece, Jace looked at him.
"What ails you, brother? You are normally happier when one of the twins comes to visit."
He let his gaze glance toward Laenor.
"Ah, that. Perhaps it would have been wiser to have told you sooner, but you were oft rash with your tongue."
Luke felt his face go flush. His brother hadn't meant it as an insult, and he knew that, but he still felt the bite of it.
"I wouldn't have spoken of it, but why does it even matter? All the realm knows. It is obvious, especially when we stand next to the Strong children."
"And how often does the realm see that, brother? You forget that Dragonstone is quite isolated. There are few lords here, and all the knights are fully sworn to Strong or their own house. Many suspect, few know. And none dare speak of it, lest grandfather have their tongues removed."
Luke clenched his fists. "How can you stand it, brother? We live a lie. We are bastards."
"This is why we didn't tell you earlier, but it matters not. We carry the strength of House Targaryen and House Strong. We will be wed to House Velaryon, and though grandfather and grandmother do not speak of it, they must surely know. If the houses of Targaryen, Velaryon, and Strong all support us, who is harmed by this deception?" Jace argued, voice even and steady.
Luke exhaled, feeling some of the anger dissipating. His brother spoke sense. It would always bother him, it would always make him feel a fraud, but results did matter. The ultimate value of blood, birth, training, intent, or anything else was secondary to results. Elaena had been the one to teach them that results were truly the only thing that mattered in life. The result of their mother's actions was a large family full of dragonriders, the Iron Throne, the Driftmark Throne, and an unassailable position.
It's fine. Everyone will... we will all just have to live with it.
***
Otto was frustrated by how long it was taking Viserys to weaken. Less than twenty years ago, he'd have bet half the kingdom that the man would be dead before his fifty-fifth name day, and thought any who took him up on the offer an utter fool. And yet there was no sign of great infirmity, and in a scant three years Viserys would have achieved such an age while still hale. The King was clearly not as spry, but the old predictions that the former Grand Maester Mellos had made all those years ago were proven as false as his competence in predicting the results of the birthing bed.
It was more dangerous to have him killed, but it might give me the opportunity to better plan when Aegon's ascension would occur. A pity that I know Alicent would never countenance doing the deed herself. Ah, but if women were not so soft of heart, the opposition against Rhaenyra would die in its infancy.
Larys had revealed his latest findings. Driftmark and Tyrosh were filled with tools he could use, though Larys had warned that in Tyrosh the damnable order of knights protecting Daemon and his family would make things difficult. The power of Tyrosh was dangerous. Caraxes and Vhagar were formidable, and their daughters each had a rideable dragon as well. The plan required adjustments and terrific sums, and Larys still could not give it more than a coin's toss odds as to whether it would be successful.
The Master of Whisperers was more confident about Driftmark. Dragonstone was an impossibility; there were simply too few comings and goings. The cost that the House of Black and White set for Rhaenyra was an impossibility, even if he had all the wealth of Westeros. Those further from the throne were still exceedingly costly, but it might be worth it. No, he needed another solution to Dragonstone, and that entailed a great deal of risk to one of his most formidable weapons, and if Viserys died unexpectedly, the timing would not work.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door, and the guard announced Prince Aegon.
"You wished to see me, grandfather?"
"Yes, I have a task for you. It would be good for the lords who do not oft come to King's Landing to see you more. In particular, the Greyjoys may be more open to proper male rule of the Seven Kingdoms. Dalton Greyjoy is young and new to his position; it would be good for you to feel him out. You will also be near House Banefort and can remind our Westerlands allies of their obligations."
Aegon's brow furrowed. "The Iron Islands are a polity that I almost do not wish support from. They are vile. Piracy is a scourge on trade and bleeds the realm."
"And you can do something about it when you are King!" Otto snapped at him. "We will take aid from any quarter if it means your throne is secure and your children are safe."
Aegon nodded. "I said almost, grandfather. I understand the import of having every voice raised in unison when the dark day comes that my father is no longer with us."
Otto eyed Aegon; his words were likely true, though Viserys had never had much time for Aegon growing up. He had been too busy with the daughters of Aemma to care for anything else. Aegon had been dutiful, filial loyalty being one such duty, and the King doted on his twin grandchildren. There were reasons to respect the fool of a King.
"I know you are not your brother, but do take care to avoid antagonizing the Greyjoys in the way he did the Baratheons. Borros may very well oppose you out of spite, even though he now despises Rhaenyra after her folly with Daemon and her attempt to war with the remains of the Triarchy."
Aegon shrugged slightly. "I can be diplomatic. I will say the words needed and see that he looks upon the Greens in a favorable light."
Otto sent him on his way, and he returned to his planning. Coin was a precious resource, made all the more dear by how spendthrift he had been of late. Myr had finally agreed to send their new scorpions. Unlike the weapon that had once slain Meraxes, these were even more deadly. With greater length and more tension upon the sinews, they would fly faster and further. Along with them, the bolts themselves were tipped with a sliver of Valyrian steel. There were promises that they could even pierce a beast like Caraxes, though their artisans could not claim assurance of success against even older dragons, whose scales were more resilient still.
If his attacks were only a partial success, the likes of the Rogue Prince and the Dark Storm would descend with a vengeance upon King's Landing. He dared not trust only in the dragons his grandchildren rode, or the paltry few normal scorpions that already existed. No, he would want even further assurances, the new models Myr now had dotted upon every tower of their own city.
He wished he could rely on Prince Qoren more, but the man had been hesitant to accept an early marriage. Uthor was four years from his maturity, but the ruler of Dorne had said there was no hurry, even once he reached six-and-ten.
He sees the conflict coming as well, and would prefer not to bind his house fully to our cause until the dust settles. Perhaps I can encourage Viserys to write a missive and his desire to have more grandchildren sooner than late.
Daenora was in a similar situation with her betrothal to Kermit Tully. The lad was a mite young for marriage, but the sooner they were wedded and bedded, the better. Daeron would wed Patricia Redwyne in the following year. Otto felt that all the matches made were useful in uniting the lords behind Aegon, but he knew there were sizeable dangers.
The Velaryons, Arryns, Starks, and most of the Crownlands would almost certainly rally their banners for Rhaenyra at once. It was anyone's guess what the bitter Baratheon lord would do. Most of the Reach and the Westerlands would back Aegon, but he needed those marriages to Dorne and the Riverlands to secure their backing.
When the time came, at least he knew King's Landing was almost fully secure. The last of whatever authority Daemon had over the City Watch was gone. The Waywardens were fully under his son's control, and even the serving staff had been replaced. Larys had shared that many had already left for Silvervale.
Silvervale. The great city that the King cannot cease prattling on about. If only my daughter were half as capable as Elaena in worming her way into Viserys's affections. Consulting him on Old Valyrian architecture had given Viserys an unbecoming amount of joy.
Otto's contempt for the Lannisters only grew as the years marched on. He almost feared they would not stay loyal to Aegon's cause, but Jason and Tyland Lannister were in too deep now. The Leffords were spoken of now as a great house, and it was unseemly. The city was a marvel and was said to rival Myr in artisanry and the creation of useful trinkets. It was unfortunate that Larys had difficulty in planting would-be assassins close to Elaena. The notion that her guard was better than the Kingsguard or Daemon's frustratingly competent lot seemed far-fetched, but he had no choice but to believe it. Which only left more ruinously costly alternatives if he wished to remove her from the board.
Various schemes came to mind. What if he could lure his most difficult opponents to King's Landing itself? Or somehow arrange for them to visit Driftmark. Perhaps even have one of the more loyal lords host a grand tournament and encourage the King to hold court there, as he had done at Golden Tooth some years ago.
Or better yet, arrange matters so that a Black-aligned lord hosts such an event. Manipulating such a thing and then arranging the King's death to coincide… ah, it may undo all the years of prior planning. I cannot be sure of the right course. I will have to consider my options, and I must speak with Aemond. If he does not do his part, it will come down to how great those Myrish scorpions truly are.
***
Fraedrik loved his mother. Being able to ride with Viktoriya was the greatest thing ever! She always knew what to do, and everyone in the keep loved her. His father said to always listen to her, but sometimes it was hard. She told him about the ways of the world and always had an answer to any of his questions. That was awesome. What he didn't like was how she kept trying to have him solve numbers faster and faster. It was so boring, and why was it important to not just sum together numbers, but to multiply large sets of them in mere moments?
His mother said it was an important skill, one that only she could pass on to him. That made it exciting at first, something special only for him and his baby sister. His father said to listen to her, and that her skills let her work wonders that he too might achieve, but it was hard.
Reading was easy. Adding numbers normally was easy. Using parchment and quill to combine large figures through multiplication was not a great challenge. But to do it within his own mind, within a heartbeat? He feared he would never accomplish that. He feared he would fail his mother, fail to share in the special thing she wanted to give him.
It was so annoying to fail. He wasn't used to it. His mother would smile at him when he said so or got upset, asking him how he felt and helping him find the right words for it. She would hug him until he found his calm, and tell him that to be challenged was to grow, that he only faced great challenge already because he had grown so well. That she was proud of him and his efforts.
It made his heart swell to bursting, and he would try again. Then she would pose to him his toughest lessons yet, having him 'exercise' in solving numbers while they would fly above Silvervale. The thrill of flight, of Viktoriya's roars and the rushing of his senses, made solving so many numbers bearable, but it was the hardest thing Fraedrik had ever done.
Regularly she would fly low enough for him to make out specific parts of the city. When he could tie what he saw and the familiar sights of Silvervale to the problems in his mind, he felt he could solve them a little faster.
How far was it from the easternmost outer gate along the River Road to their family's keep, as the dragon flies, if the roads were this or that long? How many cornerstones would there be in all of the Factor's District if there were these many buildings of that many shapes? How many times would he have to pass through each district gate if he were to walk every street in the city with the fewest steps he could? How many copper coins were in the Falwell Square Fountain if the water had risen this many spans?
He always loved the sights of all the fluttering banners and flags, of the way the sunlight caught them. He loved the smells and colors of the flowering or fruit trees along the Verdant District's boulevards. Vineyards and plantations throughout the valley, gardens and fountains, weavers and dyers, craftsmen and engineers, all came together to make wonderful sights.
He loved spotting the rooftop carvings or monuments with dragons or fantastic shapes along the edges of rooves. The great mason-yards and sculptor halls by the edge of the city worked without end to make every building worth looking at and remembering. The markets and 'ware-houses' in the many districts sold everything made in the city and more from beyond, to be sent out and traded in every direction. From the skies, it all laid out below him seemed a great play-ground.
When he could see it and tie numbers to the city, he could imagine it, then recall it, and solving got the littlest bit easier. But it took so much thinking, and a lot of failing.
So Fraedrik felt his frustration was only a minor gripe, something he wouldn't let get the better of him, and one completely overshadowed by the joyous news! News that would soon see him flying above the city whenever he wished! Fraedrik was to claim a dragon!
A dragon of his very own. He thought he could burst with excitement, and even his mother's relentless quizzing with numbers as they rode to Dragonstone did not dampen the thrill coursing through him.
As they drew near the mouth of the bay, she finally stopped the endless number quiz and was reminding him of her expectations. They had sighted Dragonstone, but she was flying high, peering downward, looking for the elusive dragon.
"There he is," she told him, excitement present in her voice as Viktoriya turned toward a barely perceptible dot in the sky.
Fraedrik watched as they followed it. The other dragon was still barely visible when it turned sharply and descended toward the waters. Viktoriya followed, and the dragon ahead of them let out a screeching sound.
"Mother, we are frightening it!"
"Grey Ghost is most like used to fleeing from the Cannibal. All will be well, my son."
They chased Grey Ghost as he flew back upwards into a cloud formation, and the feel of it on his skin gave him a bit of a shiver. The inside of a cloud always felt odd to him, like it should feel more substantial. As they drew closer to the other dragon, it shot flame into the sky, and Viktoriya let out her own cry. The rumble was felt in his bones as well as his ears.
After that, Grey Ghost descended onto a rocky portion of Dragonstone and gave another keening cry. His mother loosed the chains holding them both and held him as she slid off her dragon and landed smoothly on the rocks. She set him down, took his hand, and approached Grey Ghost.
Fraedrik looked at the dragon with awe. It was both larger and smaller than he had imagined. Its scales were dark, almost like the color of smoke at twilight, and they shimmered when the sun touched them. He imagined the dragon would be nearly undetectable at night, but those scales held a quality that did something to the light touching them. The dragon's bright, inhuman eyes watched him, and he could only return the stare with wonder.
The claws of the dragon were immense, and from the lore he had been taught, they could rend armor with ease. Mastering his fear, he looked up at his mother.
"Can I approach?"
"Yes, but come, we will go together, though the last few steps you will do so alone."
Hand in hand they walked, and the dragon tossed its head with nervous energy, but settled as Elaena spoke soothing words in High Valyrian. The dragon calmed, and the warm, comforting weight of his mother's hand left his. Fraedrik inhaled heavily, trying to breathe in courage.
When he exhaled, he was calm and he approached, one step, then two. Then he reached out a hand tentatively to the creature. The dragon looked from him to his mother, then back at him, and lowered its majestic head. He touched it; the scales were like smooth stone that somehow still held life. There was a warmth to them that reminded him of the great baths. He spoke the welcoming words in that old language, something he was proud to have mastered.
Something changed. Something that he could not ever describe in words. He once recalled his ear hurting fiercely when his mother was away at King's Landing. His hearing had diminished on that side, and he had been desperately frustrated by everything. When she returned, his mother had made a tea for him, and as he drank, she rubbed under his ear; suddenly the pain had departed, and he could hear, even better than normal. She had wiped away something sticky that had dripped, but he hadn't paid much attention as he was distracted by how loud everything had suddenly become. That was what it was like now, as if he had a sense that had lain unused and had suddenly become available to him.
He felt Grey Ghost. Felt the echoes of the fear of pursuit now dwindling to calm acceptance and contentment.
"I… I did it, mother. I am bonded to him. I did it!" He turned to her, and she slid her arms under his to lift him into a deep hug. Her glowing smile and the light in her eyes seemed almost brighter than the shine in his dragon's.
"You did very well and were quite brave. Once we return to Silvervale, you will be able to ride him, but for now he shall follow us home."
Fraedrik looked at her in surprise. "We aren't going to see Aunt Rhaenyra and Uncle Laenor? I want to show my dragon off to my cousins!"
She shook her head. "No, 'tis best that we wait for a later time. Grey Ghost is most like in a bit of a fright; let's not surround him with several more dragons."
That made sense, like almost everything his mother did once it was explained to him. With a groan, he realized he had made an assumption that he would be able to ride Grey Ghost back home, despite having no spare saddle or chains. Instead, he would be with his mother again, and no doubt in her own vigor and joy, she would demand he answer her equations even faster.
He turned his eyes to meet Grey Ghost's one last time, but even with the wallowing in his heart, his newly bonded dragon made no move at all to shield him from his fate.