Their mutual admiration was interrupted by the appearance of Princess Rhaenys with Vhaegon in her arms. Over the years, silver strands had begun to mingle with the silver at her temples and the formerly raven-bck Baratheon hair, and the Almost Queen, chuckling at her own age, often said that in another five years she would catch up to her own children in the whiteness of her hair. Vhaegon, judging by his rumpled little white shirt and sleepy face, had managed to take a nap unlike his mother, and was now blinking with bleary eyes. spotting his father, he squirmed in his grandmother's arms and nearly slipped to the floor.
“Kepa!” the little prince reached out to him.
“A little longer and you’ll be carrying him yourself,” announced Rhaenys, passing the child to his father.
Vhaegon immediately hung around Aegon’s neck, burying his face in the thick mane of hair, and managed to kick his mother, who for some reason was lounging across her husband's p. Laena gasped and was forced to shift her pose, but she remained close to her husband.
“If you, my dear cousin, vanish from his life, he will get completely out of hand,” Aegon argued, ruffling his son’s soft, light-gold hair.
“That says a lot about you as a father,” Rhaenys snorted without malice.
“What can I do if he is such a fusspot?” Ever since Vhaegon had turned two, no wet nurse could calm him down—only his parents and grandmother; even Alice, the nanny to all their children, could not cope with him.
At that moment, a brisk, orange little dragon flew into the sor, and the child’s entire attention focused on him.
“Qeldyon!” he excimed, waving his hand to beckon the little serpent.
“Qeldlion,” Aegon corrected him. “Qeldlion. Vestrās, ?uha taoba.”
“Qeld…”
“So…”
“Qeldlion.”
“Clever boy!” Laena praised him and rewarded his efforts with a kiss on the cheek.
Meanwhile, the little dragon, lured by the frequent repetition of his name, perched on the carved armrest of the sofa, looking impossibly like an amber statuette, and tilted his head to the side inquisitively—as if to ask, why did you call? Vhaegon reached out and, leaning over the barrier of his father's arms, patted Qeldlion on the crown of his head, causing the thin neck to bow slightly. The dragon, however, seemed to enjoy the affection; he fpped his wings and moved onto Aegon’s shoulder so that his future rider could reach him more comfortably. Qeldlion had hatched at the very end of st year and was currently no rger than a cat, yet his weight was noticeable. In another two or three months, his fme would become hot enough to pose a threat, and the dragon would have to be moved back to the hatchery; the prince had already learned to accept the thoughts of his son’s inevitable tantrums at being separated from his pet with the resignation of the doomed.
“They’ve surrounded us,” Rhaenys chuckled, sitting down in the armchair opposite.
“By the way, prepare to part with Meleys,” Aegon warned his cousin.
“And why is that?” she asked in surprise.
“Daeron and Baelon want to get their hands on her. As a pair.”
“What, both at once?”
“Apparently so,” Aegon shrugged. The disturbed Qeldlion hissed in annoyance, received a tap on the nose from Vhaegon, and immediately shut up.
“They’ll have time to sire their own children before I free up Meleys. And anyway, let them look for their own hatchlings—not everyone can handle my old girl.”
“Indeed,” nodded Laena. “They found one for Aegon.”
“And praise the gods, otherwise that whining…”
“Now there will be even more of it,” the prince noted, settling his son on his knees. “Now his brothers will be gnawed by envy, they will gnaw at Viserys, and Viserys will gnaw at me. And I wouldn't leave Daemon alone with his nephews at all.”
Rhaenys rolled her eyes; she was well aware of her cousin's suspicious nature regarding his nephews-by-marriage. Aegon briefly recounted his conversation with his brother, and as his story progressed, the Lady of Dragonheart finally shed her afternoon idleness, swung her legs off the sofa, and sat up, smoothing the skirts of her dress. Her coal-bck brows—her mother’s brows—converged at the bridge of her nose.
“I don’t like this,” the Almost Queen announced grimly at the end.
“Neither do I, sweet cousin,” sighed Aegon, pulling the already thoroughly chewed end of his wide sash from Qeldlion’s maw; Vhaegon was enthusiastically pulling threads from the other end. “But there is a grain of truth in Daemon’s words.”
“Daemon just wants to use us. He wants us to forge alliances in his name and for his benefit, and then he’ll simply gather all the cream and the fruits.”
“One might think you and I would act differently in his pce,” the prince smiled indulgently. “In any case, we will have to deal with this regardless.”
“I think he is trying to manipute you,” said Laena after a moment’s thought.
“We’ve already established that, haven’t we?”
“I mean something else. Perhaps Daemon is pushing you so that we hurry with the betrothals? To help him determine whose side we are on.”
“Or he might be testing the ground himself,” her mother noted. “Jacaerys is the same age as Bae and Rhaena; they have all cimed dragons. Why not an alliance?”
Aegon shook his head.
“He talks too often about his desire to see Alyssa as queen.”
“And my husband often talks about going on one more expedition, but he’s been gathering for it for the st twenty years. Words are wind.”
“You sound exactly like our grandfather. However, Daemon’s desire to see Alyssa as Jace’s wife specifically has a practical sense—it would bring the alliance with the Carlyles to its logical conclusion. It would stitch them to us, and in the future…”
“The Carlyles can be stitched to us by regur visits on a dragon, and Daemon proves this regurly,” Laena snorted.
“You cannot use the whip all the time,” the prince objected. “Carlyle blood on the Iron Throne will make their support far more reliable and sincere than simple fear of dragon’s wrath.”
“However, the question of the Carlyles does not remove our question,” Rhaenys returned to the matter at hand. “Have you thought about it?”
Laena answered first.
“Yes, we have. I had a thought to marry the girls to Laenor’s sons.”
At the mention of her grandchildren by her son, the Almost Queen grimaced. In 112 AC, the Sea Snake had finally forced his son to wed, arranging his marriage to the niece of the Golden Triarch of Vontis, Einera Veros. Corlys was very proud of the match, and with good reason: the Old Blood rarely married their daughters outside the Bck Walls, but they could not resist the descendant of two dragon-riding lines. From the perspective of the Targaryens and Veryons, the marriage proved a good precedent: marriages with Vontene nobility strengthened ties between the two powers while preserving the purity of Valyrian blood.
But the "Tigers" ruling in the New Freehold had their own benefits too. Good retions with the Seven Kingdoms resulted in profitable trade, but more importantly, a secure rear and at least tacit support, especially considering their highly ambitious pns to conquer the upper Rhoyne.
The Carlyle coup in Pentos, the colpse of the Triarchy, the fall of Tyrosh, and the Targaryen conquest of the Stepstones had led to Braavos, previously the almost undivided master of all seas, effectively being locked in the northern waters. Naturally, Braavosi merchants wouldn't be merchants if they hadn't learned to extract profit from this situation too: their ships began to sail more frequently to Ibben, and further, all the way to the Thousand Isnds and distant Mossovy. But this did not mean the Titan had accepted that he was unwelcome in the southern seas.
The Free City of Myr, the only one of the Triarchy cities to retain independence from its neighbors, naturally became an ally of Braavos and had managed to rebuild over the years with Iron Bank gold. Norvos and Qohor, rightly fearing they would be the next victims of Vontene expansion, were also forced to seek protection from Braavos. In exchange for raw materials from their forests and mines, the Sealord was forced to soften his rhetoric regarding the cults dominating those cities, and the priests themselves had to become more tolerant of other faiths. With the support of the northerners, the worshippers of goats and bears were forging a military alliance and preparing to strike a preemptive blow against Vontis.
Daemon also had his own benefit from the marriage between the heir of Veryon and the niece of the Golden Triarch. Vontene support, which had weakened somewhat in recent years, was necessary to maintain the new order on the Stepstones, especially considering that the Braavosi were trying to undermine it.
The wedding at High Tide was celebrated with great grandeur; Aegon performed a song about pirates from Driftmark longing for home but fearing to return due to the judgment of a strict lord about a dozen times. The song pleased Corlys (it could not be otherwise, for the strict lord was naturally implied to be him), and soon the entire numerous house of Veryon was bellowing the simple tune; they even saw the newlyweds off with it instead of the traditional "Crown and Slipper." The following year, the newly minted Lady Veryon gave birth to healthy twin boys, which, in Aegon’s opinion, was very Veryon-esque.
Lord Corlys named the infants himself, and he rejoiced in the continuation of the line perhaps even more than their father. Monterys and Lucerys turned out to be true Veryons, and many good-naturedly joked that Ser Laenor had filled himself with courage and fulfilled his marital duty with a surplus, so as never to return to it again. But those were jokes, and on Driftmark, it was not customary to speak of the truth. The truth was that Corlys had decided to personally ensure the continuation of the direct line of House Veryon.
The servants remained silent about their lord’s frequent visits to his daughter-in-w's boudoir with true vassal loyalty. The numerous retives remained silent with disapproval but did not publicly bcken the house’s reputation, although Ser Vaemond quarreled with his older brother a couple of times. Aegon and Laena preferred to simply turn a blind eye to it, but Rhaenys found her husband’s actions displeasing: it was one thing when a husband chased the skirts of port wenches, and another when he put horns on his own son, even for the good of his house. Unlike Vaemond, she did not throw tantrums and did not even demonstratively move to separate chambers—she merely began to leave Driftmark more often, staying for long periods with her daughter and son-in-w. However, the former love and harmony between the spouses were gone.
“It seemed to me this might fix... the situation that has arisen. There will be your blood in their children too; it restores the line of your union,” Laena continued.
“You are more naive than I thought if you believe that will comfort me,” Rhaenys said dryly.
The wife shrugged. This option was never the primary one; nothing prevented them from discarding it.
“Bae and Rhaena have other cousins,” Aegon noted.
“You’d wear yourself out choosing,” the Princess chuckled.
“That is perhaps even more dangerous than a marriage to one of the Great Lords,” Laena frowned. “Arranging a betrothal with Daemon’s sons means taking his side in all his conflicts.”
“That is what he is trying to achieve.”
“But at the same time, if he marries Jacaerys to Alyssa, we get nothing. If we choose Viserys’s sons…”
“If we choose Viserys’s sons, I will have one less brother,” the Master of Dragons concluded gloomily. “Daemon will not forgive such a betrayal.”
“Perhaps it makes sense…”
Rhaenys never managed to say what exactly made sense. The door swung open, and Dennis appeared on the threshold of the sor.
“Lord Jaegaer, my Prince,” he announced.
“Let him in,” Aegon shrugged, and the disturbed Qeldlion chirped displeasedly.
His cousin entered the room abruptly, moving like a marionette jerking in the hands of a puppeteer. His sharp movements betrayed agitation and nervousness, and his furrowed, whitish brows betrayed dissatisfaction as well. Shadows of fatigue had long ago settled like a stamp under Jaegaer’s eyes, and right now they looked particurly pitiful.
“Forgive me for bursting in,” he started from afar. “But I thought you should know.”
“Judging by your appearance, someone has managed to die or is dangerously close to it,” the Prince smiled soothingly. “Sit down.”
The Lord of the Marches nodded to him, then, catching himself, briefly greeted the women, and only then sat in the armchair next to Rhaenys. Fiddling with the gold buttons of his azure doublet, he announced:
“I received a raven from Tyrosh.”
“Did your mother finally drive the city to rebellion?” Aunt Saera had not wanted to appear at the family celebration. Had there not been both the Queen and Aegon with the Veryons at Dragonstone, she might have tried to establish personal ties with the lords, but it was unlikely the Queen she had insulted and her younger nephew would have allowed her to feel free.
“No. Aerion has left Tyrosh.”
“Is that so?” Aegon asked in bewilderment.
“He decided to travel around Essos. He knew I wouldn't let him go or would talk him out of it, so he waited until I was gone and ran away. That fool didn't even stop him, only wished him caution!”
“Which fool? The young one or the old one?”
“Both!” the cousin excimed in his hearts. “One tears herself away from the cup only to swallow a cock, the other... The other is too busy, you see—she has pntations, she has workshops, she has meetings and receptions. Both are just gd the boy isn't getting underfoot.”
“My friend, how old is your nephew? Thirteen?” the Prince asked in a calm voice.
“Fourteen.”
“Some win tournaments at that age,” Laena interjected.
“Indeed. He is not a little boy, cousin; he will be able to stand up for himself. Besides, if he really wanted to run away, you wouldn't have stopped him. Or rather, you would have stopped him, but only with Remembrance in hand. So let him try his luck if he wants it so much.”
Jaegaer sighed heavily and joylessly, leaning back in the chair, clearly disappointed by Aegon’s words. The Prince understood the reason, but firstly, he could not step over himself and his children with Laena, and secondly, it was already too te to do anything anyway. The Lord of the March's nephew was likely already sailing on some ship or trudging along the dusty roads of the Disputed Lands in some caravan—that is, if he was smarter than his own mother. It was amusing that the boy decided to go conquer Essos rather than Westeros. Was he afraid of his dragon-riding kin? No matter, it was better this way. Let him be afraid, let him travel Essos; the further from the capital and Dragonheart, the better. Aegon hadn't seen him since the attempt to pass him off as his own son, and frankly, he had no burning desire to do so.
Meanwhile, Laena decided to distract the Governor of Tyrosh from his gloomy thoughts:
“How is Aliandra? I haven’t seen her for the st couple of days.”
“She is unwell,” Jaegaer announced sullenly.
Already upon arriving at Dragonstone, his wife, Lady Aliandra Ilileon, born Martell, suspected she was expecting a child. Grand Maester Gerardys confirmed her suspicions after an examination, and while a stunned Jaegaer accepted congratutions from all sides and wishes for good health to the future heir of the March, Aliandra was learning all the "delights" of a first pregnancy: from mood swings that complicated her already difficult character to strange taste preferences and the inability to keep lunch down. Retions between the spouses were strained (Aegon had to remind himself that such was the result of most arranged marriages, and with such an age difference to boot), and with the pregnancy, they seemed to have forgotten how to understand each other entirely.
“I suffered with my boys too,” said Laena, her gentle voice in no way matching Aegon’s memories of vomiting and flying vases. “Don't worry, it will pass.”
“When I was expecting Laenor, I wanted oysters terribly at first,” Rhaenys confessed. “I could eat them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The Maester even scolded me, saying eating so many was harmful, and then forbade them being served to me altogether and personally monitored what was cooked for me. So this is normal.”
“It’s a son, for sure,” her daughter said with conviction. “If you don't believe it, we can invite Alice to Aliandra; she always guesses right.”
“See? The women have already decided everything,” Aegon chuckled. “So choose a name for the heir.”
A faint smile finally flickered on Jaegaer's lips.
“If it is indeed a boy, he will be Meyris,” the cousin decided after some thought.
So, the Mantarys tragedy had not let him go to this day. On one hand, so many years had passed, but on the other—no matter how much time passed, it was still too little. Presumably, it is not so easy to forget how your younger brother dies in your arms.
Vhaegon finally got tired of sitting on his father's knees and slid down his leg. Walking around the heavy boot with its thick heel, the little prince stomped purposefully toward the nursery. Qeldlion let out a pyful trill and darted after him. A shock of pitch-bck hair poked out from behind the door and immediately disappeared, and a few moments ter, Alice darted after the child, out of habit not bothering with curtsies. Aegon fancied he heard a displeased sigh from behind the door; Dennis compined that meeting his wife "on duty," while pleasant, was distracting: one could neither enjoy them nor ignore them. The sworn shield grumbled mostly just for the sake of it, rather than for cause, but it was amusing to watch.
The conversation, meanwhile, flowed zily on its own, jumping from memories of pregnancies to the Tyroshi nobility, from there to the cadet branches of the Veryons settled on the Stepstones, then to their castles trying to imitate High Tide, to High Tide itself with its terrace gardens, to Dragonheart... Aegon remembered he wanted to talk to his cousin about business, to try and persuade him to accept a position on the Small Council, but then decided it was better to choose another moment, when this strange story with the letter about Aerion had receded slightly into the past. After all, Daemon hadn't flown anywhere yet; they still had time.
“It seems to me, Jaegaer, that you haven’t been guests of ours for a long time,” the Prince announced.
“I will reveal a terrible secret: I haven’t been a guest of yours at all.”
“All the more reason! You and Aliandra need to finally make it to the God's Eye.”
“When will that ever be...” the cousin responded sourly.
“Why not next week,” Laena supported the invitation. “A day to the Bckwater, another week up the river and the ke—and you are with us.”
“Well, if you insist,” Jaegaer feigned embarrassment, and Aegon once again saw the young Vontene ex who was being offered some marvelous escapade. “How can I refuse?”
Indeed. There they could talk, and reminisce about what they had lived through, and rest from the court, which was becoming increasingly prickly and inhospitable.
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