Lady Saera Targaryen
Saera Targaryen did not like races much: she remembered that in her first year in Volantis she had to service the winner of the races on the Black Walls all night—he had squandered all his winnings in her master's brothel, but the former Princess's rooms smelled through and through of human and horse sweat, which neither baths, nor incense, nor fragrant oils helped to get rid of. Every year she secretly grimaced with annoyance, forced to watch these foolish contests, first out of a desire to join the Old Blood, then, when that succeeded, to meet the expectations of society and voters, then already out of habit. Volantene races and fights yielded in spectacle to Westerosi tourneys if only because worthy people, people of her circle, rarely participated in them, putting up slaves or hired servants instead; in Westeros, they competed to show themselves, and in Volantis—to show the thickness of their purse.
When Jaegaer became interested in horses, Saera could not say exactly, but it must have been some six years ago. She had become Triarch for the third time then and carried a rod of bronze—at that time the "Elephants" were trying to avoid another war with the Three Whores, the "Tigers" were preparing to jump out from under the carpet, the smallfolk were riotous, and the Magisters of Selhorys had deposed the Volantene governor... The year turned out tense, she saw her children scarce once a week; Viserra looked after the house, slaves, and Maerys, and Jaegaer, instead of being master, disappeared in stables and hippodromes, using his mother's privileges, and punched the faces of those who dared call the Bronze Triarch a Lyseni whore. The foolish boy could not understand that the truth could not be hidden this way—in the end, she truly was a whore in Lys; however, Saera managed to take advantage of her position and her history, to achieve what she desired thanks to and despite all rumors and gossip, but the year of the Triarch ended, and Jaegaer continued to run away in the mornings to his buddies, rich kids just like him, swords, and chariots.
Standing on the balcony of one of the towers of her red-and-black mansion and watching preparations for the festive race-duel being finished on the Black Walls, Saera Targaryen nervously fingered the numerous bracelets on her arms. She did not like that Jaegaer had become so self-confident and proud. She did not like that he managed to quarrel even with Laegon, with whom they were thick as thieves, and over such a foolish reason as bloody horses—for all the world like two Dothraki. She did not like that this happened in her house, before the eyes of all the guests. But most of all she did not like that Vassar had stuck his nose into all this.
The conditions proposed by the Golden Triarch seemed good, worthy of scions of noble families, but the instinct developed over years of weaving the lace of Volantene politics told the former Princess and retired Triarch that everything was not so simple. Why would the head of the entire "Elephant" party get involved in a boyish dispute? To show his authority? To secure the respect of the youth? But that is laughable—almost none of them have property and cannot vote; Aeksio Vogarro will receive no support from them in elections. Their parents? And do they care about their children?
The Triarch's motives remained unclear, the situation could not be rectified, and this enraged Saera, who hated being used in the dark. She is no puppet to be pulled by strings. She is of the blood of the dragon, she was Triarch for four years and can become one again if she wishes, she has enough friends. But even if she is not elected herself, she will be able to take revenge on Vassar: three years is too long a term for continuous sitting in the golden chair, a dear friend needs a rest.
"Do not be nervous, Mother, everything will be fine, he will manage," said Viserra softly, touching her mother's elbow.
"Yes, Jaegaer handles a chariot well!" Maerys supported his sister hotly. Saera could not restrain herself and pulled her younger son to her; he tensed noticeably—after all, he is already too grown up for such tenderness, but let him endure it.
"I do not think that in such a situation 'handling a chariot well' will be sufficient for victory," Aegon remarked with skepticism.
The nephew kept a little apart, although even blind Boash would have seen how he and Viserra were drawn to each other, but Westerosi courtliness and unwillingness to cast a shadow on the object of his love, evidently, sat deep in him. Apparently, morals at the royal court had changed far less than Saera hoped. The Prince directed Myrish glass at the hippodrome, examining his dragon; the retired Triarch thought inappropriately that she had never flown on a dragon: Father made excuses of business and did not let her near Vermithor, and the nephew preferred to give her daughter a ride. Not that she judged him for this, but it was a little hurtful.
One could watch the races on the Black Walls only from the towers of one's mansions, so the Old Blood poured out onto balconies and terraces, buzzing like a disturbed hive. Many were already drunk, someone managed to fall from a height and smash his drunken head on the cobblestones, someone, shy of no one, right on the balcony rutted a howling wench—this was considered vulgar even by Volantene standards, but the youth lately liked to expose themselves as barbarians; it is good that this contagion has not yet reached her children.
But then the horns sounded, huge copper plates of gongs thundered fourteen, and then three more times, and two chariots appeared from the bowels of the Walls—the two-hundred-foot creation of the dragonlords of the past concealed hidden lifting mechanisms working without serious breakdowns for more than two centuries. Each of the chariots was harnessed to a team of four accursed horses, because of which the miserable, foolish, boyish dispute flared up. Each of the chariots was painted in a solid color and the charioteers were to dress in tunics of the same color: Jaegaer chose black for himself, Laegon—red.
"Black on black, red on red," spoke Aegon incomprehensibly. "Will we even see him against the background of the Walls?"
"A swift black dot against the blue sky? Of course," nodded Viserra.
Saera picked up her Myrish glass and directed it at Jaegaer; the son had just emerged from the insides of the Walls and now busily inspected the harness, fastenings, wheels, and gods know what other trifles. By all appearances, he was not nervous or at least did not show it, and Saera, feeling warmth spreading in her chest, nodded to herself, noting that the boy would need to be praised for his composure, a useful quality.
Trumpets howled again, and the charioteers took their places at the reins, never looking at each other and not shaking hands. In Westeros, judges would have offered them to reconcile, but in the New Freehold, they did not bother with such things. The gong struck, and the chariots broke from their places.
"Gods, just let him be alive!" escaped from Saera.
The width of the Black Walls was two hundred feet, and there were only two crews, but how many times bad she seen chariots crash even on wider hippodrome arenas, and then their drivers carried away broken and dead. A terrible death, which one would not wish on every enemy. Feeling his mother's agitation, Maerys took her hand nonetheless, and the Princess squeezed it in return. No one uttered a word; the Old City froze too, carefully watching as a black and a red dot raced along the perimeter of the walls.
The rules of the race provided that the heat would take only one lap; Vassar stipulated very cunning conditions, according to which victory went to the one who first reached the starting point, the Golden Gate, while coming first to at least one more gate. The endurance race intertwined in a dangerous combination with a speed race—to win, one had to clearly imagine the limits of one's horses' abilities and be absolutely confident in the reliability of the equipment. Jaegaer should have had everything under control.
The chariots reached the Bronze Gate almost simultaneously, but the judges raised a black flag—her son was first after all!
"He hurries," remarked Viserra tensely.
"Silence!" hissed Saera at her, watching the racers disappear around the corner of a house. Quarters of palaces and temples, a palisade of towers blocked the view and made the mother's heart languish in ignorance. It remained only to wait.
But then cries of gambling fans rang out again.
"Well? Which flag? Who is ahead?" Saera, spitting on everything and everyone, leaned over the wrought iron railing of the balcony, striving to see the Silver Gate.
"Cannot be seen," cast out Maerys.
However, joyful yells and jubilation in the Gongarys mansion, who took Laegon's side, were alarming.
"Come on, who?"
"Curse it! Red!" swore Viserra. Indeed, the signal was soon duplicated on several towers, and Saera's heart sank. When the chariots came into view again, they made sure that the red chariot truly broke ahead by half a length and manages to maintain the gap.
"Nothing, he can still win back, all is not lost!"
Scarce bad she uttered these words when the gods themselves—no less!—put them into Jaegaer's ears; the black chariot began to catch up with the rival and soon drew level with him again, and a few exciting moments later began to overtake. Holding her breath, Saera watched as her son's horses broke ahead by half a length, then by a length, and now the crew itself rolled on the same line as Laegon's horses. The advantage, however, was small and, by all appearances, fragile, since the red chariot tried all the time to win back lost positions. And then something terrible happened.
Time seemed to flow three, seven, fourteen times slower than usual. Through the Myrish glass, which seemed to have grown to Saera, she saw the black carriage swerve to and fro, rock, driving alternately on one wheel, then on the other, but—to the joy of the mother and her family—managed to stay upright.
But Laegon was less lucky. His horses took fright, reared up, and bolted to the side, straight to the inner edge of the Walls, seeing nothing before them. Laegon pulled the reins to himself to the last, but at the last moment decided to leave the doomed horses and jumped out of the chariot. But, to the horror of the spectators, his leg got entangled in the coils of the harness, and the carriage dragged its driver after it. The doomed man's scream cut off along with frightened neighing and the sound of impact.
The dumbfounded Saera quickly gathered herself and transferred the Myrish glass to Jaegaer—he just reached the Golden Gate and jumped out of the chariot under the black flag soaring up; well done, the race had to be completed in any case. Licking dry lips, she turned to her family: Maerys, shocked and frightened, desperately tried not to show it, though he was whiter than his own hair; Viserra, covering her mouth with her hands from horror, pressed her back against Aegon; the nephew himself did not take his bright green eyes off the Black Walls, but turned his cousin around and she hid her face on his chest.
"Seventh Hell," exhaled the Prince.
"Take deeper. Fourteenth, no less," cut off Saera and, picking up her skirts, returned to the house. "Do not go anywhere. Sit quietly."
Need to get to Jaegaer as soon as possible. Then need to express condolences to Laegon's family—the retired Triarch had no doubt that the poor fellow was dead; one cannot survive a fall from a two-hundred-foot height onto cobblestones. Then need to find Vassar and spit in his narrow mug.
Prince Aegon Targaryen
By evening, not a trace remained of the nervous Aunt Saera worrying for her eldest son. Just an hour after the tragedy, she sent home a Jaegaer who understood nothing and was shocked by what had happened, who immediately drained a bottle of fortified wine in a gulp. On Dennis's advice, Aegon did not leave his cousin alone, diligently plying him first with wine, and then with Tyroshi brandy; the poor fellow had managed to see what remained of his friend, imagined that this would have become of him, and now could not come to his senses.
Aunt periodically returned to the red-and-black house, received now one Aeksio, now a couple more Ladies, now a whole delegation in her rooms only to order the palanquin brought out again. Premonition did not deceive Aegon once more: the main holiday of the New Freehold led to a tragedy, and Aeksio Laegon's red tunics became doubly red from his blood. Judging by snatches of conversations overheard by Dennis, they tried to accuse the elder cousin of cheating and expose him as the murderer of a former friend.
Black on black—black tunic, Black Walls, black news, black fate. Red on red—red tunic, red flags, red blood on cobblestones, red tongues of funeral pyre. Why did he say that on the tower then?
At sunset, Saera Targaryen finally returned home and ordered slaves to lock the doors behind her. Aegon sat with his cousins and tried to while away the time with wine; wine gave no calm—unlike Viserra, who had managed to doze off on the Prince's knees; Jaegaer managed to get drunk, sober up a little, and get drunk again; Maerys sat next to his brother and periodically changed bottles before him, managing in between to pour pure water instead of brandy and wine.
Entering the room, Saera grimly swept her gaze over everyone, put her palms to her eyes and, as befits an overwrought brothel mistress, swore tastily and at length. Her firstborn only whistled at this tirade:
"I am glad to see you too, Mother!"
"Silence, idiot!" she barked. "You have no idea what I just saved you from!"
"From what?"
"From execution, you blockheaded cretin! Oh, Gods, all the brains that could have been in you managed to flow out of me with your daddy's seed!"
"Execution?" asked Viserra sleepily again. "What has execution to do with it?"
"With the fact, my dear daughter, that Laegon's kin demanded the head of your idiot older brother!"
"Wherefore?"
"It seemed to these anemic bastards, you see, that it was Jaegaer who killed their precious little son! Do not ask me how—I have no idea how they thought of this with the shit in their heads! An hour had not passed, and his daddy was already demanding Vassar arrest Jaegaer."
"But you managed to dissuade the Triarch from hasty steps," said Aegon semi-affirmatively.
"Do not ask at what price," the Aunt grimaced. "I have not been called such words for a long time. He appointed an immediate investigation after all."
"And what did it discover?"
"One of Jaegaer's horses lost a shoe, and it went lame—that is why the chariot began to yaw. This shoe flew into the chest of Laegon's horse, it took fright itself, frightened its neighbors, and they amicably rushed to the other world. Together with Laegon."
"Some bullshit," Maerys gave voice, rubbing his temples. Evidently, part of the elder brother's wine fell to the younger as well.
"That's not the word! I have never heard greater nonsense in my life, and I, believe me, have listened to various chatterboxes."
"And what now?" inquired Viserra tensely.
Her mother picked up one of the bottles, generously gulped the remains, and sank exhaustedly into the first armchair she found.
"Charges will not be brought, I agreed."
"Well, praise all the gods."
"That is not all," sighed the former Princess. "Jaegaer should leave Volantis and the Freehold as a whole. Including for his own safety."
"Is he being exiled?" Aegon had already lost the ability to be surprised at anything; in place of surprise arose some bitter feeling that it would not be as before.
"Unofficially, but yes, it is exile. It will not be announced in the squares, but he should not return here—Vogarro will not guarantee his safety then. If Laegon's kin decides to wash blood with blood, the Triarchy will not intervene."
It became quiet in the room, only the culprit of the discussion snored occasionally.
"I will go with him," decided the younger cousin.
Aegon was ready to hear a sharp: "That is out of the question!" from Aunt, but instead sounded:
"Yes, perhaps that will be right. This brainless piece of idiot, your brother, will be lost if his snot is not wiped. And you are quite good at it."
Everyone laughed mirthlessly.
"I suppose my stay here is also becoming too burdensome for you," declared the Prince with a heavy heart.
"I always liked that you are such a clever boy," remarked Saera with almost former tenderness. "I would be grateful if you continued your journey. I hope it will lead you somewhere... to the east?"
"To Slaver's Bay? To bring terror to the heirs of the Harpy?"
"Not necessarily. Perhaps you will manage to cross paths there with a couple of noble Volantenes seeking a large batch of slaves for their enterprises..."
"Why complicate things, Mother?" asked Viserra. "If you want Aegon to look after both of them, then say so."
"I want it," she surrendered.
"That means I shall look after them," nodded Aegon. "East means east."
---------------
Read advance +50 chapters on my Patreon
Patreon(.)com/WinterScribe