Prince Callio Carlarys
Prince Callio Carlarys of Pentos rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily, setting aside papers. It was well past midnight, but he still had plenty of business—the change of times of day for a ruler means no more than the transition from one method of conducting politics to another. Today he had to be a guest at a return feast hosted by Westerosi ambassadors in honor of the masters of the city, speak with a hundred people, and before that there were consultations with advisors, reception of complaints, and dinner with the Magisters...
Officially, the Westerosi came with new trade agreements, beneficial, naturally, to both sides; on an unofficial walk, Prince Aegon Targaryen, honoring them with his visit again, informed Callio of the danger threatening from the north. Did Callio know of it? Of course, he knew. In such a snake pit as the palaces of the Magisters, shit cannot be hidden: it is immediately noticeable by those barrels of incense that are emptied to cover the foul smell.
The Braavosi party in the city behaved with exemplary respect toward Callio himself, his family, partners, and friends; they began to support him against those paid by the Myrmen; it did not go without a couple of solid gifts, which no one in Essos gives simply so. Callio Carlarys certainly would not make such gestures of politeness unless he wanted to pull someone to his side. The behavior of the "bought Titans" in itself suggested that the Iron Bank wants to see him on its side, and in light of the news that one of the former captains with purple sails became the new Sealord, it spoke practically openly: either with the Titan or against the Titan; the latter without any doubt meant death.
So the Prince received the Westerosi news with the doom of a condemned man to whom the sentence is read again right before the block. Then Callio thanked the Prince with restraint and hastened to return with him to a more open place where they would not be suspected of private conversation.
Suddenly a quiet knock sounded, the side door creaked softly, and a trusted slave whispered a report in his ear.
"Ask him in," ordered the Prince.
The slave disappeared, and a few moments later a Targaryen appeared in the room instead of him. Alone; that means his shadow-knight remained outside the door.
"There is a saying in Pentos, my friend," said Callio instead of a greeting. "If you appeared immediately as soon as you were remembered, then the gods please to send you a long life."
"In Braavos, by the by, they think otherwise," responded the Prince. "Thus the gods save your time, showing that you have not long left. And you, it seems, remembered me?"
"Yes. And as for time, it is scarce possible to check who was right."
"I would argue, but I am not here for that."
"Then to business," sighed Carlarys resignedly and waved toward a chair. "Sit."
The Westerosi Valyrian sat down, stretching out his long legs; only the abnormally thick sole of the right boot and the weirwood cane reminded that one of his legs was shorter than the other. Prince Aegon, evidently, felt absolutely safe, because he began with imperturbability to rebraid his silver braid, simultaneously extracting jewelry from it: pins, buckles, chains, beads went to his knees, in a word—everything that gave his appearance the ancient regality inherent in an Archon of the Old Freehold.
"We did not finish speaking in the garden," spoke Aegon with a shadow of displeasure.
"You know, my friend, that every breath I take is watched. We have been allowed too much already."
"Vexing. As I understood, our information is not news to you? This is good, we both know of what we speak and with whom we deal. On behalf of His Grace King Viserys Targaryen, Second of His Name, I inform you that the Seven Kingdoms are not interested in the borders of Illustrious Braavos advancing further south, including at the expense of Pentos."
"This gladdens," spoke Callio, however, experiencing no particular joy.
"The Iron Throne is ready to provide you a loan to pay for the services of mercenaries. Furthermore, several carracks will be laid down on the stocks of Driftmark, which in case of war will raise the Pentoshi banner."
The Prince of Pentos chuckled sadly.
"My friend, this is completely useless. No, on the contrary, this promises me mortal danger. The very fact that you tell me this privately, without Magister witnesses, can cost both me and you our lives..."
"Precisely why I tell this to you, Callio," objected the Westerosi. "Does not the duty of protecting the city lie upon the Prince? If so, what business is it of the Magisters by what means exactly you do this?"
"Such business. They fear usurpation. I already told you that I will be torn to pieces if I wish to call myself King, like your brother."
"And have you tried?"
What a foolish conversation, thought Callio. Foolish and very dangerous. Albeit he is in his office, but if suddenly... No, this is paranoia.
"Tried what?"
"To call yourself King. King of Pentos—sounds not bad, eh? One can add a couple more titles in the same spirit: for instance, King of the Velvet Hills."
"Wait, wait," Callio waved his hands, and then leaned over the table and, lowering his voice, asked. "Do you seriously want me to..."
"Yes."
"And you..."
"Yes."
The Prince-Still exhaled noisily, simultaneously admiring and amazed by the impudence of the Westerosi, and leaned back in his chair. Callio would have lied if he said he had never thought of such a thing; to be a sole ruler, to act without regard for the rest... sweet dreams he indulged in roughly in his youth, while the first courtesan of the city, tired out, slept on his chest.
When his father died and he himself became a Magister, he was taught a simple rule: he who raises his head easily loses it; you are safe while you play like all Magisters. Gradually he learned to survive and even succeed in politics, made his way to the very top, but always followed this advice, which he accepted as self-evident truth. Usurpation, a coup—this is an unnecessary risk, for he will only set up all his kin, friends, partners, clients; as a Prince, he risked only himself, but plotting against forty Magisters he put everyone under attack. Only...
Carlarys realized with great surprise for himself that he had never imagined a successful outcome of this intrigue; he did not even allow the thought that such a thing was possible. But surely Aegon Targaryen is no fool to involve himself in a dubious enterprise without chances of success, and involve the Seven Kingdoms of his brother in this besides. If he talks with him about this now, it means he at least allows the existence of a chance for victory.
"And if I agree? What then?"
"Further depends on how strongly the Pentoshi smallfolk love their Magisters, and how strongly the Magisters dislike each other," Targaryen smiled enigmatically, exactly like the Valyrian sphinx that stood in the princely garden.
"Magisters... The entire Braavosi party will be against me, that is fourteen men."
"We knew only of twelve," frowned the Prince.
"Two vacillate, but in case of conflict will support the 'Titans'. There are also 'Myrmen', but after your Westerosi feast, their ranks thinned sharply—there are only six of them. Another twenty are considered my supporters."
"Only considered?"
"I am absolutely certain of the loyalty of only three of them—these are my friends: Dario Daenarys, Nevio Neieris, and Gellio Galtarys. We have known each other from youth. We pulled off such things, and not only with money, that one will drag everyone down with him. They are with me to Hell itself, I am certain. Of another eleven, I am certain enough not to give them clear instructions before every vote. The remaining five are like banners in the wind."
"And the people?"
"The people care not what happens in our palaces, as long as nothing changes for them. If everything is done quickly, they will understand nothing. The smallfolk do not give a damn."
"The smallfolk do not give a damn about Magisters, but you want to become King."
"It is you who want to make me King," corrected Callio the dragonrider.
"If you did not want it, we would not be talking with you. However, now we speak not of you, but of your smallfolk. They rise up when their ruler is a tyrant. They care not for the ruler if nothing changes under him. But should the ruler do something for the benefit of commoners, their love becomes a shield against evildoers. Free the slaves, and they will die for you, not for Braavos. Do they not also want to free slaves? So steal the idea and present it in a form convenient for yourself."
At first, Carlarys wanted to be indignant, but words of righteous anger of a slave owner stuck in the throat of an ambitious politician. He intends to destroy the system of power in the city—does he truly have the right to squeamishness? The Westerosi is right, the Magisters will be furious, they will try to oppose him, try to cancel everything, but the crowd will be on his side, it can be directed at the palaces of the "Titans." And as for inconveniences with freed slaves, who knows what can be invented? The best lawyers of the city are at his disposal, they will concoct a general manumission such that only one word will remain of the status of free.
"Well, and Braavos? Myr? Do you think they will stand aside?"
"Naturally, they will stand aside. We already promised the Myrmen to recognize the conquests of the Triarchy, and the Braavosi Sealord turned out to be a surprisingly accommodating man," that sphinx smile again! There was something frightening and attractive in it simultaneously. "Any ruler becomes accommodating when dragons circle in the sky above his city."
The Prince of Pentos remembered perfectly how he first saw the Bronze Fury circling Pentos along the perimeter of the city walls. Callio watched the dragon then, holding his breath, mesmerized by the might and power of the beast capable of destroying several quarters in a single instant. If several such creatures take to the air, any resistance is useless.
"That means you will make me your vassal?" clarified Carlarys after a pause.
"That is unnecessary if you will be our faithful friend."
"And in what will our friendship be expressed?"
"The Iron Throne will be satisfied with trade preferences. Which exactly—you had better speak of this with Lord Beesbury's man, I never liked complex calculations."
Callio smoothed the hair on the back of his head; if he is lucky, soon a crown will cover his budding bald spot. Just think—his crown! But no, do not anger the gods and rejoice ahead of time, better to think through and foresee everything possible now.
"My friend, does it not seem to you that friendship should be mutual?" he inquired of the Prince.
Aegon nodded readily:
"Yes, naturally. We are ready to give commitments."
"Even marital ones?"
"Primarily them."
Callio quickly went over available relatives in his head.
"I have four sons," he announced. "The eldest, Cassio, is sixteen now. Your niece Princess Rhaenyra is thirteen."
"Almost fourteen," corrected Targaryen. "But this plays no role. My brother loves his only daughter too much to give her in marriage across the Narrow Sea. I shall be frank with you, my friend, but Viserys is terribly sentimental. He wants the Princess to marry for love, to find her chosen one herself. I understand him as a brother, but not as his advisor, however, in certain matters the King is terribly principled."
"Then I would like to see you yourself as my brother-in-law. My younger sister Calla is nineteen, she is beautiful, loves music, and is still a maiden."
"I am grateful to you for the trust, Callio, I understand that such a step means much to you. However, I have a more advantageous offer."
"What can be more advantageous than the marriage of a Prince and a Princess?" frowned Carlarys.
"The marriage of a Princess and the future King of the Seven Kingdoms," smiled Aegon. "My brother Daemon will take your sister as wife. He is Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne, and in his time will become King, and your sister—his Queen. Agree, this is far more attractive than a union with a clubfooted bookman."
"But surely, as far as is known to me, Prince Daemon is married."
"He will receive a divorce. You surely have nothing against a divorced man?"
"No. We in Pentos treat this simpler."
"Wonderful!" the Prince clapped his hands, and then leaned over the table and offered Callio his hand. "Are we agreed?"
"We agreed when we began to discuss this," sighed the Prince. The Prince's palm was narrow and hot, but the handshake was firm.
"Then call your friends and advisors, and I shall call mine. We have much to discuss, and, as they say in Essos, time costs money."
. . . . .
"Dear Uncle!
You, of course, have heard how Dennis grumbles on our account: saying that we can die of anything, but not of modesty. Once again I had the opportunity to verify that this is true: to hear yourself called Kingmaker is undoubtedly pleasant. Surely fresh news from the shores of the Narrow Sea has already reached the Citadel (there is much of it lately); you are capable of ignoring it, but since you are now Seneschal, I consider it my duty to convey at least something to you, so that ignorance does no harm to anyone.
The death of the previous Sealord of Braavos (I told you about him) caused some anxiety in the Small Council, which, however, quickly settled, and therein lies no small merit of our Master of Laws. Truly, study in the Citadel bears fruit, and it would be wonderful if all the King's councilors and officials studied with you for at least a couple of years.
But I return to Braavos. I want very much to know what expression was on the face of its newly elected Sealord when he saw three dragons at once in the sky above the city. Caraxes, Meleys, and Seasmoke flew to and fro, breathed smoke and a little fire, frightening good patricians and respectable courtesans, and when a ship with our sails entered the harbor (Lord Lyonel arrived on it), they landed by the very palace and began to wait for its master. To his credit, he quickly rolled out onto the square and proved a surprisingly sensible man: quickly understood what was wanted of him and even agreed to send his son as a hostage to Driftmark. Daemon flew in simultaneously satisfied and not: he had fun from the heart, but seems a little disappointed that everything ended so quickly.
The second news is somewhat larger in scale. A small civil war happened in Pentos, since the local Prince Callio Carlarys violated two fundamental laws of the city: he freed slaves and declared himself King. The Magisters were, putting it mildly, not glad of this. Supporters of the Braavosi party were partly killed by Carlarys's mercenaries, and partly torn apart by the crowd, which learned that the Magisters wanted to kill its liberator. May the gods save you, Uncle, from contemplating a popular revolt. It is a terrible spectacle.
Now His Grace Callio of House Carlarys, styled the Liberator, First of His Name, King of Pentos, Andalos, and the Velvet Hills, Protector of the Great Septs, rules in Pentos. The ranks of Magisters have thinned considerably, and those who remained became lords in the Andal fashion. I proposed returning the title of Aeksio, but the Pentoshi remembered that their village stood on the shore of the bay long before the arrival of Valyrians and therefore Andalism is closer to them. Of forty noblemen, twenty-three kept their position (did I mention that the popular revolt turned out bloody?), therefore the King of Pentos decided to distribute titles, lands, and awards to his most faithful supporters. Curiously, among others, the former Prince's wet nurse received the title of Lady; it seems to me she herself did not fully understand what this is and what is required of her now.
The smallfolk rejoiced in the status of free people, raged, vented malice on those who came to hand, and returned to their former affairs. The Golden Law is composed very cunningly: many beautiful words, but very few significant changes. In the end, it will be simpler for everyone this way: both for former slaves who do not know how to live otherwise, and for their former masters who will retain their power over people, save perhaps in a somewhat curtailed form.
Scarce had Carlarys put the crown on himself (pretentious in Pentoshi fashion—it is a wide circlet of yellow gold with seven crenellations-towers, seven diamond windows in each), when he began to arrange weddings. He declared his eldest son heir to the throne and married him to the daughter of one of the former Magisters to bind their family to himself, betrothed the other three to daughters and nieces of his friends. The King's youngest sister, Calla Carlarys, was promised to our Daemon—he finally pressed Viserys and the latter, heeding political arguments, agreed to divorce him from the Bronze Bitch. I suspect indemnity will have to be paid not only to the Royces, but also to Lady Jeyne Arryn, but this is all not very interesting to you, correct?
The Free City of Myr would otherwise not have missed the chance to intervene in the Pentoshi turmoil, were it not for the Stepstones. All attention of the Three-Whores is now focused on these accursed islands—the pirates, by all appearances, intend to sell their lives dearly and the Triarchy is preparing to fight in a big way. Only the gods know what will come of this for them, but the trouble is that the waters there have become too dangerous even for caravans led by our Lord of the Tides. Unfortunately, this did not fail to affect the price of Arbor wine—they ask already five dragons for a barrel of Dry Gold. It feels as if there is truly liquid gold inside.
I also wish to assure you that your advice ultimately proved quite valuable: that Viserys did not start acting foolishly and inventing things with the heir to the Iron Throne undoubtedly played into our family's hands. I have such a feeling as if I returned to childhood, when brothers were friendly (truly, I have not seen such for a long time!), and I still galloped on two legs, not three. I am convinced once again that after every winter comes spring—and so it is in everything in our life.
I hope your duties as Seneschal do not hinder you from sitting over books into the night further.
Your nephew and not too consistent student,
Prince Aegon Targaryen, styled Clubfoot and Kingmaker.
Dragonstone,
21st day of the fifth month of the year 108 After the Conquest, fifth of the reign of Viserys the Second."
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