Prince Daemon Targaryen
Caraxes flew so low that his wing-spurs left white scribbles on the water's surface, and his tail time and again knocked foam caps from the waves. Daemon, and the Blood Wyrm too, liked to feel sea spray settle on them, and fresh salty wind beat in the face (or muzzle); moreover, low flights required no small agility from both dragon and rider, and neither of them sought easy paths for themselves or each other.
As the Dragonmont grew on the horizon in a black mass, the Prince guessed what he would meet at its foot. The smoking ancestral castle, turned to ruins by the mad will of a frenzied dragon? Mangled bodies of dragons all over the island? Aegon's mangled body? Nonsense. Daemon shook his head; even if his brother dies, scarce a handful of ash will remain of him to be carried to the crypt. It remained to hope that he had more brains than dash. When at supper two almost identical notes were served to him and Viserys—shorter for the King, longer for him, but only by a line—they exchanged glances and said almost simultaneously:
"I fly."
"Immediately."
Daemon knew he was late and hoped to make up for it with Caraxes' fast wings, but even he could do nothing with the half-day head start Aegon had won for himself. The Prince snorted irritably: what foolish boyishness! Alone against the damn Cannibal, whom even Vhagar prefers to skirt! Needless to say, the size of the predatory dragon was a match for the Black Dread himself in his declining years, only the creature from Hell had no thought of dying, and Aegon decided to help it. What was he thinking!..
Thus, chasing angry thoughts in circles time and again, the Prince of Dragonstone flew up to his domains. Surveying Dragon's Haven and the castle from above, he involuntarily felt a prick of conscience: he should have visited here more often; but how to carve out time when he had to watch over the capital, the watch, the Council with its snakes, and his brothers all at once? And Alyssa besides...
Gods, sometimes it seemed to him that Viserys and Aegon would have made excellent Maesters, but the elder brother liked being King when it did not burden him too much, and the younger—loved dragons too much to renounce them. Daemon could understand both: he too could not imagine life without Caraxes, and in the sky did not separate himself from the dragon; he too liked how courtiers parted before him when he walked the corridors of the Red Keep, he liked that in his single glance both lords and the scum of Flea Bottom felt power. However, both lords and scum needed constant reminding that for a century and more "dragon" and "power" were one and the same for them; in other words, things could not be left to take their course, else snakes like Otto Hightower appeared at the throne, and dragons began to devour each other.
With a loud clatter, the Blood Wyrm landed by the very walls of Dragonstone, and an elderly man in a black doublet with a red sash hurried to meet the Prince. Ser Viselor Teltaris at the Great Council in Harrenhal tried with his kinship to Gaemon the Glorious if not to achieve his election as heir to the Iron Throne, then at least to remind senior relatives of his existence, and he succeeded in the second much better than the first. At first hotheads incited their grandfather to send the petty vassal from Dragon's Haven to the Wall or remove him quietly altogether so he would not think to intrigue and raise his own importance, but the Old King had not yet completely lost his mind then and made the distant relative castellan of their common ancestral nest. When the castle passed to Daemon along with the title, he, naturally, changed nothing. Teltaris understood whom he served and for what purpose, knew his place, and if he stole somewhere, then in moderation, with caution; at least the Prince did not receive too odious slanders on his castellan.
Ser Viselor was distinguished by a strong build, reputed to be a not bad swordsman, but all this remained in the past; now he was an ordinary aging knight who had eaten himself a small belly in service as castellan, and instead of the suzerain's enemies chased his servants through the corridors. Outwardly Teltaris was a pure Andal: his square face had lost Valyrian proportions, in dark-brown hair light strands broke through here and there, reminding more of straw and grey than white gold, and only bright indigo eyes betrayed a descendant of Old Valyria in him. Without particular fear, the castellan approached the dragon, stopping, however, at a respectful distance, and bowed:
"My Prince, Dragonstone is yours."
"I thank you, Ser Viselor," Daemon nodded to him. "Is my brother already here?"
"Yes, My Prince. Prince Aegon and his sworn shield arrived this morning."
"Did he manage to do something?"
"No, My Prince. Prince Aegon deigns to rest after the journey."
Daemon remembered why he kept Teltaris in service—his loyalty was pleasantly complemented by taciturnity, which favorably distinguished him from court windbags. Need to move Alyssa here, decided the Prince for himself. She will be better here, and the Red Dancer will grow in freedom. But scarce had he thought of his daughter's little dragoness when a terrible picture immediately appeared before his mind's eye, how ugly jaws close on a small ruby body. No, first the problem must be solved.
Teltaris, bowing his head, let the Prince pass ahead, rightly judging that the Prince of Dragonstone needs no guides. Servants respectfully pressed against the walls, bending in bows, and Daemon accidentally wondered how many of them remember him. In the inner yard of the castle, the Maester met him.
"My Prince," greeted Gerardys; the Prince remembered that when the Maester had first entered their service, he was no older than Daemon was now. "Prince Aegon is in the Windwyrm."
"In the Windwyrm?"
"Some time ago he decided to move his chambers there."
"Why do I not know of this?" his brother, naturally, needed no permission, but he could have at least warned him.
"This is my mistake, My Prince," Viselor took the blow upon himself. "I should have informed you of this, but I thought Prince Aegon would tell you himself. I beg pardon."
Daemon nodded dryly, accepting the apology, and moved toward the stairs, convinced once again that even the most loyal and reliable subordinates can fail. He gave his Gold Cloaks no indulgences, regardless of their rank and origin: Harwin and Jaegaer could receive a dressing down on par with Gwayne Hightower if they or their men happened to err, and to the latter Daemon gave no quarter. Much as it repulsed him to admit it, Ser Gwayne was not a bad commander, and would have long become another comrade of the Prince, were he not the spawn of his father-Hand.
The Windwyrm was the highest tower in the castle, which meant the longest stairs. Aegon's old chambers were closer to the library—so the late Grandmother had ordered—so this was scarce the reason his brother decided to move. Climbing the steps, Daemon involuntarily noticed a window facing the Dragonmont; could Aegon have moved here because of the views? Unlikely, rather to watch dragons.
A couple of flights up, the Prince met Ser Dennis loitering in the corridor.
"Has my brother finally kicked you out?" chuckled Daemon.
"No, My Prince," the sworn shield shook his head with a weary smile. "I see you received the note?"
"To open a personal letter from one Prince to another, and add a postscript to it besides—a very bold deed. Some might see treason in it."
"I care not what others see," cut off the knight, throwing up his chin. "It matters to me what you see, and that my liege, whom I swore to protect, will be safe."
"Does he know?"
"No."
"Then I do not think a mad dragon will be your biggest problem. So where is your liege?"
"Here," said Ser Dennis simply and pointed to the wall.
Daemon followed his hand. On a bas-relief carved on the black stone wall, a dragon writhed; the carving was so detailed that individual scales were visible. The problem was that there was nothing on the wall except the bas-relief.
"I see my brother has instilled his sense of humor in you?" inquired Daemon deceptively calmly.
"Do not frighten me with dragon wrath, My Prince," snorted the knight, approaching the wall. "I have caught it from him already, and more than once."
Saying this, the sworn shield began to press on various scales on the stone dragon's chest, as if without any order. However, something creaked and turned behind the wall, and a thin dark slit appeared. Ser Dennis grasped the edge and pushed it forward, and then with a bow yielded the way to the Prince.
"Please, My Prince. Your brother is there."
"What is this?" frowned Daemon; there were secret rooms and corridors in the Red Keep, he even used some when running away from his father, but he had heard of nothing similar in Dragonstone.
"A temple, My Prince."
And what was that supposed to mean? But it was evident that the knight did not wish to answer his questions too much, or perhaps he did not know everything. In any case, it was simpler to ask Aegon. Daemon grunted, indicating that the sworn shield's explanations did not satisfy him and he would not forget this, and crossed the threshold of the secret corridor.
Scarce bad he taken a couple of steps when the door clicked into place with a quiet creak, and the Prince found himself in complete darkness. Daemon had enough self-control not to turn around, not to rush to the closed door and start pounding on it, calling down dragonfire on everyone and everything. Betrayal? No, unlikely. Ser Dennis Greyhead had spent too much time in Targaryen service, and how much he had endured with Aegon... In any case, he had to go forward.
Growing accustomed to the darkness, Daemon realized it was not absolute. Somewhere further along the corridor, a narrow strip of light whitened, like a ribbon, like a thread; the Prince grasped at it. The corridor turned out much shorter than the Prince expected, and just ten yards later the strip of light turned out to be a small arrow slit; to his own surprise, Daemon discovered that it had managed to be glazed.
"Something happened?"
The Prince turned his head; at the far wall rose an altar set with disks and dishes of oilily gleaming dragon glass, before which three Valyrian candles burned. Behind them stood three figurines no more than a foot high: a Valyrian sphinx with a female face, a dancing man, and a one-eyed woman. Before the sanctuary, kneeling on a low wooden bench with pillows and armrests, stood Aegon, who did not even think to turn around when someone entered.
"I did not know you had become so pious, my brother," drawled Daemon.
"I suppose Dennis let you in?"
"Yes. He allowed himself to add a couple of words to your message, hinted that I should catch up with you."
"I shall flog and kick out the bastard," grumbled Aegon without malice; both brothers were perfectly aware that the sworn shield had nothing to fear. "What say you?"
"To confess, I am even more surprised by all this than by your intrigue with Lady Arryn."
"Do you judge me?"
"For Lady Arryn? No."
"And for this?" the brother nodded toward the altar and several long silver strands fell from his shoulder.
"I know not. What is this?"
Aegon sighed and moved to the bench standing behind him, not taking his gaze off the unnatural light of the candles. His brother was in breeches and a robe alone, too thick to be Lyseni, but he should still have been chilly, yet he scarce paid attention to this.
"I received the figurines in Braavos. Everything else I found in Mantarys," Aegon moved over and patted the bench beside him. "Sit, my brother, this is not a simple story."
In his soul, Daemon had long ceased to believe what the Septons preached; the teaching of the Andals stifled him with its strictness, restrictions for the sake of restrictions, prohibitions for the sake of prohibitions, stupidity for the sake of stupidity. The Prince kept silent about his views for the sake of his brothers. Viserys, after all his losses, frequented the Royal Sept and the new one on Visenya's Hill, which he had laid foundation to together with Aemma and continued to build in her honor. Aegon, as it seemed to him, enjoyed how his music sounded at the Faith's services, and Daemon's surprise was all the greater when he realized that his younger brother had gone further than him in his apostasy. But to believe in what he told turned out simpler than the Prince expected.
They spoke in the small temple until the Valyrian candles went out. Then Aegon rose and wiped the glass wicks with a pinch, rekindling them just as he had done several years ago in the Citadel.
"Go, Daemon, it is late," he sighed.
"And you?"
"I shall sit here a while longer. I need to understand what to do with the Cannibal. Perhaps the gods will prompt an answer."
"And what do you think yourself?"
"Kinslaying is punishable by death, whoever you are: dragon or man. But a man is easier to kill," Aegon froze for a moment, fixing his gaze on the face of the Valyrian sphinx, the goddess Vhagar, distorted with fury.
"Balerion easily devoured Quicksilver in the Battle beneath the Gods Eye," reminded Daemon. "And in Valyria dragons fought each other, remember all those civil wars. Two against the Cannibal, whatever monster he is, we have chances."
"Possibly."
Seeing that his brother had become uncommunicative, Daemon rose from the bench and headed for the exit. At the arrow slit window, he noticed that it had grown quite dark, but in the chapel it was as bright as the moment he entered—undoubtedly, Valyrian candles knew how to dispel darkness.
"Daemon?" called Aegon suddenly.
The other turned; the younger brother stood with his back to his altar, surrounded by a halo of divinely eternal light reflected in the obsidian disks, and seemed himself if not a deity, then certainly a prophet-priest. But Daemon blinked, and the delusion vanished.
"Thank you for flying here," pronounced the no-longer-divine Aegon.
"Could I allow you to kill yourself against the Cannibal?"
"Just say you could not allow me to steal all the glory."
"Lorath and the Ibbenese fleet should be enough for you," chuckled the Prince. "I need legendary deeds too. I am the future King, correct?"
The way to the door did not have to be sought by touch. Reflecting whimsically off the walls, the light from the candles dispelled the darkness, creating thick, black as night itself, dancing shadows. From them the head spun, and Daemon involuntarily touched the wall so as not to fall; running his hand along it, he accidentally touched something, and the door opened with a creak. Two hands appeared immediately, widening the opening, and the Prince collided nose to nose with Ser Dennis.
"Praise the Gods," he exhaled. "You sat there painfully long."
"We talked," eyes rippled from the glares left behind. "Aegon will stay there for some time yet."
The sworn shield grumbled something about supper getting cold, and Daemon realized that he himself had managed to get hellishly hungry. No wonder—a flight across the Gullet, and such a long conversation besides, would awaken an appetite even in the dead. Leaving the knight to guard his brother's secret chapel, Daemon ran his hands over his face, chasing away the last spots from his eyes, and went to the refectory of the Great Hall.
Aegon never came out to supper, so Daemon had to spend it in the company of Ser Viselor and Maester Gerardys, who decided to give a report on the state of his domains. On the whole, everything was prosperous: trade in Dragon's Haven flourished since the increased turnover with Pentos required a new transit point (here, of course, the influence of Aegon and Beesbury was felt), villages stably provided livestock for all inhabitants of the island, even the winged ones, and the latter, through the efforts of the Master of Dragons, had noticeably increased in number. At least, so it was until recently.
"So how did it happen that you noticed nothing?" inquired Daemon, scraping stewed pork oozing with juice from the bone.
"It happened at night, My Prince," sighed Teltaris sadly. "There was a storm, and this creature fell right out of the thunderclouds."
"We know little, My Prince," added Gerardys. "There are no direct eyewitnesses: the entire shift of Dragonkeepers perished."
"Did he eat them too?"
"Rather, he crushed or burned them. Hardly did the Cannibal pay them any attention. The nesting ground was full of dragonets, some were already grown enough to fly away even through the storm."
"Unfortunately, like any young, they were too presumptuous and foolish to think of salvation," objected the Maester to the castellan.
"Come now, at the sight of this monster anyone would shit themselves liquidly," blurted Viselor. "I beg pardon, My Prince, I am... unrestrained of tongue."
"I am no Lady to blush at such words," smiled Daemon. "So I don't give a shit."
Teltaris caught his breath and grinned at the simple humor, and Gerardys imperceptibly, as it seemed to him, rolled his eyes.
"So what are our losses?"
"If Ser Baelor is to be believed," hastened the castellan to answer. "Seven guards perished, and the Cannibal devoured three dragons and crushed a couple more. The eldest was no more than ten years old. Beautiful beasts they were..."
"My brother and I will deal with this," assured Daemon his interlocutors, trying to put all possible confidence into his words. "Is there anything else I need to know?"
"Yes, My Prince," said Gerardys, dabbing his mouth with a burgundy napkin. "Two months ago Septon Garth fell from a mule returning from a pastoral trip to the Lesser Yard. Wet stones are treacherous... The Stranger was merciful, he died at once. Only Septon Petyr remains in Dragon's Haven, but he is already sixty-two and has arthritis. He complains to me that he needs an assistant. I decided to write to you, but by a coincidence difficult to call happy, you visited us earlier."
"Is there no Septon in the castle?"
"Septon Petyr was just that, but after the death of the Good Queen Alysanne he moved to the Port Sept."
"And do many townsfolk go to him?" inquired Daemon as if casually.
"I would not say the people are pious, My Prince," answered Ser Viselor hesitatingly. "They go to the sept because it is proper, and even then mostly on holidays... It has always been so, My Prince."
Daemon chuckled; considering that the Faith came to Dragonstone shortly before the Conquest, this was not surprising.
"Since it is so, Septon Petyr will cope perfectly alone," he cut off. In light of what his brother told him, the presence of septons on the island seemed almost a personal insult to him. "Anything else?"
However, business ended there, and soon the food ended too. Taking leave of his faithful and, as it turned out, quite reliable deputies, Daemon went to his chambers. Unlike Aegon, he did not move to the Windwyrm, stopping in his former rooms in the Tower of the Soaring Dragon. The statue of a dragon crowning it looked north, toward the cliffs where the Cannibal nested, and spread its wings wide, as if truly flying high in the heavens.
In the bedroom, the Prince discovered a maid hurriedly making his bed. Seeing the Prince, the girl gasped and pressed against the wall, lowering her eyes. A fair strand escaped from under her cap, casting gold in the light of candles (quite wax ones, not glass).
"M'lord," the girl curtsied in a simple but sweet reverence.
"What is your name, beauty?" asked Daemon with a smile.
"Jayla, M'lord Prince."
The smallfolk on Dragonstone always kept the features of the Old Freehold: slaves and servants of Aenar the Exile became townsfolk and peasants, but preserved their appearance along with special devotion to the lords of the island. Valyrian blood was inevitably diluted by Andal, although periodically dragonseed tried to stop the process, but fidelity to the traditions and culture of the forgotten homeland was impressive.
Jayla was slender: the modest dress of a maid did not hide a high bosom, and a tightly tied snow-white apron only emphasized a thin waist. Daemon lifted her neat chin with two fingers; lilac eyes looked at him timidly, and understanding of all possible consequences was seen in them. The last pebble fell on the scales.
"Does M'lord want me to stay?"
"Perhaps, yes. Stay."
---------------
Read advance +50 chapters on my Patreon
Patreon(.)com/WinterScribe