Prince Daemon Targaryen
In silver candelabras, candles burned low, struggling to disperse the gloom that reigned within the great tent. Previously, Daemon had ordered the flaps raised in several places so that fresh air might penetrate within, but of late the nights were becoming colder and colder, and the Prince was considering giving orders regarding a brazier. Autumn is coming, and with it rains, tempests, storms, and winter; a white raven from the Citadel would not be sent to them, so the tidings that summer had ended ought to be expected in letters from the mainland. The day before, the Hand had already held an explanatory discourse with the Maesters accompanying his army, hinting to them that he ought to be the first to know of the change of seasons. Time was pressing, and there was still very much to be done.
Thoughts, plans, ideas, apprehensions, calculations, suppositions climbed into his head both day and night, retreating briefly only before intimacy with a woman, but returning each time scarce had he slipped from her loins and caught his breath. So now, watching the Dornishwoman pull her dress over her head, Daemon returned in his thoughts to Dorne.
He and Rhaenys had managed after all to do what the Conquerors had failed to do—to force the Martells to bow, to bend, to surrender. The first of the Aegons wished to subdue all Dorne, but the proud must be conquered not by brute force, but by another's pride and diplomacy. Several weeks of raids, a couple of letters, and lo, the army of the Yronwoods, having marched through the whole country in a month and a little without any problems, took semi-ruined Sunspear practically without a fight. The Prince burned, his children are in captivity, his Lyseni good-son killed, the ancient order restored.
The meeting of the Prince-Hand of the Seven Kingdoms and the proclaimed King of the Dornishmen, Olivar Yronwood, the fifth of his name, took place in a small cove half a day's journey from the ravaged demesne of the Martells. Meleys circled above their heads, Velaryon ships stood at anchor, Caraxes squinted and grinned behind his rider's back, whilst Daemon in his Valyrian armor sat in a chair, legs stretched out onto a carpet spread right on the shore, and looked upon the Dornishmen with a condescending smile.
Olivar, now King Olivar, pleased him rather than not. A solidly built man somewhat older than the Prince himself, he too appeared for negotiations in armor, with a golden crown in the form of the spikes of a portcullis from his sigil. Yronwood looked stern, behaved reservedly, and seemed not to be happy with his elevation.
"I shall not be your cur, like the Pentoshi," he warned in a murderously serious tone.
"As you please," Daemon answered politely. "But, as far as I know, the Fowlers and certain other houses, which my cousin and I have not yet had time to visit, still hold the banners of the Martells, and the Daynes themselves are not averse to becoming kings. You may continue to play at pride, or you may sit upon your throne and restore the legacy of your ancestors."
"Then what, in the name of the Seven Hells, do you want?"
It was evident that the necessity of negotiating from a frankly weak position was unpleasant to Yronwood—the Prince too would not wish to fawn before one who had burned a third of his future domains. And yet King Olivar sat and spoke with him; it meant he had learned the lesson of the Martells: those who do not bend, break.
"In essence, not much," the Prince smiled. "My brother is prepared to recognize your royal title. In return, he expects that the southern borders of the Seven Kingdoms shall remain in peace and tranquility, and that neither you nor your vassals shall cross the Red Mountains. His Grace King Viserys also desires that all children of Qoren Martell be surrendered to him."
"In what capacity?"
"In the capacity of hostages."
"No ransom will be paid for them. They are needed by no one; they have no one left."
"At the very least, they are needed by Lord Fowler. A banner with a sun and spear cannot be held unless a descendant of Nymeria and Mors holds the shaft."
The children were needed to keep the Yronwoods in check: let them reign, but know that somewhere across the sea still live the descendants of those who overthrew them. Those dissatisfied with the new-old dynasty will surely exist, and their offspring will allow control of both the King and the opposition. Olivar measured Daemon with a long, heavy gaze.
"So, you put me on a short leash."
"Like a cur," the Hand returned the King's own barb.
The Maesters drew up a treaty, the King and the Hand of another King set their signatures, affixed their seals, and afterward the little Martells, present right there, were passed from hand to hand along with their governess, a young woman, a bastard of the previous Prince. Cora Sand was sent away not only due to the necessity of looking after her nephews, but also because of her prominent position at Qoren's court: Yronwood said she performed the duties of Drazenko Rogare's wife in place of Aliandra Martell, and over her brother, supposedly, she had such influence that he gave the management of his court into her hands whilst his spouse yet lived.
On the ships, the hostages were kept under lock and key for fear that someone might decide to recapture them or that they might flee themselves; after returning to Bloodstone, they were allotted a separate tent, around which guards were posted, but they were allowed to move about the camp accompanied by several guardsmen. The fate of the underage heirs of the Prince he had burned concerned Daemon little, but it concerned Cora so much that a couple of days later she came to him herself and offered herself in exchange for leniency toward her nephews. The Prince promised to think on it, and since then had thought every night for a week already.
Cora was a true daughter of the Rhoyne: dark-skinned, dark-haired, able to be now soft, now bold in bed. It was pleasant to fuck her, and furthermore, she differed favorably from the local fishwives who jumped into his knights' beds from the very beginning of the war, in that she knew how to behave not only in bed, but in conversation. Moreover, she was the daughter of Nymor Martell, and such highborn whores were few and far between.
"My Lord Hand?" asked Cora, having finished dressing. "You promised to think about Lord Qyle."
The seven-year-old boy understood everything and at first threw himself at the guards now with fists, now with a fork, now with a small dagger he had somehow kept with him. Daemon ordered him whipped and all the belongings remaining to the Martells shaken out.
"I shall not return the knife to him," to speak true, Daemon had already forgotten where he put it.
"You threatened to send him to the Wall."
By rights, that is the very place for him. There or to the Citadel, or to the Starry Sept, in a word, everywhere where he cannot leave sons. His sisters ought to have been given to the Silent Sisters, but the Prince did not wish to deprive himself of the opportunity to periodically threaten the Yronwoods.
"I jested," he answered mirthlessly. "You shall set forth for Dragonstone, and thence to King's Landing. The King will decide your fate."
By some part of his being, Daemon wished Viserys would change his mind and revoke his promise, make it so that these children became the last Martells. Cora understood this too, but tried all the same as she could to ease the future of her nephews.
Dismissing the Dornishwoman with a careless wave of his hand, Daemon sat up in bed with a sigh, wiped himself with a sheet, and dressed—there was no sleep in either eye. Some time ago he had caught himself understanding why Aegon sat up late into the night with his books, papers, translations, compositions: by day, the commander of the army and the Hand were given no passage with questions, initiatives, counsels, conversations, so that no time remained for the resolution of truly important questions. But his mood was too foul even to attend to affairs.
During the day, two ravens had flown in: one from King's Landing with the royal seal, the second from Estermont from Aegon. Daemon, having thought briefly, then opened the letter of the younger of his brothers. Besides assurances of his own health, the valonqar reported in a matter-of-fact way that on the 19th day of the ninth month, Queen Alicent had quickly and safely been delivered of a burden—a boy, healthy, strong, white-haired, and, as they said, very like his father. The Prince was named Aegon, in honor of the Conqueror, and the younger brother in his customary self-ironic manner remarked that by the traditions of the First Men, from whom the Hightowers descended, children could be named in honor of a dying or recently deceased relative.
"Of course, the Queen meant no such thing," the brother explained. "The name, surely, was chosen by Viserys. If so, one wishes to rap him on the head with a cane: he might have asked me first, as the current Aegon."
The birth of a nephew was expected, but in the whirl of military actions in Dorne and lively negotiations with Volantis, Daemon allowed himself to "forget" about the pregnancy of the new Queen and how it might end. The sudden news caused heartburn, irritation, and a new wave of contempt for the Hightowers and their Queen. Having seethed with displeasure for an hour, he opened the second letter, in which Viserys in cautious expressions reported the birth of a son and assured of his adherence to their family agreement, calling him his Hand and Prince of Dragonstone.
All these were empty words. Of the three of them, Aegon knew the laws best, but Daemon himself understood that the beautiful system justifying his right to the first place in the line of succession to the Iron Throne had been dealt the most terrible blow possible: a healthy son had been born to the King. Of course, children often die—who better than Viserys to know of this, and of the Old King's fourteen children, not so very many survived. But every year of the life of Aegon the Younger (damn it, how to call their Aegon now? Aegon the Elder? Aegon Clubfoot? Aegon the Half-Maester?) would shake Daemon's position, that was undoubted.
Aegon, their Aegon, ironized in the letter, having seized upon a fact and coincidence known only to him, but who better than he to understand what the birth of his namesake meant? When they hissed "Maegor" after Daemon, the younger brother was the first to rise to his defense, but what will he say now? Furthermore, it is unknown whom the Velaryons will listen to: Daemon, who pulled them out of the shit, or their good-son?
Perchance, had he then brought the negotiations with the Sea Snake to an end... Then he would have had a chance. Four adult dragons and a fleet—this is a force with which one cannot fail to reckon. But that is a wife, yet another wife with whom he himself would have to reckon, whom one cannot send to the Seven Hells, whom one cannot abandon, whom one cannot divorce. Nay, enough of marriages of convenience for him. Especially now, when he understood that the Gods had already sent him the best of all wives.
By the by, what of Rhaenyra? How did she greet her little brother? It must have been hard to see the consequences of how her former friend spread her legs before her own father. The whole Red Keep now, probably, hums with excitement; to be sure: a Prince, a little Prince, like his father! Now all will forget the Realm's Delight and will hover around Aegon the Younger, and she does not deserve this. But, it seems, everyone likes children; maybe she will love the children?
There was something else. The raven from Estermont arrived simultaneously with the raven from the capital, speaking more eloquently than all royal promises. He was informed last.
There was no strength to restrain himself further after this, and, scarce having managed to close the casket with letters, the Prince snatched up Dark Sister and flew out to the lists like an angry whirlwind, challenging one knight after another to single combat, until there remained absolutely none willing to cross swords with him even in a practice fight. Exhausting duels did not help to clear his mind, as Cora Sand did not help later to cope with the events of the day. It is not the fault of the knights, and certainly not the fault of the Dornishwoman, that Viserys spits on their agreement whilst he defends the interests of the Iron Throne and all the Seven Kingdoms far from home. It seems he has not been in the Red Keep for too long, since the Hightowers dared to conceal information from him. But two can play this game, surely?
The decision came quickly. Daemon rose from the bed and in a couple of broad strides approached the table, unlocked the casket with letters, and, rummaging, extracted from it the message of the Triarchy. It should have been delivered by a small galley, but, to its own misfortune, it first stumbled upon the Furious Dragon, a carrack of the royal fleet. The captain, a native of Dragonstone, boarded the galley, stripped it, and, without thinking long, sank it, and took the crew prisoner. Among others was the ambassador of the Three Whores, a Tyroshi with a bright green beard, who, scarce having set foot on Bloodstone, demanded a meeting with "the chiefest dragon."
Having kept him in ignorance for a couple of hours, Daemon yielded to his own curiosity after all and received the diplomat. Only Jaygor and Harwin were present at the conversation—only them did Daemon trust fully. The ambassador verbally expressed the readiness of the Triarchy to conclude a peace treaty, and then, tearing the skirt of his kaftan, extracted a letter sewn into a leather case from the lining. The whorish Magisters, who had shat themselves from fear after his raid on Myr and the entry of Volantis into the war, hysterically begged for peace on any terms, with any indemnities, almost total abolition of duties for Westerosi merchants, and the mandatory transfer of the Stepstones to the Iron Throne.
The offer was more than tempting, but Daemon did not give an immediate answer then, and, as it turned out, not in vain. A profitable peace, gold, and lands... Which would not fall to him. Fingers involuntarily clenched the paper; somewhere behind the breastbone, spiteful irritation rose again, with which bitter resentment was mixed. This was not the victory for which he thirsted. This was not his victory, and he would not reap its fruits, though he had nurtured it.
Running his eyes once more over the lines of the preliminary treaty, written in flawless High Valyrian, Daemon brought the paper to the candle. The fire began greedily to devour the paper. Into ash turned the generous promises of Tyroshi dyes, Myrish lace, Lysene fabrics, three million dragons in gold, jewels, and artisan slaves, and a whole archipelago of stony, windswept islands.
Viserys and Aegon—together and separately—would undoubtedly have agreed to this. But they were not here.
---------------
Read advance +50 chapters on my Patreon
Patreon(.)com/WinterScribe