Prince Kallio Karlaris
To say that Kallio Karlaris was worried is to say nothing. A little more than a week had passed since that memorable and very strange conversation with the dragon Prince, and for all this time the Prince of Pentos had not once been to his country estate, where preparations for the feast in honor of the Westerosis were in full swing. Aegon Targaryen and his watchdog almost immediately "relieved" the master of the house of all the burdens of organizing such a large-scale event. Kallio's participation consisted of allocating a very generous budget from the treasury—he managed after all to convince the Magisters that a reception with the participation of ambassadors of two neighboring powers at once should be attributed to diplomatic expenses.
On the appointed day, he, in the company of Dario Daenaris, Nevio Neyeris, and Gellio Galtaris—his most faithful friends and most devoted supporters, who in their time made him Prince—arrived earliest of all at the house where he was born.
"What is with you, Kallio?" Nevio inquired with slight bewilderment while their large palanquin of gold and ivory climbed the hill from which the seaside estate could already be seen. "You do not look like yourself."
"He fears the Westerosi Prince together with his dragon burned his father's house," chuckled Gellio. "I would never in your place have agreed to such folly. To give a house—a whole estate!—into the complete disposal of a stranger, and with a flying beast spitting fire at that! It is the height of recklessness!"
"Would you have ordered tents pitched?" Karlaris cast irritably.
"I would have ordered this gathering held in the stone halls of the Prince's Palace," the other objected and, raising a finger significantly, added: "Or better in its cellars. So the dragon would not reach us."
"We do not intend to kill the Prince," remarked Daenaris, silent until then, stroking his spade-shaped beard bleached in Valyrian fashion. "It seems it is precisely he who is trying to prevent Kallio from being sacrificed."
"We may not intend to," agreed Gellio. "But I do not think our respected brothers harbor equally warm feelings for the Westerosi King's brother. If—or even when—he is killed, I would prefer to be where dragonfire and dragon fangs will not reach me."
"In that case, what have you forgotten in my palanquin?" asked the Prince.
"I want to look at the dragon once more," confessed the Magister to the loud laughter of friends.
The ascent finally ended and Kallio parted the heavy curtains shielding the passengers of the palanquin from sun rays, sea winds, and prying eyes.
"The house seems to be in place," Nevio voiced his thoughts. "Already not bad."
The Prince only snorted in response and ordered the slaves to hurry. Being late for a feast in one's own estate was all that was needed.
When the palanquin stopped in the courtyard of the house, by the grand granite staircase, the Magisters and the Prince of Pentos were met by Prince Targaryen himself and his sworn knight. The descendant of dragonlords was dressed in Westerosi fashion, in the colors of his house: beneath the cutouts of a black long-skirted robe peeked a scarlet tunic with black embroidery; hair was gathered in a bun, to which several long and thin braids stretched from the bangs and temples, and fastened with a silver pin with an emerald at the end. The same emerald, hanging on a thin chain, showed off exactly in the center of the Prince's forehead—the Prince remembered he ironically called such ornaments his "third eye"; the resemblance was truly there—the stone looked exactly the color of his iris.
The knight-servant for once looked appropriate and did not resemble a grey mouse offended by life. A black doublet with a red dragon surely hid if not chainmail, then certainly leather armor beneath it. Ser Dennis Greyhead invariably kept his hand on the hilt of the sword with which he did not part, as it seemed to Kallio, even at night.
"Most Excellent Prince," Prince Aegon greeted the master of the house with a polite nod.
"Glad to see you, my friend. Is all well?" sounded the question: "Is all ready?"
"Of course, Prince," the Targaryen nodded dispassionately and the emerald "third eye," swinging, caught a sunbeam.
"You remember my friends, do you not?" inquired Karlaris in a secular tone.
"Yes, of course. I remember, we had an interesting conversation with Magister Daenaris on the properties of precious stones, and with Magister Neyeris reasoned on the prospects of an Ibbenese-Lorathi alliance."
"I see, Prince, you decided not to try on our fashion after all," Gellio, deprived of attention, intervened. Provocations may be good in trade, but in politics they need to know a measure, and with this he had problems.
"I deemed it would look somewhat... strange," Aegon inclined his head with a thoughtful smile. "Besides, I am not sure it would suit me. Looking ridiculous in the eyes of friends is not scary, but looking ridiculous in the eyes of dangerous people can be an unforgivable mistake."
"Perhaps before getting into our clothes, the Prince should grow a beard," remarked Nevio.
"If I grow a beard, many in King's Landing will think the Old King has risen from the ashes," the Westerosi chuckled, picking at the corner of a granite slab with his cane. "Just as white, shaggy, bearded and barely walks to boot. Exactly, King Jaehaerys in his worst days!"
Having said this, Aegon laughed quietly, and the Prince with the Magisters laughed after him out of politeness.
"All is ready, Most Excellent Prince," repeated the Targaryen when everyone finished laughing. "The house is yours again."
With these words, he made an inviting gesture with his hand, and they went inside. Kallio expected the house to change beyond recognition, that a copy of the Iron Throne or something else Valyrian would be placed there; on the contrary, the house was decorated in the best traditions of Pentoshi feasts. The only reminder of the Westerosi occasion for the reception served black-and-red draperies on the walls and tablecloths on the tables, already set with dishes groaning with viands. From the mere smell of pork roasted in spices and garlic, Kallio's stomach ached, reminding him that from anxiety in the morning he could swallow only a couple of cups of light wine, chewing a handful of dates in honey with them. Everything looked quite decent: expensive and with knowledge of the guests' tastes; at first glance, the Prince coped with the task he shouldered.
His Magister friends managed to occupy the best seats at the best table with a view of the garden and the Bay of Pentos, and the Prince hastened to join them. Gradually other guests arrived; Aegon met them at the doors, and here, in the main hall, Karlaris with a wide masterly gesture invited them to the table. Scarce had a newly arrived Magister sat at the table when a trusted cupbearer, while golden Arbor wine poured in a thin stream into a pot-bellied bronze cup, informed the Prince with what escort he arrived. So far everyone kept within the bounds of propriety—no more than a dozen men; Karlaris himself had three hundred quartered in the estate, and his friends kept as many nearby. Furthermore, Prince Aegon had his Bronze Fury, which was their main and last argument, which so far preferred not to appear.
"Where is your dragon, Prince?" questioned one of the Magisters, who had already managed to get tipsy. "We want to see the famous Copper... Forgive me, Bronze Terror!"
"The Terror was Balerion," the Targaryen corrected gently. "And he was black in color. My dragon bears the name Vermithor styled the Bronze Fury."
"Strange style," remarked Villio Ernaris loudly, so that everyone heard. "Considering his previous rider preferred not to fight. At whom was Vermithor furious?"
"Strange question," Aegon answered just as loudly. "Considering it was you who asked it, Magister Ernaris. My grandfather did not like to fight, but knew how to do it. You may inquire about this from your Dornish relatives."
The hall burst into laughter, applause was heard here and there; Villio always emphasized his kinship with the Martells, as others emphasized kinship with old Valyrian families, and such a lunge at the Dornish could not fail to sting him. Hiding a smirk behind a cup, Kallio saw the dark-skinned Magister manage to pale from suppressed anger, and for some reason this amused him almost more than the lame Prince's remark.
But scarce did the laughter subside when Karlaris thought again about what the Targaryen intended to do. The evening was already in full swing, and he still hobbled from table to table, speaking now with one Magister, now with another, bowed and scraped with a third, inviting him to the meal; he met the Myrish ambassador reservedly but politely, speaking with him in his native dialect, and seated him in a place of honor next to himself. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer—such was the first rule Kallio's father taught him; if Aegon knew of this principle, his steps regarding the Myrishman boded nothing good for him.
Meanwhile, the clubfooted Prince stopped near the musicians seated in a corner, picked up an offered fiddle, and announced:
"Most Excellent Prince, Honorable Magisters of Free Pentos! I am delighted and charmed by your beautiful city and the warm welcome you have given us. According to Westerosi beliefs, an ungrateful guest will burn in the same hell as a kinslayer. I want to confess—I do not like heat too much."
Chuckles rang out through the hall.
"Therefore I decided before continuing my journey to arrange a feast to pay tribute to Pentoshi hospitality. Perhaps some of you already know that while my brothers practiced with the sword, I practiced in handling the bow. This small piece I present to the lords of Free Pentos as a return gift for what they have done for me and the Seven Kingdoms. The Iron Throne will not forget this kindness."
Settling the fiddle on his shoulder, the Prince gave a sign, and the orchestra began to play a merry, lively melody, simultaneously similar and dissimilar to Pentoshi. There was something simple, folk, market-like in it, but at the same time something complex and alien. Very soon Kallio and all the rest succumbed to the musical obsession and began to clap and stomp in time. When the melody broke off, the tables were nearly swept away by a satisfied roar, happy laughter, and loud applause. The dragon Prince bowed, and then performed together with the musicians several more melodies and songs already well known to the Pentoshi.
Gradually Karlaris let go of the situation and simply enjoyed the evening, food, wine, and his surroundings. Feasting Magisters are happy Magisters, and happy Magisters do not sacrifice Princes. Aegon all this time flashed like a black-and-white lopsided shadow now here, now there, raising glasses in turn with each of the guests, and the longer he did this, the more the Prince marveled how the Targaryen still kept on his legs. Well, or on what remained of them.
Finally, the Prince collapsed into a chair vacated on Kallio's right hand and took a noisy breath.
"You know, dear friend, it seems I never drank with you all evening. A monstrous omission, in my view."
"Will it not be enough for you, my friend?" the Prince looked at him doubtfully. "You ate almost nothing, but drank... Too much. You seem to be sweating."
Sweat truly appeared on his forehead; the braids on his temples fluffed up and now wet strands stuck to pale cheeks. Thanks to the chain from the "third eye" it was difficult to determine where his silver hair ended and white as snow skin began. A sudden suspicion scorched Karlaris's consciousness.
"Is all well with you?" he inquired anxiously, looking into his neighbor's darkened eyes.
"Couldn't be better," he smiled weakly. "I was poisoned."
"Who?! When?"
"Does not matter. Don't give a damn," every word sounded an exhaustive answer to each of the questions. "Better pass the tureen."
Kallio reached for the gilded vessel in which excellent turtle soup according to a Summer Islander recipe was served, and scarce managed to place it before the Prince when he vomited profusely. Judging by the dark streams the Westerosi King's brother spewed from himself, blood gushed from him.
"Healer!" roared Karlaris, jumping up from his seat and instantly riveting attention to himself. In the suddenly fallen deafening silence, the Prince's sworn shield rushed to them from the other end of the hall; scarce had he scooped up the dragonrider who had only just calmed down into his arms when a rolling roar reached them from somewhere at sea, and all Magisters simultaneously came into motion and rushed away from the hall.
Left alone amidst ruined dining tables and overturned chairs, the Prince of Pentos thought doomedly that the evening which was supposed to save his life turned into a catastrophe. If the Prince dies, nothing will save Pentos from his brothers' wrath, the Targaryens will certainly want revenge and, likely, bloodthirstiness will force them to refuse even the most profitable offer with ransom. Dragons will burn Pentos; if after this Kallio Karlaris by some miracle remains alive and does not fall captive to the Westerosi, he will certainly be sacrificed. Even his friends will vote for this. With a feeling of utter doom, Karlaris emptied the goblet in a gulp and hurled it away with anger.
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