Aegon did not notice the preparations of Saera's red-and-black house for another and, apparently, traditional reception for the Black Walls, so quietly and smoothly did the slaves and servants perform their duties (the Prince had not yet fully grasped the difference between these two states): everything was done without the noise, din, and bustle accompanying preparations for a feast in Westeros. Aunt Saera assigned him chambers on the third floor of her mansion, the windows of which overlooked both the neat inner garden and the Walls; one could also discern the stone rows of seats of the hippodrome where Vermithor rested.
The rooms were furnished with an inexorable combination of luxury and restraint. Furniture made of dark wood did not seem unbearably heavy and majestic, as in Westeros, and had not that cheap gaudiness valued in Pentos, but was functional and at the same time adequately reflected the status of the owners and the magnitude of their wealth. Myr carpets with complex patterns covered the cold stone slabs of the floor. Windows were decorated with stained glass, assembled from different pieces of red, orange, and yellow glass, forming tongues of flame ascending to the heavens. Scarlet tones predominated in the silk wallpapers on the walls, and in the upholstery of armchairs and sofas.
"You can take the Targaryen out of Westeros..." Aegon began, absently twisting the cane in his hands.
"But you cannot take Westeros out of the Targaryen?" inquired Dennis mockingly, having finished inspecting the chambers for possible secret passages and traps. The knight found three caches: a hideout behind a bookcase, a niche under the floor an elbow deep, and a crawlspace behind a false window, but the Prince was sure this was not yet the full set of secrets.
"In a sense," he nodded. "Old Blood need no coats of arms, which means they have no house colors either. Aunt could have chosen absolutely any, but remained faithful to red. A house red as Maegor's Holdfast. Chambers as on Dragonstone."
"She is simply tormented by nostalgia. The Archmaester suffers from this too, but keeps it to himself."
"The Archmaester does not have enough gold to dress the whole Conclave in black and red and repaint the Citadel!"
"Well, he has the desire, and that is already half the battle."
A light knock sounded on the door, and the aforementioned head slave in gold chains appeared on the threshold.
"Gela Saera hopes the eiks managed to rest after the road, and reminds that the reception will begin soon."
"Are they waiting for us already?" surprised Aegon.
"No, eiks. The host of the reception does not descend to guests immediately. Gela asks if you require a tailor?"
The Prince exchanged confused glances with the sworn shield. Their travel doublets had managed to wear out, and ceremonial clothes were too Westerosi—to wear them in the Black Walls seemed sacrilege; besides, the Old Blood would not take him for one of their own, even despite the dragon.
"Yes, perhaps changing clothes will not hurt us," decided Aegon. "But will the tailor manage to fit everything?"
"Do not worry, eiks. The best tailors of Volantis serve Gela Saera."
Scarce had the slave, who remained nameless, pronounced these words when five subtle-looking men with bales of fabric at the ready slipped out from behind the door like silent shadows. Bowing respectfully, they surrounded the Prince on all sides.
"We are glad to serve the eiks," bleated the oldest of them. Tufted white hair on his cheeks did not match his bald head and chin at all, and his hooked nose seemed the beak of a bird of prey. "We ask the eiks to forgive us the lack of due courtesy, but we must work quickly."
"Of course," Aegon forgave them, a little confused by the haste with which everything was decided in the red-and-black house.
Out of the corner of his eye, he managed to notice another pair of slaves approaching Dennis with the same request, but then a whole whirlwind of hands picked up and spun the Prince, simultaneously taking measurements from him, pulling off old clothes, applying different cuts of fabric to him, wrapping, trying on, comparing, and managing thereby to argue quietly among themselves in rapid Volantene.
In some mad moment, it seemed to Aegon that clothes were sewn right on him, tacking the fabric with threads on the living; one wrong move—and all labor down the drain; but no, here one of the slaves stepped aside and began to cut something, another picked up and immediately on the floor began to sew cuts together.
The Prince was firmly convinced that they would never manage to prepare him for the reception, but, by all appearances, the best tailors of all Volantis truly lived with Gela Saera. In some couple or three hours, they managed to sew him several white tunics to be worn one under another, short breeches the old man called "andazms", a white cloak and, moreover, add to each element of clothing wide strips of embroidery with tongues of flame and dragons playing with red-orange and black beads in the candlelight (Aegon did not even have time to notice the sun disappear behind the Black Walls). Obviously, embroidered fabrics were alien to Volantenes, and decorations on clothes were removable—such could easily be repaired or replaced according to the occasion and rapidly changing fashion.
Dennis, who was also dressed up, gestured the slaves to leave, and, scarce had the door closed behind them, dug up a casket with jewels in the luggage removed from the dragon saddle and brought it to the Prince. Rummaging in it, Aegon decided, firstly, not to change himself, and, secondly, to limit himself to the necessary minimum, the dimensions of which by Volantene standards were quite large: a pair of father's rings on each hand, a silver chain with links in the form of dragon wings on the neck, and the ruby "third eye" on the head.
"Permit me to remind you, my Prince..." the knight began, but faltered.
"Speak."
"His Grace ordered to be careful during such gatherings."
"And you remind me of this after Pentos?" inquired the Prince maliciously.
"In Pentos everything was under your control."
"That is, in Pentos I poisoned, not was poisoned."
"I said so. Besides, there were no other Targaryens in Pentos."
"I noticed. What are you driving at?"
Dennis looked around furtively and lowered his tone—a completely not superfluous precaution in houses on this side of the sea:
"You are not the only grandson of the Old King here. Men are mortal, my Prince, and dragons often outlive their riders. Even wounded and sick ones."
"You suppose they will dare to seize Vermithor?" frowned Aegon.
"Let your aunt not be a Triarch now, but she cannot help thinking about family. Now they are, so to speak, on the horse, but what will be later?"
"Old Blood will not let my cousins become so strong. 'Elephants' need no redistribution of power, just as they need no new war. Besides, they had the opportunity to acquire their own dragons, but they missed it."
"That was two hundred years ago, my Prince. And as for 'elephants', they could give the order themselves..."
There was a grain of truth in the sworn shield's words, and Aegon could not wave it away. Who knows what plans the Old Blood hatched, what dreams they cherished? Westerosis did not yet imagine local political layouts, and discounting any threat would be criminal negligence. If Volantis or some clique in the Black Walls decided to try to get a dragon, and one of the largest at that, then redistribution of borders is unavoidable; the Three Daughters will quickly be avenged for the defeat in the last war, first Lys will be captured, then Tyrosh and Myr, and then... Will they move up the Rhoyne? Or through the Disputed Lands to Pentos?
"What use guessing?" shrugged Aegon, answering both Dennis and himself at once. "We have been here only a few hours. No one will kill us immediately. Aunt Saera needs to boast of an overseas relative, show the Triarchs her own 'Old Bloodness' once more."
"Not too encouraging," remarked the knight with a sour face.
They knocked on the door again, and the head slave reported that Gela Saera wants the eiks to escort her down to the already merrymaking guests. One does not refuse the mistress of the house.
Aunt waited for him at the grand staircase made of black granite slabs and leading from private chambers to the first floor, whence loud voices already reached, drowning out sounds of unfamiliar melodies and clatter of dishes. For this evening the former princess preferred to choose a dress in family colors; her arms were adorned with long bracer-bracelets of white gold, almost exactly repeating the color of her hair, and a massive necklace with rubies.
"I remember this," she declared, touching the "third eye". "Alyssa loved such things, and this one in particular."
"Truly?" asked Aegon foolishly again, somehow confused at once. He, of course, knew the ornament belonged to his mother before, but the news that the late princess singled this one out among others echoed with a dreary pulling feeling inside. A thin silver chain and a medium-sized ruby—the only closeness to his mother the gods allowed him.
"Yes. It suits you."
"I do not remember her at all..." muttered the Prince embarrassed.
"As if you would remember her! How old were you when she died? One?"
"Less."
"Then what is there to talk about? Come now, wipe that expression off your face! I have the whole Triarchy and half the Old Blood gathered downstairs, dare not be sad! If you want, I shall tell you about her, but later, tomorrow. And now gather yourself and trade face for your auntie's sake."
"I shall be grateful," nodded Aegon.
"And I shall be grateful if you give me your hand."
Gallantly offering his elbow, Aegon marveled to himself at the rather ridiculous picture they presented. Faithful Dennis appeared from nowhere, readily picking up the edge of his embroidered cloak and the hem of the Gela's dress. Quite inopportunely a muscle in the maimed leg began to twitch; writing everything off to nerves and excitement, the Prince began to step even more carefully; rolling down to the Old Blood head over heels, and dragging the just-found auntie along was all that was needed.
On the first floor filled with guests, no one announced the arrival of the mistress of the evening, no one beat kettledrums and blew trumpets, as was customary in the Seven Kingdoms, but they were noticed at once. Scarce had Saera descended from the last step when the music quieted, conversations gradually fell silent, and barely a hundred pairs of violet, lavender, lilac, purple, bright green, turquoise, sapphire-blue, and ultramarine eyes turned to them. Aegon had never seen so many representatives of the blood of Old Valyria in one place; Aunt, meanwhile, with an easy smile swept her gaze over the guests and said in Volantene:
"Greetings, friends! I thank you for not ignoring my invitation to our humble dinner. Today a joyful and happy event happened in this house: my nephew, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms Aegon Targaryen, visited us!"
With these words, she stepped aside, demonstrating the high guest to those gathered; the mentioned Prince himself instantly felt a hundred alien studying, testing, evaluating glances on him. Silence dragged on; Saera barely moved her fingers and lightly raised an eyebrow, showing Aegon needed to say at least something. Exhaling as before answering an Archmaester at an exam, he proudly raised his head higher and pronounced:
"I greet the Old Blood of the Volantis Freehold and express gratitude to the noble Triarchs for the opportunity to stay within the mighty Black Walls remembering the lords of Old Valyria and the heat of their dragons' flame."
Silence stood for a moment, but then three men stepped forward; one of them turned out to be the recent fat man Benerro; the second was taller than him, but three times narrower in the waist; the third resembled a military man by bearing—must be one of the "tigers," Aegon managed to think.
"The Triarchy is glad to welcome Prince and eiks Aegon Targaryen," announced Benerro on behalf of his co-rulers. "Old Blood flows singly in you as in us. Welcome."
With these words, the Triarch extended a hand to the Prince and, grasping the elbow, shook it; following him, the two other rulers of the Freehold repeated the Valyrian handshake, after which the official introduction ended. Aunt Saera took possession of Aegon's hand again and, pulling him to herself, whispered:
"Too high-flown, but, on the whole, will do. Come, I shall introduce you to someone."
Not ceasing to smile cordially, Saera led Aegon through her chambers, bowing along the way to guests who again sprawled on couches and sofas, sat on armchairs, paced from room to room conducting leisurely conversations. The language of Volantenes strongly resembled High Valyrian, perhaps greatly simplified and too fast; the Prince, accustomed to smooth tempo and drawn-out vowels, managed to snatch only separate remarks in the general cacophony.
"Great honor to see..."
"...I heard he blocked the sun..."
"Cannot be!"
"...and I tell her in response..."
"...and how much will he eat..."
"Still it is very costly..."
"My father was in the embassy and saw Vhagar herself..."
"...and her tits!.."
"What a fool!"
In general, except for the language, conversations were the same as in the Red Keep. Periodically Saera introduced her nephew now to a venerable Gela whose hair was whiter than snow not because of Old Blood but because of age, now to eikses thin as poles and fat as barrels. The further deep into the guest rooms they passed, the younger became the public, the livelier played the music, and the faster scurried slaves with trays.
Finally, another bunch of youths and girls parted before the mistress of the house, many of whom looked younger than Aegon; in the center of the gathering turned out to be two young eikses and a young Gela of striking beauty.
"Jaegaer, what did we talk about?" Saera inquired strictly of the elder-looking youth, completely not shy of muffled chuckles and barely covered grins of his company. "Why must I look for you in all rooms?"
"Mother, I just arrived..."
"If so, then I am Horonno the Ambitious," cut off the Gela and, softening, turned to Aegon. "So, Aegon, meet my children. This rascal who was supposed to accompany me instead of you is Jaegaer."
The eiks named Jaegaer, propping up the wall until then, deigned to straighten; though the cousin was about the same height as the Prince, he was noticeably broader in the shoulders, and Aegon felt puny. The found relative, shaking a shock of cut light-golden hair, extended a hand for Valyrian greeting with a wide and friendly smile.
"Damn pleasant to meet kin! Mother told much about Kings of Westeros."
"Ready to bet, much unpleasant," remarked Aegon, squeezing the alien elbow in response.
"Rather funny," corrected Saera and turned to the girl. "This is my daughter Viserra."
Gela Viserra was a beauty. From her mother she inherited the very best: long straight hair the color of white gold, large violet eyes, a thin waist emphasizing a full chest—all this, multiplied by blooming youth, made her that very pure example of Valyrian beauty before which bards and artists on both sides of the Narrow Sea bowed. Viserra smiled charmingly and also offered a hand; Aegon's heart broke into a gallop, as during a turn on Vermithor; only stone floor slabs were under him, not a dragon saddle.
"Happy to meet the beautiful Gela," he squeezed a compliment out of himself, leaving a weightless kiss on the extended hand. A light, barely perceptible sweetish aroma of oils with which soft as silk skin was anointed intoxicated no worse than wine.
"And this is my younger son Maerys," introduced Saera the last of her offspring.
Aegon, mesmerized by Viserra's beauty, turned to him with a small delay which, naturally, did not go unnoticed. Unlike brother and sister, Maerys had hair almost white and curly; perhaps he was even younger than Aegon by two years, if not three, but his handshake turned out just as firm as Jaegaer's. To overcome the impression of his own "dullness" at the sight of Viserra's beauty, the Prince resorted to his surest weapon—sarcasm—and inquired of his aunt:
"So, it turns out, you named sons simultaneously in honor of Maegor the Usurper and Jaehaerys the Conciliator?"
"You caught me!" admitted Saera with a roguish smile. "I imagined Father's face when he would learn about this, and could not resist. Another revenge, small, but very sweet."
"And how do you live with such responsibility?" asked the Prince of his cousins. "Matching two outstanding personalities at once, and so different, is not simple."
"Couldn't be simpler!" answered Jaegaer with a laugh. "Mother, of course, told about them, but..."
"Hard to take seriously those whom you know by hearsay," added Maerys. "Besides, no one asked us."
"As if I would ask you how you should be named," grumbled Saera. "Well, I am sure Aegon can explain to you all the irony I put into your names. At the same time you can ask him about what an asshole your grandfather was."
"Throwing him to us to be torn apart?" grinned the eldest of the cousins.
"I would argue who will tear whom apart..."
"And on whom will you bet?" inquired Viserra curiously.
"Definitely not on Jaegaer. Have fun, kiddos, and Triarchs await me."
Having said this, Saera pulled down the cloak sitting crookedly on Maerys and, waving a hand in parting, dissolved in the crowd; scarce had she disappeared from view when he instantly returned the clothes to their former appearance. During the family conversation, the friends of the young masters of the house managed to disperse diplomatically who where, and now Aegon remained alone with his cousins. With cousins and with Viserra, to whom the Prince willy-nilly returned his gaze again.
"How did you manage to persuade the Triarchy to let you into the Black Walls? It took Mother a couple of years and a heap of gold so we could live here," asked Jaegaer bluntly, not letting silence become too awkward.
"One does not argue with a dragon," shrugged Aegon, keeping silent both about the ailment that struck the lizard and that the Bronze Fury in comparison with the Black Walls is like a yearling dragonet in comparison with Vhagar.
"We saw you flying over the city," said Viserra. "It is the most majestic sight I have ever seen."
"You flatter Vermithor and me, Gela."
"Why these ceremonies? We are kin," asked the girl with a shadow of displeasure. "Or are all Mother's stories about these prim Andal bigots true?"
Aegon, wishing not to lose her favor and attention, hastened to wriggle out:
"About Andals, maybe, true, but Targaryens are not Andals."
"Then without titles, dear cousin," Viserra wagged a finger at him.
"As you wish, dear cousin."
She deigned to smile at him after all, and Aegon decided that, firstly, this is the most beautiful smile in the world, and, secondly, he is ready to walk even to Valyria on foot to see it again.
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