Probably, one should not have been surprised by this, but after Mantarys, Aegon no longer wished to call down the seven hells to pour their fire upon the whole wide world. Sharp pains had not visited him for a long time, and without them, the surrounding world became slightly more acceptable; a couple of cups of tea—and the Prince was ready to sincerely wish a casual passerby a good morning.
On the morning following Lady Laena's failed attempt to saddle Vhagar, the Prince summoned Ser Baelor, Commander of the Dragonkeepers. For the time of his journey, Aegon had left him to fulfill the duties of Master of Dragons, but Lord Otto successfully sabotaged the Prince's wish, the other members of the Small Council did not oppose this too much, and Baelor himself did not particularly strive to sit among lords, feeling out of place. Not reacting to the Hand's actions in any way, Aegon did not forget or forgive them, but put them aside on an imaginary shelf where things that might be useful at any moment were stored.
It is worth saying that Ser Baelor and his Dragonkeepers coped with their tasks worthily. The pit on Driftmark, hewn into one of the coastal cliffs near the old stronghold of the Velaryons, was finished, and Meleys and Seasmoke now felt almost as if on the Dragonmont. The dragon young—those not exceeding a horse in size—were gradually caught and relocated to the slopes of the volcano nearest the castle, so the probability for them to be devoured by the Cannibal decreased. This did not solve the problem of the bloodthirsty lizard: in a year and a half, he managed to devour three more adolescents, judging by the description, blood brothers of the Grey Ghost, who grew so skittish and cautious that it would be fitting to consider him a doe, not a dragon. The Commander of the Dragonkeepers' first report turned out thorough, honest, and truthful, so Aegon did not wish to be an ungrateful bastard—Baelor received a generous reward, instantly elevating his not-small family to the ranks of the richest on Dragonstone; excepting the Targaryens, naturally.
"Ser Baelor, how quickly can you refit a ready saddle for a new rider?"
"Depends on the dragon and the rider, dārilaros ñuhys (my Prince)," the other answered staidly.
"The dragon is the same, only the rider is different, but also a woman."
"Half a day, dārilaros. That is if with nūmītsoti (pearls)."
"Let us do with nūmītsoti."
"Sea pearls? For Lady Velaryon?"
"Yes. Let them make the pommel of the saddle like a seahorse, shells there... Decide yourselves. Nothing expensive, only steel."
"I fear, dārilaros, korzio (gold) is scarce, and we shall not manage in time besides. And a pity..."
"And who spoke of korzio?" Aegon was sincerely surprised, even setting aside his cup of herbal tea. "Ordinary. Let it be chased, but ordinary. Let her father buy her korzio; there is not enough for everyone."
"That is true, dārilaros," chuckled Baelor.
Having received instructions, he went to execute them, and the Prince sent maids to the guests with an offer to join his morning walk.
"Are you certain this is a good idea, My Prince?" clarified Dennis when they had already descended into the yard.
"I am certain this is the least shitty idea of all possible," the other cast out. "Good ideas ended when Grandfather gave Rhaenys's hand to the Sea Snake."
The Ladies of Driftmark, meanwhile, already awaited them. His cousin looked collected as usual and ready to saddle Meleys at once, but her daughter was clearly suffering the consequences of yesterday's meeting with Vhagar—judging by her face, Laena had scarce slept this night and did not even try to hide it.
"Are you ready, My Lady?" Aegon asked her instead of a greeting.
"For what?" she asked again gloomily.
"How for what? To saddle a dragon, naturally. Is that not why you arrived here?"
"I arrived here to saddle Vhagar. If you have forgotten, Prince, she rejected me."
"Vhagar is old and lazy; most of the time she sleeps and warms herself in the sun. The Dragonwatch says that in winter she might not take to the air for weeks. A flock of sheep and a dozen bulls were brought to her—to what end fly when you are fed?"
"I told you the same, my dear," Rhaenys remarked in a conciliatory tone. "This beast is not for you."
"Perchance I know myself which beast is for me?!" Laena tossed her head defiantly.
Rhaenys and Aegon exchanged understanding glances of two adults forced to endure another's childishness. Laena, naturally, could be understood, but endless grievances and self-flagellation were beginning to annoy.
"I propose we walk a little to begin with, inspect the nearest nesting grounds," announced the Prince and, not waiting for an answer, walked away.
A few moments later, his cousin caught up with him, and Aegon looked at her out of the corner of his eye. Corlys had not miscalculated with the choice of a wife, neither in terms of politics nor in terms of beauty—the Queen Who Never Was helped him make the Velaryons the second House in all Seven Kingdoms after the Targaryens, but, besides this, she was charmingly beautiful. Rhaenys had absorbed the best features from Aemon the Pale Prince and Jocelyn the Dark Maiden: white skin and violet eyes from her father, height and a chiseled figure from her mother; but most of all the mixing of bloods in her was betrayed by her hair—mostly black as a raven's wing, but at the temples Targaryen silver contrasted sharply with it.
"Did you walk here often with Grandmother?" asked Rhaenys for lack of anything to do.
"Here—almost never. We walked mostly in the Conqueror's Garden," Aegon readily supported the conversation. "We, you know, were both not great walkers, so benches and gazebos were most welcome."
"That is certain. You were always her favorite."
"Only because of the injury."
"Not true," the cousin chuckled. "The youngest are always loved more. She constantly worried about you, and in letters she devoted no less than a paragraph to you—your brothers got as much, but for two."
"Were you jealous?"
"No. Grandsons and granddaughters are loved a little differently, and the Good Queen had but one granddaughter."
Not one, Aegon corrected her to himself, but preferred to keep silent. At court, they knew that Saera had other children besides the newly-made Ser Jaegaer, but he himself, and following him Aegon, preferred not to recall the kin remaining in Volantis—it was too painful for both. Remembering his cousin, the Prince inquired:
"What is your opinion of Jaegaer?"
"A poor relation," Rhaenys shrugged. "But Viserys acted prudently not giving him the rights of a Prince. At least at once. His origin..."
"Is foggy even for his mother."
"Even more so. A bastard of royal blood, of course, differs from other bastards, but to make him a Targaryen? Let us assume we, the family, would accept this, but the greater part of Westeros would be against it. Knighthood, a coat of arms with a dragon, and a normal surname—just the thing for him."
"And a Valyrian sword?"
"Do not remind me of that," the cousin grimaced. "Corlys could not come to himself all evening afterward—some landless knight has a Valyrian blade, and the Lord of the Tides and master of Driftmark—has not."
"I suppose we got it good?" Aegon grinned. "Sailor's words and curses?"
"Everyone got it. Both you, and Lucerys the Unlucky, and all other ancestors."
Once the Velaryons too had their own blade of Valyrian steel, Seafoam, the main pride of the refugees from Valyria. Lord Lucerys Velaryon, who ruled at the very beginning of the Century of Blood, turned out to be among many presumptuous fools trying to bypass the curse of the fallen homeland and find if not survivors, then at least wealth. The family dissuaded the petty tyrant, his neighbor, old Aenar Targaryen, dissuaded him too, but they failed to convince him: Lucerys set off for Aquos Dhaen on the carrack Fortune, but fortune betrayed him—near Tyrosh, pirates attacked the ship and during a fierce skirmish, the adventurer's hand was cut off along with the sword. The stump with the priceless weapon fell overboard and vanished in the waves; even the Lannisters lost their Brightroar not so shamefully.
For two hundred years the Velaryons sought the lost blade, tried to obtain a replacement for it, but unsuccessfully. Corlys the Sea Snake labored most in this field—in all his great voyages that made him fame and brought wealth, he sought free Valyrian swords, but found neither them nor those ready to part with them. So now the Lord of the Tides definitely must have had an itch in his arse from anger at the unjust universe, which brought two landless bastards practically for free what he was ready to give all the treasures of his House for.
Meanwhile, they approached one of the nearest spurs of the Dragonmont, in which nature and the gods pleased to make a cave, and Vermithor and Silverwing pleased to make it their love nest. They found the Bronze Fury basking in the sunbeams on a huge boulder; thus, with wings spread in all directions, he resembled one of the dried butterflies in the collection of one of the Citadel Maesters. Scarce noticing Aegon, he narrowed an amber eye and suspiciously examined his companions, but deigned to crawl down and greet them nonetheless. Aegon embraced the enormous nose poking into him:
"Rytsas, raqiros. Lykāpsys issa? (Greetings, friend. Missing me?)"
Vermithor rumbled contentedly: yes, lazy, but you too are not busy with business.
"Did Grandfather not take you for a ride on him before you saddled Meleys?" the Prince asked his cousin.
"No, only showed him. When I was small, Father sat me before him in Caraxes' saddle, and Grandmother gave me a ride on Silverwing a couple of times."
"Speaking of her. Skoriot ābrazȳrys jeva? (Where is your wife?)"
The dragon moved his muzzle toward the cave and roared briefly. The scratching of claws on stone was heard, and Silverwing crawled out into the light. The Good Queen Alysanne's dragoness in the sunbeams justified her name as never before; every member of her body seemed cast of different sorts of silver: horns and spikes—old silver in patina, torso—almost white, nearly shining, wings—silvery, like moonlight on waves, crests—lace with silver threads. The beast with clear blue eyes yawned, showing a full set of terrifying dagger-fangs, and stared bewilderedly at the newcomers. She was, naturally, acquainted with Aegon and reconciled to his existence (at first the dragoness was jealous of Vermithor toward him); she remembered Rhaenys too, though Aegon caught her surprise at the Princess's changed appearance—Silverwing remembered her quite small.
"Well, My Lady?" the Prince asked Laena with a smile, who had walked behind until then. "What do you think?"
"She is very beautiful," the Lady exhaled entranced, and Aegon noted that Vhagar had not been honored with such praise yesterday.
Father's and Queen Visenya's former dragoness was not ugly—a Targaryen, if he is truly a Targaryen, cannot call a dragon ugly—but there was nothing beautiful in her, only danger, strength, and embodied cruel flame. In Silverwing there was far more elegance, after all, she was younger than Vhagar by almost a whole century, and the power lurking in her attracted the eye and could not fail to delight.
As if hearing the compliment (though she, naturally, did not understand Andal words), Silverwing drew herself up and flapped her wings a couple of times, dispersing the dust before the nest. Laena took several timid steps forward, and here the Prince realized that he had correctly understood yesterday's hint from the gods: the lady and the dragoness were strangely similar to each other in a surprising combination of inner strength and the beauty concealing it.
"Laena..." Rhaenys tried to say something, but Aegon raised his cane before her, urging her not to interfere.
Silverwing bent forward right to the girl stepping up to her and sniffed fastidiously. Here Vermithor grumbled something displeasedly, and the dragoness hissed sharply at him; this did not frighten Laena in the slightest, and she seized the moment to touch the dragon's neck. Silverwing looked at her with some surprise, squinting a sapphire eye, but calmed down at once. The Lady murmured something in Valyrian, and the dragoness narrowed her eyes contentedly, stretching her scaled lips in a terrifying semblance of a smile.
"Congratulations, Cousin," said Aegon. "Both children with dragons. What more can a mother desire?"
Rhaenys looked at him strangely, but the Prince preferred to pretend he did not notice.
"Is it she, Lady Laena?" he inquired for form's sake, though the answer was obvious.
"Issa... yes!"
"Queen Alysanne's saddle is being refitted for you now, so after dinner you will be able to take to the air."
Laena did not answer, continuing to stroke the beatified Silverwing, and Aegon could not help praising himself. Unlike Vhagar, Silverwing had never been in battle and on the whole was known for a calm disposition; they were releasing an adult, but not too warlike dragon to Driftmark—he fulfilled two seemingly opposite promises given to his brothers and Corlys at once, and thereby prevented a war. For what else is a Master of Dragons needed?
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