The ceremony of proclamation and oath-taking went almost routinely. On the first day of the eleventh month of the year 107, Viserys Targaryen, Second of His Name, from the height of the Iron Throne announced to the great and small lords who had managed to arrive at the Red Keep that, in accordance with the customs and laws of the realm, the title of Prince of Dragonstone and Heir to the Throne returned to his middle brother, Prince Daemon Targaryen. Fortunately, the discontented had the wits not to turn the formality into a farce—all spears had already been broken in the Chamber of the Small Council, and this would scarce change anything. The Hand understood this like no other, and therefore admitted defeat and demonstrated sullen submission, making it clear to all that he was extremely concerned, but his conscience was clear: he had warned the Sovereign, and that the other did not heed him—was not his fault.
Unlike the oath Aegon remembered from childhood years, when the Old King declared his father heir, the kingdoms swore fealty in turn. First did the lords of the Crownlands, headed by the Clubfoot Prince himself, Princess Rhaenyra, and the grim Velaryons; after them, as if reluctantly, Lord Baratheon swore with his people, and following him with far greater submission, the Tyrells and Tullys. Lady Jeyne Arryn pronounced the words of the oath loudly and clearly, but managed never once to look at Daemon; Aegon had heard she was rather friendly with Lady Royce, and felt a sisterly affection for the late Queen Aemma—it was no wonder such a hasty decision was not to her liking. The Lannisters swore with almost regal dignity, and the Starks—strictly and very formally; for some tiny instant, the Prince even fancied he saw the crowns of Loren the Last and Torrhen who Knelt above the heads of their heirs. Scarce had he blinked when the delusion vanished, but Aegon felt ill at ease for some reason.
To Lord Lyman's great joy and Lord Massey's disappointment, they decided to do without a tourney and even a great feast in honor of the new-old heir—the King announced that he still mourned his losses and could not allow himself to make merry even on such a day. However, he could not refuse the great lords and familiars a private supper, and the evening passed in small talk at a large table. By irony of fate, it fell to Aegon to sit exactly between Lord Tymond Lannister and Lord Rickon Stark. With the former, they spoke not badly of Pentoshi politics—the Shield of Lannisport was interested in the Prince's possible connections, and the latter promised to write a couple of letters to familiar Magisters.
Meanwhile, the Warden of the North, who had sat grimly all evening, said the traditional toast in honor of the King and his heir, and soon after was the first to leave the table, pleading the heat. Scarce bad the guards closed the door behind him when Lord Tymond spoke loudly enough for all to hear:
"He should have wrapped himself in a mammoth skin as well!"
Lord Boremund, who had managed to have too much ale, burst into laughter and pounded his fist on the table, causing Mattos Tyrell's goblet to jump and splash its owner with red wine, but Lord Mattos paid this no more attention than an annoying fly or a lousy Lannister joke—all evening the Warden of the South, sitting near Viserys, told the King about his three sons, hoping to betroth one of them to Rhaenyra, and such a trifle as a ruined doublet should not hinder him. Viserys listened to him with a polite smile, obediently nodded and agreed, but Aegon was ready to vouch that his brother was in no hurry to decide the question of the betrothal of his twelve-year-old daughter.
Nothing more darkened the supper, and the Prince found himself in his chambers well past midnight. The following days dragged in a monotonous string, and somehow completely imperceptibly the new year, 108 After the Conquest, arrived. Artificial peace and accord reigned in the Council—contradictions between Daemon and Otto had gone nowhere, however, each of them, for the sake of the King's peace, stepped on the throat of his own song and smiled strained smiles at the other upon meeting instead of showering the opponent with ridicule, absurd accusations, and even more absurd insults. Viserys himself seemed not to notice the falsity, and now divided his time equally between affairs of state, family, and his own; the first were limited to sessions of the Small Council, sorting out complaints and rendering judgments on exceptional judicial disputes, the second consisted of communication with his brothers and Rhaenyra, and the third entirely and completely consisted of building the model of the Valyrian City. Aegon got the impression that only with a chisel in one hand and a piece of stone in the other did Viserys find true happiness now.
The Prince himself returned to his former duties as teacher for his niece. Runciter, however bad he was, taught her a certain minimum, but Rhaenyra did not even wish to see Mellos after Aemma's death, blaming him for the tragedy. Aegon was in no hurry to dissuade or calm her in this, especially since he held the same opinion himself, limiting himself only to a strict reminder:
"Childishness is forgivable only for a child, riña (child), and you are no longer a child."
Aegon and Rhaenyra spoke in High Valyrian, in Pentoshi, Volantene, Braavosi, and Tyroshi, discussed the history of Valyria, the Rhoynar city-states, the Andal kingdoms of Essos and Westeros, the geography of the Seven Kingdoms, argued about poetry and literature, interspersing them with stories from his journey. The Prince even began to teach his niece to play the harp—she was far from his mastery, of course, but she definitely had ability. Despite the grumbling of the septas, who still tirelessly watched over the Princess's upbringing, Aegon, overcoming his own aversion to the subject, gave her several lessons in arithmetic; after exchanging letters with Uncle Vaegon and on his advice, he entrusted this side of education to Maester Edwin, one of Mellos's assistants who watched his accounts.
Rhaenyra definitely knew that for a time she was considered as a potential heir to the throne—one did not need to be a Red Priest and watch the flame to understand who brought such rumors to the Princess. Once she asked him:
"Could Father truly have made me heir?"
"He thought on it," answered Aegon after some reflection.
"But he did not do it."
"No, he did not."
"It is all because I am not a son, correct?" Rhaenyra said with bitterness inappropriate for a twelve-year-old. "It is all because I shall never be good enough for him."
Aegon did not have to clarify whom exactly she meant: the throne or her father after all. Instead, he assured his niece as best he could that things were not so bad, and when he realized he had not succeeded too well in this, offered the best remedy for melancholy—flying. By evening, sadness and sorrow vanished as if by hand.
Lady Alicent, sanctity and simplicity herself, was still inseparable from Rhaenyra; it seemed they got along and were friends quite sincerely, without regard for the big politics the Hand played, and even the three-year age difference did not particularly hinder this. After the end of the royal mourning, each of them began to receive proposals of hand and heart from lords from all Seven Kingdoms, but the maidens' fathers, as if conspiring, turned everyone away: Viserys said he would not give his daughter in marriage against her will, and at such an age at that, and Otto pointed out that the role of first lady in the Princess's retinue did not yet allow Alicent to bind herself with ties of marriage. As Aegon understood, each of them waited for a fatter "fish."
Having assured himself that nothing threatened the family's well-being, and thus the safety of the throne, Aegon wanted to move to Dragonstone, but he forgot a simple truth of which he had managed to convince himself on his own skin several times already—the gods love to laugh, and nothing amuses them more than human plans.
When the Prince entered the King's chambers to notify him of his intention, he discovered him with a chisel in one hand and another blank in the other; it was a small bridge, which Viserys was now fitting between two elegant turrets, each no less than a foot high. A large table, capable of seating two dozen people, was almost completely covered by the model of the City, painstakingly recreated by the King. Where miniature buildings did not stand lay pieces of stone with marked notches, tools, books, scrolls, drawings, both old and made by Viserys's hand. His brother paid him no attention, completely focused on the process, and Aegon involuntarily froze in the middle of the room. When the towers were connected, their creator exhaled carefully and stepped back to inspect his creation, Aegon spoke with a smile:
"Was it worth becoming King if you like playing with pebbles?"
"Oh, go away," the King was almost offended. "Sovereigns must have their little joys. This is the most harmless of all. Furthermore, safe."
"And what of the risk of cutting yourself?"
"There are two dozen Maesters in the Red Keep—I think they will manage."
Aegon did not remind him that two dozen Maesters could not save his wife and son. Instead, he approached closer to the table on which Viserys's creation rose.
"Thank you, you helped me greatly," the other said seriously.
"For what?" the Prince raised his brows in surprise.
"For the drawings and books. They helped me greatly. I said then at Harrenhal that I wanted to build the Valyrian City as it was on the morning before the Doom. To repeat it exactly is impossible, of course, but I have come as close to it as possible. Without your help, none of this would be."
"Well, I had to thank you somehow," said Aegon. "You indulge my hobbies, I indulge yours. Everyone is happy."
"Does this look like Volantis?" inquired Viserys curiously.
The Prince cast a critical eye over the whole composition. Volantis? Perhaps only inside the Black Walls. But even in this miniature, a scope was felt that the Old Blood's city-within-a-city never dreamed of. If scales were compared, the highest tower behind the Black Walls should be lost against the background of its sisters from the capital of the Old Freehold. Round or twisted towers, invariably with a large number of balconies and bridges connecting them to each other and forming a sky network over the city, towered over Valyria like infantry spears. Large domes of palaces and temples, almost perfect semicircles held only on the drum of the walls, seemed strangely familiar, and Aegon did not immediately recognize in them the ancestors of the Dragonpit's dome; there were none such in Volantis. On the table, rectangular boxes of basilicas with three, five, nine naves seemed to try to outdo each other; in Volantis, the Prince saw only a couple of three-naved ones, no more. Then they seemed the height of beauty and perfection to him, but upon comparison, the delight of memories faded, scarce had he imagined what was swallowed by the Doom. Hippodromes, arenas, theaters—all this was much larger than their Volantene counterparts. There was also that which could not be found even behind the Black Walls now—roost-towers for dragons, to the lower levels of which suspension bridges approached, and pits yielding nothing to the one standing on Rhaenys's Hill.
"Perhaps only a little," answered Aegon finally. "Your work is better. And much more detailed."
Viserys had not been lazy, and installed small fountains, Valyrian sphinxes and dragons (though these could well signify living beasts), triumphal arches, as well as spires of obelisks and monuments on wide streets and large squares.
"Here," Viserys pointed to a corner of the table that looked unfinished. "Should begin the Black Stone."
"You want to build this behemoth too?" the Prince marveled.
Here was reason to be horrified. The Black Stone was the name of the hill on which the citizens of Valyria gathered to govern the state. Formally, all free property holders could participate in this, even women, however, in deed, real power was divided among themselves by the forty Great Houses of Valyria, whose members saddled dragons. Heads of families or their representatives gathered in the Basilica of the Forty Dragons, the most beautiful and largest of all, where the First Archon was elected annually.
Judging by the plans of the City and chronicles, by the Day of Doom, the name "Black Stone" began to refer not only to the hill itself, but also to the entire complex of government buildings, and they occupied several enormous quarters. If his brother intended to maintain the scale, soon all rooms in his chambers would have to be given over to the model.
"You know, sometimes it seems to me that I see it," admitted Viserys unexpectedly. "I mean the City. As if I myself stand on the balcony of a tower or the terrace of a basilica. And then I blink—and everything is gone, and there is only King's Landing. Just rebuild it anew!"
"So rebuild it, what is the trouble? There is money in the treasury, and if not—Lord Lyman will find it, he can."
"It is not about money," grimaced Viserys, clearly having reflected on this more than once. "King's Landing has scarce turned a hundred—and in this time it has been rebuilt twice already. The city we see was built by Grandfather, it is his legacy, just like the roads. I... am not ready to wipe it from the face of the earth."
"But surely the city will have to be rebuilt sometime anyway."
"Yes. But I prefer that someone else do it. Someone for whom the names of Jaehaerys the First and Viserys the Second will be only names of distant ancestors."
It occurred to Aegon that among all the sons of the Spring Prince, Viserys was the most sentimental. He honored the memory of parents, respected the legacy of the grandfather who passed the crown and realm to him, and did not wish to go against him so as not to cross out his reign, even if it meant remaining in his shadow. Let us suppose, regarding urban architecture, this was not too burdensome for the state, but what if the matter touches a far more serious question? What then? The Prince drove away unbidden heavy thoughts and feigned complaint:
"A fine architect would have come of you. Such talent wasted..."
"Not wasted yet!" grinned the elder brother cunningly and fished one of the fresh drawings from the pile of papers. "Look!"
Aegon unrolled the scroll; an obelisk was depicted on the paper—a three-sided column, judging by the captions made by Viserys's hand, no less than a hundred feet high, and with a very impressive pedestal at that. At its top, a cast three-headed dragon was to flaunt itself.
"What is this?"
"A monument to the victory on the Field of Fire," explained Viserys. "They did not bother with this before, and there was no time... But I decided that a monument must be erected. I already wrote to Lord Tyrell, he is ready to pay a third of the costs if the Lannisters pay as much."
"Do you think Lord Tymond will agree to have his family reminded of this humiliation?" drawled Aegon with doubt in his voice.
"Of Loren Lannister's wise choice," corrected his brother.
The Prince, of course, liked the project. It reminded him at once of one of those spires Viserys erected on his table, and a monument on one of the Volantene squares—there, on the pedestal in Valyrian glyphs, a dedication to the conqueror of the first khalasar was written. That the Tyrells were ready to invest was not surprising, in the end, they owed their title and their power to this victory; but would the Lannisters agree to participate in this matter?..
However, they were interrupted by a demanding knock at the door.
"Enter," permitted the King, and the Grand Maester appeared on the threshold of his chambers.
"Your Grace, My Prince," Mellos greeted them with a restrained bow, rattling the two dozen chains due him by rank. "Sovereign, a report has arrived from Braavos. Ser Bartimos sent it with the fastest of his ships, the captain relays that the matter is urgent."
With these words, the elderly man held out a leather packet to the King; breaking the sealing wax, Viserys extracted a stack of papers from it and waved his hand to the familiars, permitting them to sit. The Grand Maester and the Prince exchanged glances and obediently sank onto available chairs. Meanwhile, the King read the letter, sometimes returned and reread, then returned again, and the further he went, the gloomier his face became.
When Viserys finished, he passed the letter to Aegon with a sour expression.
"Read," he cast out irritably and for some reason explained the obvious. "It is from Celtigar."
The beginning seemed to promise nothing good, but the Prince-half-Maester decided to trust the primary source once again. The Ambassador's news was joyless: Sealord Tycho Otherys had died suddenly, choking on a peach pit at dinner, and now the Braavosi patriciate was preparing to tear at each other's throats for the chair of the head of the city and all its domains. Ser Bartimos warned that whoever took his place would have to conduct an even more aggressive policy so as not to seem weaker than the predecessor—such are the demands of the smallfolk, and bankers, and merchants.
According to the laws of Braavos, which very strictly regulated the procedure for electing a new ruler to avoid usurpation of power, elections were to be held a week after the burial of the previous Sealord in the open sea. Ser Bartimos pointed out that Otherys's death was announced publicly only a day later; no less than a week must have been taken by the journey from Braavos to King's Landing; therefore, when they received the report, the Free City already had a new ruler or at least was preparing to acquire one. They were not in time to influence their outcome, even if Meleys, the fastest of the ridden dragons, set off immediately.
"A pity for old Tycho," remarked Aegon. "He, of course, was quite a bastard, but... there was something to learn from him."
"Read on," ordered Viserys, drumming his fingers nervously on the armrest of the neighboring chair.
Besides a brief summary of the internal affairs of the Free City, Celtigar also wrote of its external affairs, and only reaching them did Aegon understand what caused such a reaction in his elder brother. Braavos was in no hurry to fulfill semi-official agreements with the Iron Throne regarding the fate of Lorath; in full accordance with Old Valyrian military wisdom, the Braavosi subordinated their eastern neighbor, establishing their own order there. Under their control, the few surviving Lorathi Magisters elected an Island Lord, who effectively became a vassal not so much of the Sealord as of the Iron Bank. Celtigar wrote that in deed, emissaries of the Illustrious City practically directly managed the affairs of neighbors, disposing as if at home. The local commoners did not oppose this too much—the new authorities expanded the rights of the smallfolk, feeding them not only bread but also spectacles, and even politics, turning them into their allies. The local nobility, partly bought, partly intimidated, out of fear of losing their remaining privileges did not oppose this, though they were surely not too pleased with it.
Shortly after this, just when Aegon and his companions were in Lys, a short conflict flared up with Norvos, as a result of which the latter finally lost the western outlet to the Shivering Sea. Now Ser Bartimos feared that the increased appetites of Braavosi patricians and bankers would push them to further expand the boundaries of their sphere of influence: in perspective, Morosh awaited them in the east, where refugees from Lorath took shelter, however, the knight-merchant considered it more likely that Braavos would concern itself with expanding the border to the south.
News of this threatened to change the balance of power in the Narrow Sea, so Viserys's fears and dissatisfaction were not groundless. To the south of the Braavosi Coast began Andalos with its Great Septs and degenerate "heirs" of Hugor—they would scarce become a serious obstacle for city militias and mercenaries hired on bankers' gold. Pentoshi mercenaries would have to fight for the "true" Andals, since the Princes of the Free City claimed suzerainty over the Velvet Hills. However, mercenaries would be hired not only by Callio Carlarys; the Iron Bank could outbid his price, and who then would stand on the walls of Pentos?
"So," said Aegon, putting the papers on the table. "I understand what worried you."
"Worried," mimicked Viserys displeasedly. "Seventh Hell, should have..."
"What should have been done has absolutely no significance now," interrupted the Prince. "If it comforts you: yes, partly, this is my fault. Mine and Vermithor's participation in the Lorathi War allowed Braavos to strengthen and expand its sphere of influence. Would they have done this without us? Likely, but it would have taken them more strength and time."
"Who else knows of this letter?" Viserys asked the Maester instead of answering.
"Lord Corlys was surely reported that Ser Bartimos's ship entered the harbor. Likely Lord Otto as well. But the letter was in a single copy, and it is in your hands."
"Gather the Small Council. But first find Daemon—let him read the letter. He is capable of taking offense that he was told nothing."
Mellos bowed respectfully and went to execute the order. Viserys rubbed his face with effort and swore through his teeth.
"So was it worth concluding a deal with Braavos if they do not fulfill its conditions?" he asked finally. "What sense is there in their guarantees against the annexation of Lorath if effectively they did precisely that?"
"You understand perfectly why they do not fulfill them," shrugged Aegon. "The Sealord is elected by citizens, and an elected ruler does not bear the obligations of his predecessor if he does not like them."
"Only Otherys, it seems, did not intend to preserve Lorath's independence either."
"Dishonorable and treacherous behavior is a distinctive sign of Essosi politics. If a ruler does not intend to pass power by inheritance, then to what end care for reputation and the value of one's word?"
"Fine," waved the King off. "What use guessing now? We cannot allow the dominance of Braavos in the Narrow Sea. We shall have to clip their fins. War means war."
"Celtigar did not speak of war. At least with us. Braavosi captains saw Vermithor in action and saw what his participation in the war turned out to be for Lorathi, Ibbenese, and Norvoshi heretics. They know how to count and are capable of multiplying the damage inflicted by the number of dragons we possess. Braavos, however warlike it has become now, will not begin a war it can lose. Bankers do not like unjustified risk and fear losing invested money." The King only grunted at this and turned back to his model. Absently moving several dragon figurines and shifting the rectangular box of a basilica, he spoke:
"You had better prepare for the Council."
Correctly perceiving this as a veiled wish of his brother to be alone, Aegon nodded and followed Mellos.
Naturally, the Braavosi news did not please the Small Council. While the Grand Maester read the letter, Lord Otto frowned his ginger eyebrows angrily and chewed his mustache. Scarce bad Mellos finished when the Hand took the floor and began to chew over the report, describing its causes and possible consequences. Among the first, naturally, sounded Prince Aegon's ill-considered and uncoordinated-with-the-Red-Keep adventure with participation in the Lorathi War. Hightower did not dispute the Prince's personal valor, his qualities as a dragonrider, finally, his Maester knowledge, but emphasized that precisely the help to Braavos rendered by him led to the growth of the Titan's ambitions, threatening the well-being of the entire Narrow Sea.
"Any war in the Narrow Sea will disrupt trade," he said. "If Braavos wins, it will establish a monopoly on the sea, as we established a monopoly in the sky."
"I did not know House Hightower had acquired its own dragons," remarked Daemon coldly.
"I meant..."
"We understood perfectly that Lord Otto as Hand spoke on behalf of all Seven Kingdoms," Viserys cut off the budding quarrel. "The question is another: what are we to do with this now?"
Lord Robin Massey shifted in his chair and delivered:
"Let the Master of Ships correct me if I am wrong, but ships are built of wood, and wood has the property of burning. In the Fourth Dornish War, King Jaehaerys with his sons burned Prince Morion's entire fleet. Now House Targaryen and House Velaryon dispose of six dragons in total—this is twice as many as the Old King had at Cape Wrath."
"I shall not send Rhaenyra into battle," cut off the Spring King.
"As it pleases Your Grace, but from a military point of view, we still have the advantage."
"War is truly not so terrible, Lord Robin, especially with dragons, but it is not only about it," shook his head Lyman Beesbury. "If the Braavosi crush all trade between Westeros and Essos under themselves, they will be in a position to dictate prices advantageous to them, knowing that our merchants have no other suppliers and buyers but them. The defeat of Pentos will turn into heavy consequences for all."
"You shed tears early, My Lord," snorted Aegon. "Callio Carlarys will not sit idly by and wait for a fleet with purple sails to appear in his harbor."
Unexpectedly Lord Strong entered the game:
"My Lords, I fear to seem ignorant," such a slip seemed seven times ironic, considering that in his youth the Master of Laws spent scarce fewer years in the Citadel than Aegon. "But has His Grace's Small Council forgotten how to engage in politics? We are discussing the reasons for defeat—not even our defeat, I ask you to note—in an undeclared war, which may not even happen. The Braavosi are arming—and what do we do? Pull the shroud over our brows and call the Silent Sisters! War and dragons are wonderful, but why not try to resolve everything without them? Lord Lyman, can we lend money to Pentos?"
"Yes, such a possibility exists."
"Lord Corlys, can your shipyards build them ships?"
"We can begin no earlier than in half a year, but yes, it is possible," nodded the Sea Snake.
"That is wonderful, Lord Lyonel," objected Otto. "But the Magisters of Pentos will perceive these handouts as an encroachment on their power. They will declare Carlarys a usurper, kill him, and we shall lose an allied ruler."
Aegon was forced to admit that there was truth in Hightower's words. Callio had repeatedly mentioned how much effort he had to exert to deflect baseless suspicions of his brethren and be able to calmly deal with real problems of the city, and not mere empty talk.
"They will, of course, overthrow him if they learn of this," said Daemon. "Unless we truly provide Carlarys with money, weapons, ships, and men. Some he will buy with gold, some with steel, some with fear."
"Do you understand what you are saying? You are planning a coup!"
"Cast aside your squeamishness, My Lord. Why can Braavos establish its order among neighbors, and we cannot?"
"It is quite reasonable," supported the Prince the Master of Laws. "Of all our neighbors, only Dorne has a hereditary form of government, and this limits our diplomatic possibilities. If we allow power in Pentos to be secured for one family, and not four dozen, this will open new possibilities for us and allow us to be confident in the neighbor's behavior."
"Especially if we become related to this family," finished Daemon and looked expressively at Viserys, hinting that he precisely was not against becoming related.
The other only rolled his eyes in response. The eldest brother did not abandon hopes that the middle one would return to Lady Rhea and she would finally bear an heir, but Daemon was stubborn and intended firmly to bring the matter to divorce. Over the past months, he managed to fly to Oldtown and secure the preliminary support of some of the Most Devout—if the Council of the Faith recognizes that the possibility of divorce of a Targaryen Prince and Lady Royce does not contradict the canons, then the High Septon will have nothing to hide behind if (though more correctly already—when) the King addresses him with a corresponding request. Viserys did not agree yet, but now rather out of a desire to save face than out of pure principle; truly, water wears away stone.
"As for the Sealord, I can pay him a visit. What do you think, Aegon, will this Titan of his hold if I land Caraxes on it?"
"I did not risk it."
"That means it is worth trying. At the same time, I shall remind the Braavosi that agreements must be observed."
Meanwhile, Viserys managed to consider the councilors' words and, tapping his fingers on the marble tabletop, announced:
"Let us wait until the new Sealord shows himself. Perhaps Ser Bartimos worried in vain, and it will be possible to agree with the new ruler. Prepare letters for him, Mellos, several variants: one more polite, the rest harsher. You can hint at the fate of the Ibbenese fleet or Prince Morion's ships. Let us also not forget Ser Bartimos's Braavosi acquaintances—perhaps some calming influence can be exerted through them as well. If the Sealord is stubborn—we shall send an embassy. Daemon will fly on Caraxes, and you, Lord Strong, will arrive by sea. If you conduct negotiations together," the King especially emphasized the last word and looked expressively at the middle brother; the latter portrayed holy innocence. "If you conduct negotiations together, you can achieve obligations from the Sealord to forget about everything south of the Braavosian Coastlands. As for Pentos, we need to think over the voiced proposal; it is too tempting to refuse it. Aegon, you know the Carlaryses better than all of us, so it is important for us to understand whether they will agree to play this game and on what conditions. If that is all, I do not wish to detain you, My Lords."
Chairs creaked being pushed back, but unexpectedly Velaryon gave voice.
"I beg pardon, My Sovereign, but there is something else deserving your attention and the attention of the Small Council."
Viserys, who had managed to rise himself, frowned displeasedly, but sank back onto the cushions; everyone else followed his example.
"I hope you do not wish to demand another dragon for your family, Lord Corlys?"
"No, Your Grace. My question also concerns politics and the Narrow Sea, only its southern part."
"It seems we have a maritime day today," grinned Daemon.
"Tyrosh, Myr, and Lys are close to restoring their old Triple Alliance," announced the Sea Snake, paying no attention to the Prince's jest.
"They will not agree," said Otto distrustfully. "They have no reason to unite. Scarce had they defeated Volantis and not half a year passed before the old Triarchy fell apart."
"All so, but this time they are ready to rally to capture the Stepstones jointly."
"But they quarreled because of them, correct?" clarified Daemon.
The Stepstones, remnants of the Broken Arm of Dorne, from the very Doom of Valyria became a hotbed of piracy and robbery; passage through the archipelago's waters always carried risk, and merchants from both shores of the Narrow Sea preferred to unite in caravans and hire guards to secure their goods. When The Striped Elephant with Aegon's Mantarys finds passed through the Stepstones, the Prince relentlessly followed it in the sky, and the dragon silhouette drove away unbidden guests. Sometimes pirate nests were cleaned out by those who managed to concentrate the greatest force in the region, but this lasted only a couple or three years.
But not only pirates lived on the Stepstones; descendants of some of Princess Nymeria's sailors who fell behind her or were shipwrecked without reaching the shores of Dorne settled on some islands. Now they dragged out a miserable existence of beggar fishermen, regularly enslaved either by pirates or "guests" from Essos. Their more fortunate relatives periodically showed interest in these lands, but matters did not go further than single sorties for the Dornish.
"Pirates in the last year managed to annoy all Magisters of the Triarchy greatly, and us too," continued the Master of Ships his report. "It has become impossible to conduct trade."
"How much does this harm us?" clarified Viserys.
"How then do we conduct trade with Volantis and Lys?" marveled Beesbury. "We fulfill our obligations, do we not?"
"I have to allocate up to two dozen carracks to escort caravans. Furthermore, my son or my wife escorts them from the sky. Sometimes they have to descend lower and burn the most notorious insolents."
"You did not inform us of this," frowned Aegon. Like any councilor, he did not like when someone else invaded his zone of responsibility—in this case, violated his prerogatives of dragon care.
"As Master of Ships, I have the right to undertake all possible means to protect the maritime trade of the Seven Kingdoms," objected Corlys. "Furthermore, these are dragons of House Velaryon."
"As Master of Dragons, I have the right to know where all ridden dragons are located. Furthermore, dragons do not wear coats of arms."
"My family will not report to you on its movements!"
"Silence!" Viserys slapped the table, and Aegon suppressed anger with reluctance, Velaryon did so even more displeasedly. "Curb your pride, both of you!"
"Lord Corlys, do I understand correctly that the Triarchy sets itself the goal of effective control of the Stepstones?"
"Yes, Lord Lyman. They want to expel pirates and jointly develop the islands. Their alliance will also be directed against Volantis—likely, they will want to push the New Freehold from the Border River even further to the Orange Shore, or even to the Rhoyne itself."
"Then this plays into our hands," announced Daemon. "And especially yours, Lord Corlys. The Three-Whores will deal with the pirates and it will become calm on the Stepstones. Nothing will threaten ships, you will not have to escort them, and my brother will not have to be nervous about dragons. Everyone will win."
"Except merchants," reminded the Hand. "They will have to pay new tolls, which will be quite high, I have no doubt of this. The price of freighting a ship from Oldtown to King's Landing will jump to the skies!"
"This, of course, will cause a rise in prices," nodded the Master of Coin. "But it will scarce be significant. While merchants wait for a caravan, while it trundles to the port of destination—time passes, and it, as merchants say, costs money. Costs due to long delivery times are almost as great as the magnitude of a possible toll. So Prince Daemon is generally right. The victory of the Triarchy will benefit us."
"I do not want you to get the impression, Lord Corlys, that I was paid for these words on the Street of Silk," chuckled Daemon. "But any force that undertakes to clean out this snake pit should be recognized. Calm and safe trade is always to our advantage, we can acquire friends, get a counterweight against Dorne in the south. And tolls can be lowered later."
Mellos and Massey looked utterly surprised by such deep political judgments of the middle Targaryen, but Strong, Beesbury, and even Ser Harrold Westerling nodded approvingly. Lord Corlys chuckled distrustfully, showing that he took the arguments into account, but his notorious Velaryon pride did not allow him to agree with them openly. The Hand sought something to find fault with, but there was nothing to find fault with.
"Well, if we lose nothing from this, and even win something, then let the Three Sisters do all the dirty work for us," announced Viserys, and rose from the table, indicating that business was finished on this.
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