Although Daemon woke early, when the patch of sky in the window opening had scarce lightened, the maid from the night before was not in bed: Jayla must have left as soon as he fell asleep, or rose before dawn. The absence of female warmth at hand was disappointing, but the Prince remained satisfied on the whole: the wench turned out obedient and, it was worth admitting, skillful. Being a trifle lazy, Daemon did not deny himself the pleasure of lying in—after all, his Gold Cloaks remained in the capital, as did the Small Council with its affairs—and left the chambers only when hunger reminded of itself once again.
On the way to the Great Hall, he met Ser Viselor; the castellan watched from the gallery as the Master-at-Arms taught martial combat to a bunch of future soldiers. Looking at them, Daemon could not restrain a contemptuous grimace—they were far even from the guards of the Red Keep.
"Good morning, My Prince," Teltaris greeted him. "I know, a sad sight, but they were recruited only a week ago. Ser Alyn will need another month to beat all the shit out of them."
"Where are they from?"
"From here, from the Stone. Five from the Great Pasture, as many from the Black Mine, two more from Fishbone, and the rest from the Haven."
"Our people," Daemon nodded satisfied.
"We do not take others, My Prince."
"Have you broken fast already, Ser Viselor?"
"Yes, My Prince, quite some time ago."
"Then, I suppose, you will not refuse to have a bite with me?"
"It is an honor for me, My Prince," the castellan bowed briefly, and it cost Daemon great effort not to snort. Funny that the simplest actions he offered subjects to perform jointly became for them almost the greatest event in life.
On the way, the Prince inquired as if inadvertently:
"Do you know all the servants in the castle, Ser?"
"Yes, My Prince. Even a laundress and a scrubber enter your service only with my permission."
"You must have an amazing memory. Do you remember a maid named Jayla?"
For a moment the castellan's thick eyebrows met on the bridge of his nose, but almost immediately his face smoothed out.
"Of course, My Prince. Jayla is the daughter of my own housekeeper."
"Does she have a husband?"
"As far as I know, no, My Prince. Has she erred in something?"
"No, on the contrary. I want you to give Jayla ten golden dragons from my treasury and in my name."
"I understand, My Prince," nodded Teltaris, undoubtedly understanding what the maid would receive money for. "Everything will be executed exactly."
"Excellent," the morning business was settled, and now more pressing questions could be resolved. "Has my brother not shown himself yet?"
"As I was reported, Prince Aegon did not spend the night in his bedroom, but Ser Dennis assures that all is well. Likely, he simply sat up late over books—it happens with him."
"That is true," nodded Daemon, but thought to himself: Sat up over books, indeed. Rather stuck all night in his chapel.
In the refectory, they were served yesterday's pork, which turned out deliciously tasty even cold, still-hot bread, baked fish, local cheese with spicy herbs, eggs, and Morning Light—weak Arbor wine, intended precisely for breakfast and fighting hangovers. While Daemon fed the eternal hungry dragon inside, the castellan casually told him that it would be good to strengthen the obsidian mines in the north of the island.
"Extraction volumes have increased, My Prince, Pentoshi like to wear jewelry of dragon glass. For this, I suppose, your marriage and the late Princess are to be thanked."
"Calla loved various trinkets. It seems she sent her sister-in-law several strings of obsidian beads and pins," said Daemon, shrugging, and immediately cut himself short.
Until this moment, he did not suspect that he remembered such a trifle as a trifling gift sent to relatives across the Narrow Sea by his spouse. Bitter loss squeezed his heart; Calla was not the worst wife and, perhaps, he valued her more than he admitted to his brothers. His feelings for her could scarce be called love, somewhere deep in his soul he admitted that it was replaced by pleasure from her obedience and power over her, pleasure from how conveniently their marriage turned out for him, but he did not want her death either on the birthing bed or, even more so, on the stairs. Once again the Prince thought that reliable ladies-in-waiting should have been assigned to Calla, but also a Kingsguard; perhaps then Alyssa would have been born at her appointed time and would not grow up without a mother now...
"...therefore it would be not bad to strengthen the mine vaults," continued the castellan to broadcast, paying no attention to his thoughtfulness. "The mountain sometimes shakes, and dragons can dig their burrows..."
"Yes, do whatever you deem necessary."
Suddenly the slapping of bare feet was heard, accompanied by rhythmic tapping, and Aegon entered the refectory. He was dressed the same as the day before, and now Daemon saw that his carelessly tied robe was decorated with a bronze scale ornament. Without a high heel, his brother was shorter, and his clubfoot was especially striking.
"Are you up already?" asked Aegon, scarce spotting Daemon. "Good. Finish eating and saddle Caraxes."
"Want to fly?"
"Want to kill the Cannibal."
Ser Viselor choked on unswallowed wine, and Daemon frowned.
"He is..."
"The size of Vhagar, yes. But I know what to do."
"And what of..." the Prince nearly blurted out about the Valyrian gods and their order, but bit his tongue in time. "What of Viserys?"
"I am Master of Dragons," Aegon squared his shoulders and raised his chin higher. "For their protection, I have the right to use all possible measures, including the most radical."
Evidently, he reached the gods after all, and they answered him.
"And what shall we do?"
"Lure this creature into the air, drive it, and kill it."
"Will we not need... hmm, support? Perhaps write to Cousin Rhaenys?"
"Are you a coward, Daemon?" Aegon's lips spread in a familiar sarcastic grin.
"I thought it is not the first time for you to shift difficult matters onto others."
"What pitiful excuses, lēkia (brother). Get ready."
With these words, Aegon turned and hobbled away. Daemon looked expressively at the castellan, and he obediently buried himself in his plate, pretending he heard nothing. Sometimes it seemed to the Prince that his younger brother's tongue was too long and sharp. Sighing, Daemon poured the remaining wine into himself, and went out after.
. . . . .
Naturally, Daemon was not afraid; scarce had he left the refectory when doubt gave way to hunting excitement, from which blood boiled, and when the Dragonkeepers led the saddled Caraxes to the exit of his cave, the Prince nearly danced with impatience. In the end, with the growth of the stake grows not only risk, but also reward. Scarce had he climbed into the saddle when a bass roar rang out, wings flapped, the Blood Wyrm clucked in response, and a few yards from them Vermithor landed heavily.
"Ты что, так и не оделся? (Did you never get dressed?)" - shouted Daemon in surprise to his brother, whose entire battle preparation consisted of pulled-on boots, and the hems of his open Pentoshi robe fluttered behind him like a cloak.
"А ты взял с собой Тёмную Сестру? (And did you take Dark Sister with you?)" - Aegon's surprise was no less. "Ты его только пощекочешь этой заточкой! (You will only tickle him with that shiv!)"
Daemon found nothing to answer, so preferred to wave him off, but did not remove the sword from his belt: firstly, it would look like a foolish concession, and secondly, it could truly come in handy. Caraxes under him squinted an eye at his older brother; their dragons generally got along and lived quite peacefully, except for the occasion when the Blood Wyrm tried to keep Silverwing company while she was still unsaddled. The bronze jealous lover immediately flew out of his hole, nearly halved the insolent one's long tail, but barely dodged a jet of fire himself. After this, both dragons recognized the incident as exhausted, and their rights duly protected, although Vermithor later flew over the Mountain with his betrothed all evening in revenge. Now Caraxes felt the threat emanating from the Bronze Fury and puffed out his chest to seem more imposing.
The brothers, sitting in saddles, briefly discussed the plan, which turned out indecently simple, and raised their dragons into the air. The rocks on which the Cannibal settled were small, and therefore his nest was a lair sheltered from the wind by stones, filled with the remains of the inhabitant's previous meals. The monster was cautious and therefore attacked only those who could offer no resistance, and preferred not to react to saddled dragons, and therefore, to stir him up, Daemon and Caraxes attacked him first.
The Cannibal basked in the rays of the midday sun when the Blood Wyrm, having circled his islet in a wide arc, passed over the stone ridge protecting him and breathed a jet of flame at him. Not yet fully awake, the black dragon roared, opening his disgustingly large maw full of sharp dagger-fangs, and for a brief moment, while they flew over him, Daemon saw a fireball forming in the very depths of the darkening maw of his throat. Hands reacted by themselves—the saddle handles sharply pulled the chain-reins, and Caraxes, barking resentfully, went to the right, missing the alien stream of flame by just a couple of seconds.
The miss only finally stirred up the Cannibal, and he, again issuing a roar full of fury, finally spread his wings, covering scarce half of the entire unfortunate islet with a shadow, and rose into the air.
"Naejot, nuttys (Forward, beast), - shouted Daemon to him. - Arrīs skoros kostā! (Show what you can!)"
The big fellow clicked his jaws and rushed after them. Caraxes' age and body structure played in his favor. Even Aegon could not say how old the Cannibal himself was, but the Blood Wyrm had only recently exchanged his first half-century, and therefore remained faster, more agile, furious, fierce, and angrier than many other dragons, rivaling only his sister Meleys. His serpentine body was so long that additional wing-spurs on his legs were required to support it in the air, and this also allowed him to maneuver faster than others. And now, deftly twisting, Caraxes rushed down past the rising monster, simultaneously breathing a new jet of flame into him, to spread his wings at the very water and soar up again.
Fire, of course, could not harm the thick hide of an adult dragon, but the Cannibal, angered in earnest, roared again, from which it seemed the waves themselves turned back. Hovering a hundred or two feet above the sea, he flapped his wings heavily and stupidly turned his head with the protruding chin, trying to keep track of the nimble red lightning darting around it. Finally, he could not stand it, and began to pour fire randomly, counting, evidently, on taking not by accuracy, but by density. Dark red flame, resembling lakes of lava boiling in the vent of the Dragonmont, blossomed around him in bright flowers, spreading in waves; heat from it was felt even at a considerable distance, and Daemon led Caraxes away just in case.
But then the fiery clouds dispersed, revealing the enemy turned sideways. The Blood Wyrm saw the coveted target himself and, issuing a battle cluck, hastened to attack one of the few vulnerable spots on the opponent's body. In four flaps of wings, he got close to the Cannibal and sank his teeth into the base of the wing; dragon fangs scraped on dragon scales, and then the twisting Caraxes began to scratch it with claws as well. The black creature roared and tried to shake off the annoying worm that had managed to bore him to death, but holding himself in the air and clicking teeth at the very wing did not work very well for him simultaneously.
"Проклятье! (Curse it!)" - swore Daemon, and did not hear his own voice over the roar emitted by the dragons.
Aegon was right, Dark Sister could help him in no way now, the scabbard only stupidly flapped against his thigh. The Prince himself dangled in the saddle, clutching the handles, held exclusively by chains, unable even to reach the monster's side, though he felt the heat of his body. Finally, Caraxes felt that the enemy was beginning to overpower him, and preferred to detach, immediately going to the side; during the maneuver, Daemon managed to notice deep furrows on the moss-green horn plates covering the Cannibal's body, left by his dragon's claws, and how at the very armpit, the Blood Wyrm's fangs tore out a noticeable piece of hide, exposing more vulnerable layers.
Noting this place to strike it again, Daemon pulled the handles toward himself, tightening the reins and raising the dragon higher. Following him, roaring deafeningly from anger and pain, pulled the Cannibal. With every flap of wings they rose higher, gradually deviating further south, toward the Stone. Dodging another jet of fire that missed by a couple of dozen yards, the Prince and the dragon left boiling white breakers beneath them—here waves crashed against the rocky coast of the island and coastal reefs. Seventh Hell, where is Aegon? High time...
Suddenly the furious cry of another dragon rang out—the Bronze Fury, falling out from behind the clouds, famously dived onto the bloodthirsty creature's back. Daemon—and with him Caraxes—turned and for the first time truly realized the real sizes of the combatants; Vermithor was seventy-five years old, he was a third larger than Caraxes and half the size of the Cannibal. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the warrior weighed all the data and came to the comfortless conclusion that they could easily be devoured, but immediately sent unbidden thoughts to Hell: thinking in battle is dangerous, even if you are not fighting yourself.
Meanwhile, Vermithor bit into the base of the Cannibal's neck and tore his back with claws, and Aegon's robe flapped under the gusts of wind coming from under the dragon wings. One did not want to praise the Cannibal, but he coped with the misfortune fallen from above quite quickly; folding his wings, he did a somersault over his shoulder, and the Bronze Fury could not hold on, fell off, scratching the hide for the last time.
Vermithor and Caraxes began to circle the monster, pouring fire on him: the first tried to blind the opponent, the second aimed at the already damaged shoulder. The Cannibal did not give up either, using his own flame as protection and constantly snapping back, however, at a certain moment, it began to seem to Daemon that the beast began to tire. Flaps of wings became heavier, intervals between streams of fire longer, and the dragon himself somehow hunched, lowered his head, as if his neck tired of holding his ugly head with ram horns curved downward.
"Ну, всё, прогорела твоя свечка (Well, that is it, your candle has burned out)," - muttered the Prince contentedly, leading Caraxes into a new approach.
However, his joy was premature. By coincidence, Vermithor at this moment also decided to perform a maneuver; either he hesitated, or overestimated the enemy's fatigue, or simply foolishly exposed himself, but, turning, the dragon opened his rider to the opponent for a few moments. The Cannibal did not delay—his sagging neck straightened like a string, and a new sheaf of flame burst from his maw. Daemon scarce managed to notice what happened when a fiery cloud covered the Bronze Fury's back, enveloping Aegon who had not managed to react.
No time remained for thoughts and feelings. Dragon fury burned Daemon's veins, his heart blazed like the vent of the Dragonmont over which they fought, and human anger gave Caraxes new breath and strength. A jerk—and the maw of the Blood Wyrm closed on the Cannibal's taut neck at the very base of the sagging gullet. The creature barked strangledly, but Caraxes only played with his jaws, sinking fangs deeper into its flesh. Suddenly an idea dawned on Daemon and he gave the command without hesitation:
"Dracarys!"
Caraxes understood him correctly. Daemon felt as if on himself that the dragon's chest increased in volume, and in the next moment the lizard, not ceasing to tear the Cannibal's neck, breathed a stream of fire point-blank. The monster roared from pain, which even to him must have seemed the Seventh Hell, kicked his paws, beat his wings, trying to knock off the opponent, but armor now played against him, fettering his movements and not allowing him to twist. His roar quickly turned into a strained screech when something crunched, and Caraxes' jaws sank even deeper.
Even his dragon's long neck did not hinder Daemon from feeling the hellish heat thickening around them; the air began to tremble from it, the Prince felt it even through doublet and gloves. He sharply pulled the saddle handles toward himself, the chain-reins clinked, signaling Caraxes to leave the victim, but he only clenched his jaws tighter, between which tongues of flame still burst.
"Inkot! Sōvēs! (Back! Fly!)" - barked Daemon and jerked the handles again.
Caraxes growled from strain and anger, including, as the Prince understood, at the fool-rider, finally closed his jaws, after which he shook his head, simultaneously pushing off with his paws from the opponent's torso. The scraping of parting scale plates rang out, the squelching of flesh, and they tore away from the Cannibal, rushing down.
A couple of moments of free fall, and the Blood Wyrm, spreading all four wings, leveled out, and Daemon got the opportunity to assess the result of the attack. Even a cursory glance was enough to recognize it as successful: a significant piece of flesh was missing in the Cannibal's neck, black blood mixed with smoke and tongues of flame poured from the wound. The internal heat of the dragon body proved a worthy rival to dragon flame and did not allow the meat to char, but the melted wound looked even worse. The Cannibal wheezed, squealed, tried either to inhale, or exhale, or pour his own fire on the opponent, but air and fire burst from the hole in the neck, and not from the maw, and the lizard could not control this. Strength left him before eyes, and he began to lose altitude, flapping wings stupidly.
From nowhere a blurred orange-brown spot flashed past, the furiously roaring Vermithor. The Bronze Fury took the already battered opponent on a ram, crashing his chest exactly into that damaged shoulder which Caraxes chewed with rapture at the beginning of the battle. Daemon did not hear the crunch or grinding of broken bones, but when Vermithor tore away and went to the side, the Cannibal's wing hung powerlessly, and the dragon began to fall.
During the battle, they overcame the strait separating the monster's nesting ground from the Stone, and now hovered in the air somewhere over the northern slopes of the Dragonmont. The Cannibal fell rapidly, though he tried to slow down, flapping the surviving wing stupidly, but all was in vain; the lizard flew down with a hoarse screeching, quite unlike that formidable and furious roar with which he rose from his lair, and Daemon could not look away. Quite inappropriately, Teltaris's words about the need to strengthen the mines climbed into his head, they should have been roughly under them.
But then the enormous carcass crashed onto the ground, and the Prince rather felt than truly heard the accompanying crash. Only now did he realize that for gods know how long he had almost not breathed, and exhaled raggedly. The rider looked around, seeking Vermithor in the sky; he hovered several dozen yards to the left-below, opening his maw slightly. To Daemon's unthinkable relief, the saddle on his back was in place, and Aegon's silhouette whitened in it. Sensing that he was being watched, the brother stirred, raised his head and waved his hand, all is well, alive.
Daemon could not suppress a smirk. During the battle, Aegon managed to lose his robe.
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