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Published:2024-02-24Updated:2026-05-20Words:319,557Chapters:58/?Comments:1,548Kudos:3,728Bookmarks:1,072Hits:221,514
A Young Woman's Inevitable Dance of the Dragons
Failninjaninja
Chapter 54
Notes:
Special thank you to MARch_Of_Time for some incredible enhancements, proofreading and geography checks!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 54
"Hope is a wonderful thing. But even the most delicious of dishes can leave you feeling sick. That's why I continue to be hounded by vague suspicion. Have we… fallen for something awful? Fallen for a scam? -From the Saga of Tanya the Evil Vol. 13
Aemond Targaryen, rider of Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, was peevish at having been wounded by the Dothraki. He'd massacred an army's worth, and their bows, even if they were stronger than most Westerosi ones, were no threat to Vermithor. However, one lucky shot had struck almost perfectly and punctured the crook of the inside of his elbow as he had swooped low to unleash flame.
His pride was more pricked than anything, but the wound would heal quickly enough. Payment from Selhorys would be added to his already healthy accounts with the Bank of Braavos. His failure to wed a Baratheon girl had left him bitter. The other matches that his grandfather had tried to pair him with were pathetic. Matches far beneath his station and with idiot girls who were beneath contempt.
Where are the Elaenas, the Rhaenyses, the Visenyas?
He was thinking of Visenya, the Conqueror's sister, not his cousin, the daughter of Daemon. However, he concluded that it might be a tolerable match if she did not grow up to be a simpering fool. Her lineage was impeccable, from both the Targaryen and Velaryon sides. Not that it was a possibility, with how the Blacks and the Greens had drawn lines in the sand at the moment.
Perhaps when they are dead, I can claim her. I would wait, as I cannot stand the thought of marrying a child who cannot keep up with my brilliance, and I would need to see if she had a spine before I would consent to it. But 'tis a thought.
He had thought that perhaps in Braavos, Volantis, or Pentos he could find a worthy partner. It had been a disappointment. He'd had to dodge more than one attempt on his life in Essos. A death after a battle with a skilled opponent was one thing, but dying via cowardly ambush or poison was not the legacy he would end his story on.
In cities, he would typically remain disguised and would be wary of dangers. Despite supreme confidence in his own abilities, he did miss having secure lodgings and dedicated protectors like the Kingsguard about him. Aemond had much time to think as he found himself alone, riding Vermithor, and ponder what he wished to do next.
It is a pity that I could not convince Elaena to support war with Essos. With her backing, our father could have been convinced. He has ever minded her, and that is most like the only reason the realm is as prosperous as it is.
His feelings regarding his father were complicated. Aemond perceived him as a weak King, but results, not theory, were what mattered. Elaena's lessons had been clear that no matter how good something sounded on parchment, the proof of a theory was real-world application, and by that standard Viserys had been an effective King. He had attempted to turn that argument to his own end when he pointed out that war with Tyrosh had yielded some friction, but had been a boon for the economic expansion of the Seven Kingdoms.
She in turn had said that replicating the circumstances and preparations which enabled such a feat would not only be difficult, but that even succeeding in further conquests would strain the social cohesion of the Seven Kingdoms as a whole. She claimed that even with the Tyroshi integrating and assimilating, it had taken persistent, systematic efforts on her part to ease tensions and make allowances.
She and her proxies had to shepherd those efforts, pressure Westerosi nobility, exert considerable leverage in a variety of locations, and without this active management a more organic attempt could have ended in disaster. However, if another wave of freed or resettled populations came from Myr or Lys, it would not be nearly so simple as the already quite complex task she had undertaken, and there would be many more risks in the process, not the least of which being the collapse of all prior diplomatic arrangements with Essos.
Elaena had been all too patient and willing to explain the many nuanced agreements, concessions, and carefully balanced incentives she had helped negotiate for each and every polity within or around the Narrow Sea to secure the Iron Throne's hold over Tyrosh and the Stepstones, to prevent chaos from rendering their economic expansion into a sunk cost.
Aemond knew better than to argue that they had dragons and that fear would keep their enemies in line.
Elaena was not as gentle as people seemed to believe. What she had ordered done to those who had tried to defraud the Bank of the Dragon should have revealed it, but no, the people of the Seven Kingdoms, lords and smallfolk alike, were fools. Her politely poised features and never-failing diplomatic demeanor led many to believe she was a delicate flower. Despite knowing the strength lying under that enchanting exterior, Aemond knew the two of them were very different.
She was a planner, a woman who preferred to 'measure thrice and cut once,' and her plans wished to account for all potential factors. Her desires for safety, prosperity, security, and comfort were not his own. He craved the challenge, whereas Elaena would prefer any conflict between nations to be a foregone conclusion before it even began. Diplomacy was her weapon of choice, and she had educated him well enough in how brutally it too might be wielded. How comprehensively one could dismantle foes with words, trade, the mere threat losing mutual benefits, and a willingness to wait so very patiently.
He could even see the shape of it, upon realizing the scope of her action. Decades of pressure and 'soft-power' exerting ever greater influence on their neighbors until Westerosi control and economic might became more and more concrete holds upon them. Holds that, should the so-called Free Cities seek to shed them, would cripple their economies and see them descend into chaos and infighting, ripe for swift, easy, and total victories.
He understood why she preferred it that way, but it did not suit his ends. He wanted his name on every tongue; every Maester who taught history would place his accomplishments there with Aegon the Conqueror if he had his way. He did not want decades of slow bites taken out of a disorganized mob of infighting fools, followed by longer periods of patient, peaceful biding of time as one amassed wealth taken right from the hands of one's eventual prey.
He did not want to grind all his enemies to dust under the weight of an entire continent, his name a mere footnote on the council which decided the fates that nations would only see in the time of his own grandchildren.
He had tried multiple bits of rhetoric, such as appealing to her womanly heart about the plight of the slaves in Essos. There, she had earned his respect all over again, because unlike what she presented to others, she was not swayed by such puerile notions. Elaena had pointed out the risks, the practical flaws in his intentions, and the consequences of shattering diplomatic stability: the increase in assassination attempts, exotic poisons, even the darker stories of the Faceless Men, Shadow Binders of Asshai, and the Warlocks of Qarth were unknowns, so caution should be taken.
Much are overstated stories, but there is power there. More subtle than a dragon, but dangerous. Where Elaena sees danger, I see opportunity. How much greater will my tale be if I face the foulest and darkest of sorceries and still prevail?
He pondered if it was time to journey to the far reaches of the east. Perhaps even visit Asshai by the Shadow. Aemond ultimately decided it was too far. He knew not when his father would die. Rhaenyra and his brother Aegon would both put forth their respective claims, and he was eager for the conflict. There he could slay the likes of Daemon, the Rogue Prince. Slay mighty Vhagar. Perhaps even the greatest of clashes the world had ever seen: him against the Dark Storm.
That is one where I may need the assistance of Tessarion, Dreamfyre, and Sunfyre. But prevail we shall.
For now, he had an appointment to keep in Volon Therys. It was smaller than Volantis but still larger than King's Landing or Oldtown. The cities of Essos were like that, their populations immense, which is what appealed to Aemond so greatly. After traveling to the great cities of Essos, Westeros seemed… small. The architecture in general was grander than in Westeros, save for some notable exceptions like the Hightower of Oldtown, the Wall in the North, and Harrenhal.
The Magister of the Volantene city was not of pure Valyrian blood. After centuries of dilution, it was rare to see Aemond's own features reflected, especially in lesser 'towns,' as Essos inexplicably referred to Volon Therys. His hair, once perhaps the pale silver-gold of true dragonlords, had darkened from that color. It was oiled and braided with threads of gold into a crown that sat on his head like a merchant's mockery of a conqueror's helm. Strands of it clung to his sweat-damp temples in the humid heat.
"Be welcome, Prince Aemond, it is an honor to host the rider of the great Vermithor. I had hoped to bend your ear and discuss events in Westeros," Horvys said in perfect High Valyrian.
Aemond looked at the purple eyes of the man. He held wealth that would only be rivaled by the likes of the Velaryons, Lannisters, and Targaryens, yet here in Essos he was only a minor power compared to the rulers of Volantis or Braavos.
"Your message spoke of an opportunity for coin, not gossip. What would you have of me?"
The man's smile was innocuous. "A gift then, suitable for your lineage. All I ask is an evening of your time to obtain your thoughts on our neighbors to the west."
A slave approached and knelt. Upon a satin pillow was a dagger of Valyrian steel, the hilt made of ivory from a tusk, wrapped in the pelt of a shadowcat. The Magister explained the three components of the gift, and Aemond twirled the blade in his hand. It was well balanced.
"The gift pleases me; we will discuss matters as you like for the evening."
Horvys and Aemond continued speaking the ancient tongue. Despite himself, he was pleased to find someone who had mastered it. It had been some time since he was last able to converse with Elaena. Some elements of the language were tricky and did not have precise translations. Certain terms, like prince and princess, were just one word in Valyrian, and they were not the only examples of such. When Horvys had greeted him he had called him Dārilaros Aemond. If he had been greeting Rhaenys he would also have still said Dārilaros Rhaenys. Much of High Valyrian did not distinguish male or female connotation, even as he mentally translated the appropriate pronouns for current context as they would be in the Westerosi tongue.
The Magister was well-informed already of the political situation in Westeros. He asked about the Greens and the Blacks, and what would happen once Viserys the Prosperous was no more.
"So that you can let my half-sister know what treasons we might commit once our father passes? I'll not say it outright, but few will tolerate the whore ascending the throne," Aemond said, with contempt lacing his voice.
"Few may fear her, but what of her husband? The Dark Storm will keep any intractable lords in line, or so we believe in Essos."
Aemond knew it was a good argument. The lords may not respect the Realm's Delight, but Laenor Velaryon? That was another matter.
"None doubt his strength, but he is still but one warrior, and his mount is much smaller than the likes of Vermithor," Aemond stated this with a confidence that he did not truly have of his chances alone against Laenor.
The Magister raised a golden eyebrow.
"But if we were to go by dragon sizes, then Vhagar is the largest. And if we were to compare the sheer number of dragons Rhaenyra can call upon, such as Caraxes, Meleys, Syrax, Vermax, Thraezarys, Moondancer, Arrax, and Tyraxes… to say nothing of financial matters, such as control of the Dragon Bank."
Aemond did not let his resolve waver. "Most have not seen war on dragonback; they are inexperienced as riders, and their dragons will act on instinct and be brought low by superior riders. As to the Dragon Bank, it will most like stay neutral – only a fool would want to make an enemy of its master."
Elaena is skilled at dragon riding, and I suspect she and Viktoriya would attend to matters of battle with the same efficacy she applies to everything else. But she would not yearn for conflict, and would likely encourage all to avoid doing harm to the lifeblood of the economy.
The Magister seemed surprised. "You mean they are not wedded to the Black cause?"
Aemon laughed. "So long as Viserys lives, of course they will back his chosen course. Viserys is the King, even if her tune is the one to which he dances. It is almost amusing how much an art she has made of guiding the King to her favored outcome with little more than the right words."
The Magister was nodding, though Aemond suspected he was still confused, so he explained further. Explaining how the realm's safety and security was paramount, that the economic progress and growth mattered more to the dārilaros than who would sit the Iron throne.
"Ah, is that the courtesy one should use when addressing the master of the Bank?"
Aemond squinted at him.
I cannot believe he is ignorant of Westerosi custom. She may have married Lefford, but the Lady of Silvervale is still a princess, now and forever.
Souring a bit, he took a sip from the wine. "If you seek to protect an investment, know that I am prepared to face the Dark Storm, Daemon, and Laena in battle. But I would not seek out battle, nor do undue harm to the Dragon Bank." Aemond laughed. "Only a fool would underestimate her importance, or attack a potentially neutral party so crucial to the Realm."
The Magister was stroking his chin. "A fascinating discourse, you have given me much to think on and revealed an insight that many of my peerage have missed. You will always be welcome in my home, Dārilaros Aemond.
***
Luke and Braxton were in the yard. Luke looked at his half-brother and saw so many of the similar features they shared with Ser Harwin Strong.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! The whole world knows!
Luke had just reached his maturity, while Braxton still trailed it by two years. Both were already the size of most men, and their practice blades were swung with vicious strength.
He was to be the Master of High Tide one day, the Lord of the Driftwood Throne, inheritor of the vast riches of House Velaryon. One day it would be his duty to keep the people of Driftmark safe and to hunt down pirate trash wherever they sailed. But now? Now he felt a fraud.
Laenor, his false father, had told him he still viewed him as his son. Luke had many conflicting emotions about that. Blood mattered; his uncle Daemon had always been clear on that. Velaryon and Targaryen were houses birthed from Old Valyria. Him being Harwin's son lessened him.
But worst of all, it meant that dung-head Daeron was right. Argh!
He slashed low then came up high and body-checked Braxton in the chest. It was like ramming a wall, a wall that struck back, but Luke, even in his anger, was mindful of the lessons Ser Joffrey taught and managed to parry the blow. The two continued their spar in earnest.
Luke heard the distant screech of a dragon and called a halt to scan the skies.
Moondancer.
His brother's betrothed, Baela, had arrived. She was funny, far more entertaining than his own more serious bride-to-be. For once, he thought he might actually prefer Rhaena's company. He was in no mood for jests or japes.
"We have a guest and should go be made presentable. You did well, Braxton."
"Thank you, my Prince."
He washed his face and changed into black velvet, and was in time with the rest of his family to greet the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Baela would make a great Queen, to be sure, but he hoped that day was still more than half a century away. She was witty, fearless in her dragon flights with Moondancer, and naturally had a beauty that outshone nearly anyone. She had more Valyrian blood than most, more than his own mother, and certainly more than him.
Luke's mother looked regal, marred a bit by the excess around her middle, but still queenly. Dark rubies shaped into three-headed dragons were set into her black dress. The man who claimed to be his father stood next to her, a smile on his face as he greeted his niece.
I was so proud that the blood that flowed through my veins came from the Dark Storm. Never has there been a greater scourge against piracy than him.
Luke learned his lessons well. Of blood by his Uncle Daemon. Of the finer arts of dragon riding by Aunt Elaena. Of the wickedness of piracy by both his 'grandfather' the Sea Snake and Elaena. Of the importance of personally inspecting ledgers by his grandmother Princess Rhaenys, of his courtesies by his mother, and of battle by Ser Joffrey and Ser Harwin. Laenor had taught him the importance of family, and now he found it a sour jest.
Baela embraced Rhaenyra and his mother spun the girl around with glee, formality forgotten.
"I trust the journey did not overly tire you?"
"Nay, I spent the night at Stonedance. Lord Massey was honored to host me and he asked that he pass my regards onto you."
"And how are your siblings? Your parents? We've heard all sorts of rumors from Tyrosh." Rhaenyra asked.
"All is well. You know how the Essosi are, they chafe under proper Westerosi rule. Father wasn't even injured; his guard stopped the fool before he even got close. Mother hopes to visit you again soon; she says her one regret in the conquest of Tyrosh was how far they are now from Dragonstone."
As she spoke, she greeted the others, a hug from her uncle, a chaste kiss on the lips to her betrothed, and hugs for Luke, Aenar, and Corwyn.
"Maegor is doing well in his new role at the bank. Hamish, I mean Lord Arryn, sings his praises. It is work Maegor takes to, as well. Rhaena sometimes spends time with him going over books, says it will be good practice when she is the Lady of Driftmark."
Good, ledgers are a dull affair. I understand the import, but if my lady wife can handle it, so much the better.
"Aelyx is squiring for father and doing well, he misses you and sends his love, but also doesn't wish his training to be interrupted too much. We can speak of it later, but I believe he is eager to continue his arms training under the Prince-Paramount of Tyrosh."
His mother frowned at that, pursing her lips. "We shall discuss it anon. For now, we shall speak of more pleasant matters, such as the wedding that must be planned!"
Baela laughed and finished speaking of the rest of her family, on how quickly Visenya and Naerys were growing. As Rhaenyra absconded with her niece, Jace looked at him.
"What ails you, brother? You are normally happier when one of the twins comes to visit."
He let his gaze glance toward Laenor.
"Ah, that. Perhaps it would have been wiser to have told you sooner, but you were oft rash with your tongue."
Luke felt his face go flush. His brother hadn't meant it as an insult, and he knew that, but he still felt the bite of it.
"I wouldn't have spoken of it, but why does it even matter? All the realm knows. It is obvious, especially when we stand next to the Strong children."
"And how often does the realm see that, brother? You forget that Dragonstone is quite isolated. There are few lords here, and all the knights are fully sworn to Strong or their own house. Many suspect, few know. And none dare speak of it, lest grandfather have their tongues removed."
Luke clenched his fists. "How can you stand it, brother? We live a lie. We are bastards."
"This is why we didn't tell you earlier, but it matters not. We carry the strength of House Targaryen and House Strong. We will be wed to House Velaryon, and though grandfather and grandmother do not speak of it, they must surely know. If the houses of Targaryen, Velaryon, and Strong all support us, who is harmed by this deception?" Jace argued, voice even and steady.
Luke exhaled, feeling some of the anger dissipating. His brother spoke sense. It would always bother him, it would always make him feel a fraud, but results did matter. The ultimate value of blood, birth, training, intent, or anything else was secondary to results. Elaena had been the one to teach them that results were truly the only thing that mattered in life. The result of their mother's actions was a large family full of dragonriders, the Iron Throne, the Driftmark Throne, and an unassailable position.
It's fine. Everyone will... we will all just have to live with it.
***
Otto was frustrated by how long it was taking Viserys to weaken. Less than twenty years ago, he'd have bet half the kingdom that the man would be dead before his fifty-fifth name day, and thought any who took him up on the offer an utter fool. And yet there was no sign of great infirmity, and in a scant three years Viserys would have achieved such an age while still hale. The King was clearly not as spry, but the old predictions that the former Grand Maester Mellos had made all those years ago were proven as false as his competence in predicting the results of the birthing bed.
It was more dangerous to have him killed, but it might give me the opportunity to better plan when Aegon's ascension would occur. A pity that I know Alicent would never countenance doing the deed herself. Ah, but if women were not so soft of heart, the opposition against Rhaenyra would die in its infancy.
Larys had revealed his latest findings. Driftmark and Tyrosh were filled with tools he could use, though Larys had warned that in Tyrosh the damnable order of knights protecting Daemon and his family would make things difficult. The power of Tyrosh was dangerous. Caraxes and Vhagar were formidable, and their daughters each had a rideable dragon as well. The plan required adjustments and terrific sums, and Larys still could not give it more than a coin's toss odds as to whether it would be successful.
The Master of Whisperers was more confident about Driftmark. Dragonstone was an impossibility; there were simply too few comings and goings. The cost that the House of Black and White set for Rhaenyra was an impossibility, even if he had all the wealth of Westeros. Those further from the throne were still exceedingly costly, but it might be worth it. No, he needed another solution to Dragonstone, and that entailed a great deal of risk to one of his most formidable weapons, and if Viserys died unexpectedly, the timing would not work.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door, and the guard announced Prince Aegon.
"You wished to see me, grandfather?"
"Yes, I have a task for you. It would be good for the lords who do not oft come to King's Landing to see you more. In particular, the Greyjoys may be more open to proper male rule of the Seven Kingdoms. Dalton Greyjoy is young and new to his position; it would be good for you to feel him out. You will also be near House Banefort and can remind our Westerlands allies of their obligations."
Aegon's brow furrowed. "The Iron Islands are a polity that I almost do not wish support from. They are vile. Piracy is a scourge on trade and bleeds the realm."
"And you can do something about it when you are King!" Otto snapped at him. "We will take aid from any quarter if it means your throne is secure and your children are safe."
Aegon nodded. "I said almost, grandfather. I understand the import of having every voice raised in unison when the dark day comes that my father is no longer with us."
Otto eyed Aegon; his words were likely true, though Viserys had never had much time for Aegon growing up. He had been too busy with the daughters of Aemma to care for anything else. Aegon had been dutiful, filial loyalty being one such duty, and the King doted on his twin grandchildren. There were reasons to respect the fool of a King.
"I know you are not your brother, but do take care to avoid antagonizing the Greyjoys in the way he did the Baratheons. Borros may very well oppose you out of spite, even though he now despises Rhaenyra after her folly with Daemon and her attempt to war with the remains of the Triarchy."
Aegon shrugged slightly. "I can be diplomatic. I will say the words needed and see that he looks upon the Greens in a favorable light."
Otto sent him on his way, and he returned to his planning. Coin was a precious resource, made all the more dear by how spendthrift he had been of late. Myr had finally agreed to send their new scorpions. Unlike the weapon that had once slain Meraxes, these were even more deadly. With greater length and more tension upon the sinews, they would fly faster and further. Along with them, the bolts themselves were tipped with a sliver of Valyrian steel. There were promises that they could even pierce a beast like Caraxes, though their artisans could not claim assurance of success against even older dragons, whose scales were more resilient still.
If his attacks were only a partial success, the likes of the Rogue Prince and the Dark Storm would descend with a vengeance upon King's Landing. He dared not trust only in the dragons his grandchildren rode, or the paltry few normal scorpions that already existed. No, he would want even further assurances, the new models Myr now had dotted upon every tower of their own city.
He wished he could rely on Prince Qoren more, but the man had been hesitant to accept an early marriage. Uthor was four years from his maturity, but the ruler of Dorne had said there was no hurry, even once he reached six-and-ten.
He sees the conflict coming as well, and would prefer not to bind his house fully to our cause until the dust settles. Perhaps I can encourage Viserys to write a missive and his desire to have more grandchildren sooner than late.
Daenora was in a similar situation with her betrothal to Kermit Tully. The lad was a mite young for marriage, but the sooner they were wedded and bedded, the better. Daeron would wed Patricia Redwyne in the following year. Otto felt that all the matches made were useful in uniting the lords behind Aegon, but he knew there were sizeable dangers.
The Velaryons, Arryns, Starks, and most of the Crownlands would almost certainly rally their banners for Rhaenyra at once. It was anyone's guess what the bitter Baratheon lord would do. Most of the Reach and the Westerlands would back Aegon, but he needed those marriages to Dorne and the Riverlands to secure their backing.
When the time came, at least he knew King's Landing was almost fully secure. The last of whatever authority Daemon had over the City Watch was gone. The Waywardens were fully under his son's control, and even the serving staff had been replaced. Larys had shared that many had already left for Silvervale.
Silvervale. The great city that the King cannot cease prattling on about. If only my daughter were half as capable as Elaena in worming her way into Viserys's affections. Consulting him on Old Valyrian architecture had given Viserys an unbecoming amount of joy.
Otto's contempt for the Lannisters only grew as the years marched on. He almost feared they would not stay loyal to Aegon's cause, but Jason and Tyland Lannister were in too deep now. The Leffords were spoken of now as a great house, and it was unseemly. The city was a marvel and was said to rival Myr in artisanry and the creation of useful trinkets. It was unfortunate that Larys had difficulty in planting would-be assassins close to Elaena. The notion that her guard was better than the Kingsguard or Daemon's frustratingly competent lot seemed far-fetched, but he had no choice but to believe it. Which only left more ruinously costly alternatives if he wished to remove her from the board.
Various schemes came to mind. What if he could lure his most difficult opponents to King's Landing itself? Or somehow arrange for them to visit Driftmark. Perhaps even have one of the more loyal lords host a grand tournament and encourage the King to hold court there, as he had done at Golden Tooth some years ago.
Or better yet, arrange matters so that a Black-aligned lord hosts such an event. Manipulating such a thing and then arranging the King's death to coincide… ah, it may undo all the years of prior planning. I cannot be sure of the right course. I will have to consider my options, and I must speak with Aemond. If he does not do his part, it will come down to how great those Myrish scorpions truly are.
***
Fraedrik loved his mother. Being able to ride with Viktoriya was the greatest thing ever! She always knew what to do, and everyone in the keep loved her. His father said to always listen to her, but sometimes it was hard. She told him about the ways of the world and always had an answer to any of his questions. That was awesome. What he didn't like was how she kept trying to have him solve numbers faster and faster. It was so boring, and why was it important to not just sum together numbers, but to multiply large sets of them in mere moments?
His mother said it was an important skill, one that only she could pass on to him. That made it exciting at first, something special only for him and his baby sister. His father said to listen to her, and that her skills let her work wonders that he too might achieve, but it was hard.
Reading was easy. Adding numbers normally was easy. Using parchment and quill to combine large figures through multiplication was not a great challenge. But to do it within his own mind, within a heartbeat? He feared he would never accomplish that. He feared he would fail his mother, fail to share in the special thing she wanted to give him.
It was so annoying to fail. He wasn't used to it. His mother would smile at him when he said so or got upset, asking him how he felt and helping him find the right words for it. She would hug him until he found his calm, and tell him that to be challenged was to grow, that he only faced great challenge already because he had grown so well. That she was proud of him and his efforts.
It made his heart swell to bursting, and he would try again. Then she would pose to him his toughest lessons yet, having him 'exercise' in solving numbers while they would fly above Silvervale. The thrill of flight, of Viktoriya's roars and the rushing of his senses, made solving so many numbers bearable, but it was the hardest thing Fraedrik had ever done.
Regularly she would fly low enough for him to make out specific parts of the city. When he could tie what he saw and the familiar sights of Silvervale to the problems in his mind, he felt he could solve them a little faster.
How far was it from the easternmost outer gate along the River Road to their family's keep, as the dragon flies, if the roads were this or that long? How many cornerstones would there be in all of the Factor's District if there were these many buildings of that many shapes? How many times would he have to pass through each district gate if he were to walk every street in the city with the fewest steps he could? How many copper coins were in the Falwell Square Fountain if the water had risen this many spans?
He always loved the sights of all the fluttering banners and flags, of the way the sunlight caught them. He loved the smells and colors of the flowering or fruit trees along the Verdant District's boulevards. Vineyards and plantations throughout the valley, gardens and fountains, weavers and dyers, craftsmen and engineers, all came together to make wonderful sights.
He loved spotting the rooftop carvings or monuments with dragons or fantastic shapes along the edges of rooves. The great mason-yards and sculptor halls by the edge of the city worked without end to make every building worth looking at and remembering. The markets and 'ware-houses' in the many districts sold everything made in the city and more from beyond, to be sent out and traded in every direction. From the skies, it all laid out below him seemed a great play-ground.
When he could see it and tie numbers to the city, he could imagine it, then recall it, and solving got the littlest bit easier. But it took so much thinking, and a lot of failing.
So Fraedrik felt his frustration was only a minor gripe, something he wouldn't let get the better of him, and one completely overshadowed by the joyous news! News that would soon see him flying above the city whenever he wished! Fraedrik was to claim a dragon!
A dragon of his very own. He thought he could burst with excitement, and even his mother's relentless quizzing with numbers as they rode to Dragonstone did not dampen the thrill coursing through him.
As they drew near the mouth of the bay, she finally stopped the endless number quiz and was reminding him of her expectations. They had sighted Dragonstone, but she was flying high, peering downward, looking for the elusive dragon.
"There he is," she told him, excitement present in her voice as Viktoriya turned toward a barely perceptible dot in the sky.
Fraedrik watched as they followed it. The other dragon was still barely visible when it turned sharply and descended toward the waters. Viktoriya followed, and the dragon ahead of them let out a screeching sound.
"Mother, we are frightening it!"
"Grey Ghost is most like used to fleeing from the Cannibal. All will be well, my son."
They chased Grey Ghost as he flew back upwards into a cloud formation, and the feel of it on his skin gave him a bit of a shiver. The inside of a cloud always felt odd to him, like it should feel more substantial. As they drew closer to the other dragon, it shot flame into the sky, and Viktoriya let out her own cry. The rumble was felt in his bones as well as his ears.
After that, Grey Ghost descended onto a rocky portion of Dragonstone and gave another keening cry. His mother loosed the chains holding them both and held him as she slid off her dragon and landed smoothly on the rocks. She set him down, took his hand, and approached Grey Ghost.
Fraedrik looked at the dragon with awe. It was both larger and smaller than he had imagined. Its scales were dark, almost like the color of smoke at twilight, and they shimmered when the sun touched them. He imagined the dragon would be nearly undetectable at night, but those scales held a quality that did something to the light touching them. The dragon's bright, inhuman eyes watched him, and he could only return the stare with wonder.
The claws of the dragon were immense, and from the lore he had been taught, they could rend armor with ease. Mastering his fear, he looked up at his mother.
"Can I approach?"
"Yes, but come, we will go together, though the last few steps you will do so alone."
Hand in hand they walked, and the dragon tossed its head with nervous energy, but settled as Elaena spoke soothing words in High Valyrian. The dragon calmed, and the warm, comforting weight of his mother's hand left his. Fraedrik inhaled heavily, trying to breathe in courage.
When he exhaled, he was calm and he approached, one step, then two. Then he reached out a hand tentatively to the creature. The dragon looked from him to his mother, then back at him, and lowered its majestic head. He touched it; the scales were like smooth stone that somehow still held life. There was a warmth to them that reminded him of the great baths. He spoke the welcoming words in that old language, something he was proud to have mastered.
Something changed. Something that he could not ever describe in words. He once recalled his ear hurting fiercely when his mother was away at King's Landing. His hearing had diminished on that side, and he had been desperately frustrated by everything. When she returned, his mother had made a tea for him, and as he drank, she rubbed under his ear; suddenly the pain had departed, and he could hear, even better than normal. She had wiped away something sticky that had dripped, but he hadn't paid much attention as he was distracted by how loud everything had suddenly become. That was what it was like now, as if he had a sense that had lain unused and had suddenly become available to him.
He felt Grey Ghost. Felt the echoes of the fear of pursuit now dwindling to calm acceptance and contentment.
"I… I did it, mother. I am bonded to him. I did it!" He turned to her, and she slid her arms under his to lift him into a deep hug. Her glowing smile and the light in her eyes seemed almost brighter than the shine in his dragon's.
"You did very well and were quite brave. Once we return to Silvervale, you will be able to ride him, but for now he shall follow us home."
Fraedrik looked at her in surprise. "We aren't going to see Aunt Rhaenyra and Uncle Laenor? I want to show my dragon off to my cousins!"
She shook her head. "No, 'tis best that we wait for a later time. Grey Ghost is most like in a bit of a fright; let's not surround him with several more dragons."
That made sense, like almost everything his mother did once it was explained to him. With a groan, he realized he had made an assumption that he would be able to ride Grey Ghost back home, despite having no spare saddle or chains. Instead, he would be with his mother again, and no doubt in her own vigor and joy, she would demand he answer her equations even faster.
He turned his eyes to meet Grey Ghost's one last time, but even with the wallowing in his heart, his newly bonded dragon made no move at all to shield him from his fate.
Notes:
I also have a new BattleTech / Tanya the Evil Crossover story posted!
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Published:2024-02-24Updated:2026-05-20Words:319,557Chapters:58/?Comments:1,548Kudos:3,728Bookmarks:1,072Hits:221,514
A Young Woman's Inevitable Dance of the Dragons
Failninjaninja
Chapter 55
Notes:
Big ole THANK YOU to @MARch_Of_Time for their proofreading assistance! They also add some great enhancements to the text.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter 55
I'd rather die than work with someone that incompetent. -From the Saga of Tanya the Evil Vol. 10
Pyke was an ugly castle. Green lichen covered the castle haphazardly and individual keeps were connected through swaying rope bridges. The whole edifice looked unsafe, but he knew it had stood for well over a thousand years.
Best get on with it.
His coming had been expected, so there was a small honor guard to lead him into the halls of Pyke. Lord Dalton Greyjoy was younger than him, with lank dark hair and a smirk on his features. Bread and salt were provided and he bowed low.
"Prince Aegon Targaryen, rider of Sunfyre, to what do we owe the honor of this visit?"
Aegon matched his gaze and gave him an affable smile.
"I have never visited the Iron Isles and as my father had not need of me on the small council for a time, I deigned it proper to make the journey. It is a unique fortress, one battle tested, unyielding against the sea. Much like its people."
Dalton laughed.
"Oh, but isn't it your sister who is known for her silver tongue? I suppose it runs in the family. Come sit, drink, feast on the flesh of the ocean and tell me tales of King's Landing."
Aegon did as he was bid and was given a variety of fish to consume. They were not prepared as enjoyably as in King's Landing, but neither were they poor of taste. He spoke with confidence and a polite smile on his face as the men of Pyke made ribald jests and spoke of conquests abroad.
As the evening's feast continued, Dalton called out. "Bryna, come, don't you wish to see a prince?"
A girl, younger than Daenora, walked forward uncertainly.
"My latest wife is shy, perhaps she's afraid your dragon will eat her!"
The others around the table laughed. Aegon could tell she was frightened.
"Lady Bryna, I did not catch the name of your house, but worry not, you have nothing to fear from me."
Dalton laughed even harder.
"Lady? Oh, forgive me Prince Aegon, I do not wish it to sound as if I jape at your expense. She is no rock wife, but a salt wife. We hold to the old pact made with the dragon lords. I do not raid Westeros for such as her, so do not worry, no noble lord will come looking for this one."
Aegon felt the burn of fury low within him, but surging under his skin. Old lessons from Elaena came to his mind. The Ironborn were pirates, thieving brigands that slew, stole, and raped as easily as they breathed. They knew little of true civilization but the urge to ransack it. They had not dared make trouble for his family's rule, so instead they raided Dorne, Essos, and the Summer Isles. He also knew that ships lost at sea may very well have simply been boarded and taken with no survivors and none the wiser.
Or few survivors.
"Where is she from?" Aegon said, feeling his smile grow more edged, tone as icy as the North.
Dalton looked at him with an interested gaze. "Somewhere, I believe it was a Dornish vessel, most like she had been taken from a place like Lys."
"Most like? You know not where she hails? She does not have darkened skin of the Summer Islands or the Dornish." Aegon had to practice his breathing. His veins boiled with the need to act. And yet, his grandfather had said the Greyjoys might be crucial.
Dalton shrugged. "I have many salt wives; they are hard to keep track of. I just like the look of this one as of late."
Aegon's fist clenched under the table and he counted as he breathed. He kept his face passably pleasant, with no small effort. Finally, he looked from Bryna to Dalton.
"I grow weary from the feast. Come, take me to your solar, there are things we should discuss."
Dalton let his fingers trail over Bryna before standing and ascending the stairs toward his office.
"Now, tell me why you are truly here, Prince Aegon. You are ill at ease among my people; it is not for desire to see these lands that you came."
Aegon nodded.
"The Hand wishes to be certain of your thoughts on the future. You and your lords do not visit King's Landing, we do not see if you wear green or black. If it were green, the future of the Iron Islands could grow more prosperous."
Dalton tilted his head and studied him.
"You green-lands folk do not know our ways at all, but I shan't judge you on your ignorance. You are asking for my support to sit your arse on the Iron Throne. No, don't shake your head at me, there's none to hear the treasons but we two."
Aegon grimaced but nodded, and the Greyjoy went on.
"The way I see it, if I side with you, I get to raid the North, who will stay true to their vows. If I side with the Realm's Delight and her plump arse, then I get to reach the Reach and the Westerlands. Seems the pickings are a bit better that way."
Aegon's eyes flashed murderous for a moment, a moment of pure enraged disgust, but he struggled against it by remembering he was a guest.
I'll kill him once my legacy is secure, what a vile creature. I'll do it myself, the way the Northern Lords do it.
"You speak casually of burning and assaulting my kingdom."
"Not while they are your enemies, but again, my prince, why should I freeze my balls when I could enjoy myself in comfort in the south?"
He was bargaining. The realization hit Aegon suddenly. This Greyjoy filth was bargaining over the rape and desolation of his kingdoms, his people. It prodded at a part of him that remembered learning how foul politics could truly be. The sickly compromises and rot underpinning the peace he and his loved ones desired. The kinds wrought by wanton and callous disregard for all that is good in the world.
It reminded him of what he had to fight for, what depredations his half-sister would countenance as others ruled through her. The Blacks would turn these marauders loose upon the Realm, wouldn't they?
With that in mind, Aegon once more mastered his temper and remembered thoughts and stratagems Otto had placed in his head for such a conversation.
"Because I can give you what you desire. A chance to prove you are the best sailors and seamen of Westeros. The Velaryons grow fat with power. They grow arrogant in their certainty that they are ruled by the Sea Snake, the greatest sailor the world has ever seen. In battle, your fleet against theirs, you will carve your legacy and enshrine the Iron Islands as the premier power of the seas. For all time!"
Dalton raised his chin. "You speak pretty words, but it wasn't the Velaryons' seacraft that won them the Stepstones. It was the Dark Storm. And casting him aside is foolish beyond foolish, but even if we were, I can count dragons and you come up short."
Aegon nodded. "So it appears, but my grandfather is careful and certain minded. He would not see me crowned only for me to be burned. I cannot share with you his devices, but rest assured we are confident in our victory."
Dalton studied him openly.
"Mayhaps you can do as you say. But who can peer into the future? For all I know your father will rule another thirty years. I'll not say yea or nay, instead only that I am interested in what you will have to say when the day comes, and what Rhaenyra has to say as well. Then I will choose."
Aegon could think of nothing else to sway him, and though it would not further his cause, he could not get Bryna out of his mind.
"The girl, how much for her?"
Dalton blinked. "How much? Does your sister not spread–"
Something twinged. For a time, Aegon could not even think.
Aegon was up in a flash, shoving the table aside and grabbing the Greyjoy by the throat and pinning him to the wall. He squeezed and saw red, but paused as he felt the blade of a dagger against his own neck. He released the Greyjoy lord's neck, and then the dagger came away from his own.
"You have some of that fire in your gut, Prince Aegon," Dalton rasped.
"Mind your tongue when you speak of my wife, and one day the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."
In a lingering second of surreal familiarity, with the aftertaste of those words in his mouth, Aegon wondered if this was how his father felt when others wagged their vulgar tongues about his kin.
A dark chuckle was the response, snapping Aegon's attention back to him. "Aye, well that I shall, Your Grace." His head dipped lower for merely a moment. "As to the girl, take her, I have others."
Aegon nodded and returned to the feasting hall to collect Bryna. He did not know if he had doomed his cause with his hasty actions. What was he thinking? Assaulting a sitting lord in his own hall? Losing his temper like that after years of iron control? Yet the girl's terrified gaze and the foul implications had enraged him. It burned at him, gnawing at his chest under his skin.
When he was King he would never allow the Ironborn to act in the way they did.
The girl looked grateful. "Thank you m'lord. But what is to become of me?"
"Do you have family? I… I may not be able to take you immediately, but I can arrange for passage if you are from Essos or Dorne… or Westeros."
"I've no family, nor memory of where I was. It was the Dornish, m'lord, my first recollecting was on their vessel when I was young, helping mend the sails and serve wine to the captain. I heard King's Landing is a grand city, if it please you m'lord, I could serve you wine. You saved me from him."
Aegon closed his eyes, lessons coming to him. From Elaena, from his mother the Queen, from Otto his grandsire. When he opened them he looked at her with the eyes of someone who had listened to those lessons.
"Flying on a dragon does not frighten you? Dragons are temperamental at times. Surely you've heard stories of what they do to those not their riders, yet you do not seem worried."
"M'lord?" she said hesitantly. "I know you would keep me safe."
"Aye I would, but Sunfyre oft gets hungry. Especially around those who attempt to deceive Targaryens. So, if you wish to chance it, you'll have to be sure you speak no word untrue."
Raw terror now filled her features and Aegon knew.
"The truth, now," Aegon said in a hard voice.
She swallowed. "Please, Your Grace, it was Lord Greyjoy's command. He wanted to see if you cared about reaving and then if you objected or demanded me to be free, I was to try to find a way to stay with you and serve you. Your Grace, if I fail, I will be punished. My life would be forfeit, but I swear by the Old Gods and the New, I did not mean any harm."
"I will fly you to the Westerlands and drop you off in a town or keep, if you will explain to me what you think Lord Greyjoy wanted."
"Information. If I could get a bastard by you that would be good. He promised me gold or the depths of the sea if I failed. Thank you, Your Grace. I will not forget this kindness."
Aegon did not know if he believed her even now, or if this was some other ploy, but he would honor his word. The games being played here were bold. By rights he could take vengeance, but in what manner? His father would be wroth if he just attacked the Iron Islands with Sunfyre, and if he brought forward a claim of an attempt at trickery Dalton could sing a pretty song of his open treasons. He'd like to think his father wouldn't believe that true tale, but it would certainly forever banish all hope of the Greyjoys coming to his cause.
A crystallization of his disgust and hate formed in his mind at that moment, a certainty that he would kill these scum, and do so gladly, one way or another. If his grandfather thought these vile men needed, well, did it matter if they died against his enemies first? A swift end was the best reward for the likes of them.
May the Seven send Greyjoy's soul to the deepest pit of the Seven Hells.
***
Daeron thanked the Seven every day that he was able to fly on Tessarion. She was the Blue Queen of the skies. Many claimed his brother's dragon Sunfyre was the most beautiful of all, but he believed the unique color on his own stood out the best.
Flying low, he passed the multitude of ships in the harbor and landed upon the golden island of the Arbor. Few places could match its wealth, as it was home to the great vineyards that produced the Arbor reds and Arbor golds. The sweetest of wines were produced on the island and traded up to Oldtown and Lannisport. To the east, their ships sailed all the way to Qarth to sell not just their wines but the thick, plump peaches themselves.
He was there to meet his bride-to-be, the fair Patricia Redwyne. The normal pomp and circumstance was made upon his arrival, and the tall Lord Redwyne greeted him warmly. His daughter was slight and slender, but a woman grown. Her vibrant red hair was blessed by the Maiden and held in two loose braids over her shoulders, the rest fluttering free down her back. Her blue dress was not ostentatious, but with small accents of grapes upon the sides and trim of it.
He took her hand and gave it a chaste kiss. "I am pleased that we are to wed, Lady Redwyne. I have been blessed by the Seven in this match."
Her breath hitched for the slightest instant and she made to speak, but Lord Redwyne took him by the arm. "You can woo my daughter later; we have much to discuss, Prince Daeron."
She met his eye as they were led, and though her expression was bright, Daeron thought he caught a brief glint of wry exasperation.
A welcome feast awaited, but before attending he met with his soon-to-be good-father, one of the more powerful lords of the Reach.
"Come, take a cup, 'tis the good stuff. This wine was sealed in the year you were born. I thought it fitting."
Daeron found the taste welcoming, but he never over-indulged. He complimented it, and him.
"Listen, Prince Daeron, I am quite pleased with the Hand honoring me this way, but I must know. What is the plan? Aegon must be King. We cannot have a bastard sit the throne, even if Jacaerys may well be better than his mother, baseborn that he be."
"I have sworn never to speak of their heritage, and I took my oaths to the Seven with the seriousness that they deserve, my lord. As to Aegon becoming King, yes, it is his by right. Sons before daughters is what the Septons teach, up until recently, and that troubles me," Daeron said, ending his words in a lower register.
"Hmm, yes, of course. But my prince, my question is, what is the plan? How are we to achieve victory over the Dark Storm, Vhagar, Meleys, and Caraxes? I would chance my fleet against the Velaryons, but not against their dragons!"
Daeron set his wine cup down firmly. "If the Seven are with us, who can be against us? The Warrior will guide our blades, our ships, and our dragons. Yet I do not understand. You are a military man, a man of strategy and tactics, and I can tell you true that my grandsire has a plan. The Hand of the King is wise and sees ends that other men do not perceive. I confess it is beyond my own sight, but he has been Hand longer than I have lived."
Daeron paused, some spike of old bitterness coming to his tongue, long paved over with resolve. "Some things, it seems, the Hand has deemed it best that I and my siblings not be privy to."
The lord sighed, his shoulders slumping a bit.
"I had hoped for more, Prince Daeron. In truth, I believe it may be best for the lords to speak their wishes to the King before he has passed. Otto claims that the few loyal to Rhaenyra will set aside their oaths when so much of the Kingdom raises their voice in unison in acclamation of your brother, but if that is true, would not Viserys the Peaceful listen to us?"
Daeron shook his head, eyes seeing far beyond the room, recalling the moment all those years ago that his father had showed just how willfully blind he truly was. Daeron too had once believed that the King would act, would make things right, but instead Daeron was told he spoke treason, and punished. "I think it unwise, but I will carry your message to my grandsire."
"My thanks. Now then, come, let us enjoy a feast in your honor!"
The feast itself was a fine table, and Patricia was good company. She was well-mannered and had an invigorating brand of humor, looking oft as if she had more to share or say. As he got to know her more, he asked of her interests, curious if mayhap the game of Cyvasse had reached this far south.
"I'm not one for those types of games, Your Grace, but if you do not think it improper, I have learned the use of the bow. Would you care to wager who is the better archer?"
Daeron smiled genuinely. "I would be delighted to, my lady."
On the morrow, targets had been lined up, and she wore a plainer dress, still blue for her house, but also had on leather vambraces. She struck a proud stance and smiled with true joy when her bow was in hand. It was a fetching sight, and he tried a few of the bows on the stand until he found one that was comfortable in his grip and a proper draw.
She loosed her arrow first, and it was very near the center mark. Daeron had not loosed a bow in some time, but he remembered the old lessons that Elaena had given him those many years ago when she would visit him in Oldtown.
Keep your breath steady, keep your feet and shoulders in form. Release smoothly, and…
"My prince! That was a fine shot. I had not heard you favored the bow so. I've heard you only joust and don't participate in the archery or the melee."
"You are too kind, my lady. The Warrior guided my hand, 'tis all."
"Well, tell him to guide mine, else I won't make a good shot!"
Daeron frowned. Was she jesting about the Seven? She was already aiming, and he would not distract her to chide her over it. Though recalling his lessons with Isembard Arryn, perhaps so soon after meeting her, his words would only be taken poorly. Patience was the Father's virtue, and Daeron would have plenty of time to discuss his wishes for her as his wife to respect the faith.
Her shot very neatly hit his own arrow, so close it was to the center.
He congratulated her and noticed the happy flush on her face. Her smile truly was radiant, her body both relaxed and energetic. He would cherish and protect her, his heart finding her quicker to love than most. That was his duty as a knight and a husband. The match was a favorable one for the Redwynes; Daeron would not even inherit the Arbor.
However, the dowry being paid was sizeable and included one of the vineyards. It was odd how he would at once have a lord who was above him, while still being a prince. In social situations, people would defer to him, but in practical matters, when governing parts of the Arbor, he would have to defer to his overlord: his wife's father, and eventually her brother when he passed to the Father's judgment.
This assumed he survived the inevitable conflict. Daeron did not wish to die, but he did not fear judgment by the Seven. So long as he followed their tenets while serving his King, he would be rewarded. Pain and death were not something he longed for; he wished to be wed to Patricia, to share with her the love a family, and use the incomes from their lands to create a grand monument to the Seven. Perhaps on the Arbor itself, or within King's Landing, or perhaps a place like White Harbor to tempt the more stubborn believers of the Old Gods. Were they to see the great Smith-inspired works, he held hope that some few could find a better path in service to the Seven.
The delighted giggling of his bride-to-be drew him once more to loosing their bows in turns, near pinning each other's arrows with every shot, and Daeron felt some burden fall from his thoughts, content in the moment.
***
Viserys walked into the small council chambers rather excited for the day. He had received word from Elaena that young Fraedrik had successfully claimed Grey Ghost. How he enjoyed hearing good news from his daughter! He looked forward to when he could see her daily once more.
The council chamber held two more individuals than it typically did. Alongside the Kingsguard, Otto Hightower, Grand Maester Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Larys Strong, Rhaenys Targaryen, Lyman Beesbury, Aegon Targaryen, and Jaspar Wylde, it also held Isambard Arryn and Daemion Velaryon.
"You are all here, good. 'Tis a new year and time for fresh beginnings. I have been greatly honored to have had such leal service done by all the members of my council, but as times pass, new blood is needed to ensure the realm continues to grow. Let none say their tenure ended in some dark dismissal, as I have come to greatly rely on all of you."
It was true, to a point. Tyland had not been his favored advisor, to be sure, but he had not faltered in his responsibilities and would be rewarded alongside Lyman and Rhaenys. Tyland himself had requested the removal so that he could better help manage his brother's lands. Trade and traffic had increased greatly with the creation of Silvervale, and apparently Tyland's elder brother needed assistance.
"Tyland Lannister, you have proven to be an able Master of Ships and have helped steer the Seven Kingdoms on a prosperous course. Our waterways and the sea itself are of utmost importance, and through your purview we have grown rich indeed. For your service, I gift you the newly finished vessel, The Prosperity, for you to do with as you see fit."
The Prosperity was one of a select set of trialled ship designs and improvements that had grown more common under the development of Dragon Bank 'ventures,' though Tyland's gift was one that combined all the best innovations of each: a copper-plated 'barque' with three masts, and fore-and-aft sails on the aftermost mast.
Viserys was immensely pleased at the ships, which took unity and cooperation from all the Seven Kingdoms to produce. They were practically a symbol of his reign in and of themselves, with strong wood and glass from the North, copper and iron from the Westerlands, cloth from the Reach, paper from the Stormlands, wax and oil from the Vale, salt and dyes from the Riverlands, labor and gold from the Crownlands. All together combining to support the power and trade of his realm.
A whole range of merchant ships were added to fleets over the recent years, dubbed on a range of rigging from 'schooner' to 'barque,' most designed for speed or maneuverability in various wind conditions, but The Prosperity was a workhorse of a ship designed to tear down the windward lengths of the Narrow Sea and around Dorne. One of the selling points Viserys remembered hearing was that it cost substantially less to crew them, without giving up any performance.
Perfect for trade, or for nobles and diplomats to be getting around the south of the continent to the Westerlands in a more timely manner. Only the latest ones, the ones intended to last and endure much longer, had been fitted with the expensive copper plating, though, and it made Tyland's gift rather stunning to view, in the King's opinion.
Viserys continued as he put his hands together in applause and encouraged the rest of the table to do likewise.
"Taking over his duties will be Lord Isembard Arryn. His mercantile fleet has done extensive trade with Essos and has helped ensure Tyrosh was fully fed after its conquest. He is even now doing the same through trade with White Harbor. Your counsel will be quite welcome, as there has not been an Arryn in King's Landing in some time."
"Thank you, Your Grace." Isembard bowed serenely.
"Ah, Rhaenys, my beloved cousin, these long years have tried you, I am sure. Your love of family is only rivaled by mine own. I will miss your keen insights and even your sharp tongue. In honor of the advice you have given, I am gifting you a new set of dragon-riding leathers, some jewels from Old Valyria, and a litter of fine hounds. Give my regards to Lord Corlys and our family, and if you would, please introduce your replacement for your advisory role."
Rhaenys thanked him and then introduced Daemion Velaryon, the grand-nephew of Lord Corlys. She went on to go over his exploits and how he followed in the Sea Snake's footsteps in his successful voyages to the east. Viserys vaguely recalled a report from Lyman on how the voyage had proven a boon to the Dragon Bank's coffers after Elaena had 'invested' in their voyage. He was one of the first suitors whom Elaena had considered, though not among the Auspicious Six. Indeed, many of those whom Elaena had met with were among the greatest contributors to the realm, as of late.
"I swear to the Seven that I will do my best to serve in my great-aunt's place. Thank you for having me."
Viserys kept himself from rubbing his hands together. He had long waited to do this, not for any disappointment in Lyman, but for the return of his daughter.
"And now finally, Lord Lyman Beesbury, you have proven to be a boon among boons to the realm. Under your guidance we are wealthier than we have ever been." Viserys shook his head as Beesbury sought to demur. "No, no, I speak only the truth as I desire to see it! If you listened to the sound advice of my daughter, you still deserve credit, for how can I also then claim credit for the realm's prosperity if I but took your and her good counsel in turn as well!"
A polite round of chuckles echoed across the table.
"The finances are strong. Wealth flows and abundance multiplies. We care for our luxuries, which have increased greatly, but so too should we remember the smallfolk, who can now afford finer things in their lot. Gone are the days a man had to labor from sunup to sunset every day just to afford the food and shelter of his family. The realm thanks you, and for your service I am granting an extension of your lands and changing your overlord from the Hightowers to the Tyrells directly. You are no longer a minor noble of the Reach, but one of their prominent lords."
It had been something Otto had been fiercely opposed to, but since the Hightowers and the Beesburys of Honeyholt had been at odds over one thing or another in the last decade, it was time to make the change. New oaths could be sworn, and the Hightowers would, as Viserys commanded, relinquish the Beesbury family from their oaths to themselves. The lands around Honeyholt would double, and it was merely a reward for the service Lyman had provided.
"Thank you, Your Grace, yet I do have news that I fear you may mislike."
Viserys was taken aback. "Oh, pray tell, what ill news darkens the day?"
"Your daughter has sent reply to me. She does not wish to be Master of Coin."
Viserys moved as if he had been struck.
"But why? Why not?" he did not sound very Kingly in that petulant voice, but none commented.
"Silvervale is growing and requires her oversight. She will continue visiting on a monthly basis and furthering the endeavors of the Dragon Bank. She believes it is time for the Master of Coin to focus on the realm's finances and a separate office be created for the Dragon Bank, and I agree that is for the best. A single person controlling both runs the risk of applying lending and crediting standards in a biased manner."
That part wasn't important to him. What was important was that his beloved daughter would not be here every day!
"But Lyman, she is perfect for the role. You yourself have said it. Who else can fill your shoes but her?"
Lyman bowed his head. "It pains me as well, as I had thought from our earlier conversations that she would be delighted to take the role. Yet she has now become a mother and created a city of wonders and delights that you have experienced yourself."
Otto added, "Princess Elaena is credited with much, surely she has earned a rest in Silvervale? There are many fine alternatives we can choose. My own son Gwayne or…"
"She has a list of alternatives," Lyman interrupted the Hand.
Viserys just sat there, expression bleak and listless.
Otto glared at Beesbury, but the older man pressed on.
"My grandson Alan Beesbury is one such figure. She strongly had considered him for a betrothal and his work on the Alan Bridge speaks to his capabilities. Hamish Arryn would be a fine selection if you disapprove of Ser Alan, though she warns that he is playing a critical role in the Tyrosh branch of the bank."
Viserys abruptly stood. "Send word to Elaena, I would speak with her directly before deciding the matter."
The small council glanced at each other before Beesbury said he would write the response that afternoon.
I want her to be happy, but can she not be happy here? This was her home before her marriage!
***
Maegor was sad at the thought of his sisters and their eventual marriages. Once they were wed to Jace and Luke they would likely spend little and less time in Tyrosh. He did not begrudge his royal cousins their matches, as they were among the few who treated him with dignity and respect, but on a personal level his mood grew foul when he thought of not seeing them regularly.
You could go to Dragonstone. You don't have to remain here.
It was a thought. He enjoyed his work at the Dragon Bank and Hamish's name could be added to the list alongside Jace and Luke, people who didn't dismiss him the moment they took in his stature, but the true reason he remained in Tyrosh was not his work.
His parents, his true parents, resided here. His mother did cherish him, though she had sent him away when he was little. Daemon however did not. That galled him. Maegor could not help his deformities, but he knew his worth. He would make his father see that 'counting coppers' would allow him to do all the things he desired.
He knew he was more capable than those around him. Even at one-and-ten he understood concepts of finance, engineering, trade, and politics better than those thrice his age. Hamish had lost the last fifteen matches of Cyvasse, even when Maegor sought a greater challenge by removing one of his own rabble to begin each game.
It was plain foolishness to discard his capability out of hand, for little else but prejudice.
I look forward to seeing if I can now beat Elaena.
Elaena had been his surrogate mother for some of his formative years. He had her to thank for much of his progress. Had his studies been left to the dullards called Maesters, he would not know nearly as much as he did now. It was strange how much his father hated Elaena, despite her never speaking ill of him while she had raised him at the Tooth. Kevan, his surrogate father for a time, had often spoken ill of Daemon – which was bold of the man with little martial talent and only moderate intellect.
Maegor's standards of moderate intellect meant that Kevan was still better than the vast majority of both Maesters and nobles, but still not particularly impressive to him. He was no Elaena or Hamish, and Maegor wondered why Elaena had chosen him.
His persistent care, plainly seen devotion, and willingness to aid her in all her works probably played a factor. My cousin has ever her own designs, and who better for a husband than the one best suited for achieving them? Still, that did not seem quite the whole of it either.
Being the object of such loyalty had its appeal he supposed, not that he was ever like to experience it. Elaena had taught him that each person had their own criteria to what they valued. Just because Maegor may not value a thing he would never receive did not mean others may not. He did not hold to all of her teachings, but all of them were grounded in an enjoyable pragmatism that he found agreeable.
"It is your move." Maegor reminded Hamish.
A resigned sigh was the response.
"It matters not; you have won again. I have never considered using both Elephants in that manner. The way it skewered my hold line prevented any counterplay from developing after I lost my heavy calvary." The well-groomed lord ruefully shook his head, "Now I know how my uncle felt for all those years. 'Tis good you keep me humble."
"Your mistake was actually ten moves earlier." Maegor went into a detailed explanation and Hamish quickly, like he regularly did, grasped what was being explained.
Seven hells 'tis so much better speaking with someone on a level I do not have to excessively simplify for. Perhaps that is why Maesters are so dull, if they were brighter they would go mad having to continually explain concepts to their idiot lords.
"Thank you for the instruction, Maegor. While your youth would cause people to make assumptions on your capability, the truth is that with a few more years of experience you could run this branch of the Dragon Bank quite well. Is that what you see for yourself in your adulthood?"
Maegor gave a diffident shrug of his shoulder. "Mayhaps. You are still integral to its function in your role as the face of the Dragon Bank, which opens doors that mine own never will."
Hamish made a dismissive gesture with his hand.
"It helps, but courtiers with a silver-tongue are not that rare. My question to you was not of capability, but of desire."
That was the other reason Maegor appreciated Hamish. He did not speak to him like other lords did to a youth, let alone a crippled and deformed one.
"I want to rule Tyrosh. Father does not desire it, but as I grow older and the years turn toward Rhaenyra's eventual reign, I will be positioned to help him in his conquests. All I need is one great boon or sufficiently useful task completed in his eyes, and he will at least listen. Daemon is my father. While some think he is rash and does not think ahead, I sprang from his loins. He chooses to appear as he does; it is not a sign of true irrationality. Once he listens to me, I will be able to advise him toward further success: Lys, Myr, Pentos. When he sees my value, he will balance the scales against my faults and find such incredible utility in me that it will overwhelm my being a half-blind dwarf."
There was a moment where Hamish leaned back, a hand giving idle strokes to his finely trimmed beard while he looked at Maegor with something deeper in his eyes.
"Perhaps, Maegor. You tend to see things clearer than others, but here I fear your desire is borne of being denied something you feel is your right. Your father's affection."
Maegor felt a bit of ire at Hamish's words. Hamish was using a model of his own views and pressing them over Maegor's thoughts. Tyrosh was his by all rights of inheritance, he cared little for the actual ruling of it beyond awareness of the challenge, but the enforcement of his right as proof of his value did matter to him.
"My path is my own. Elaena says one should always listen to good counsel, but listening and agreeing are two separate things. You have said your piece, now I ask you leave it be."
Hamish laughed. "As you will. Regardless, if you ever wish a second perspective, I would be honored to give it. We non-martial types must stick together, eh?"
Maegor nodded. Allying with the well-liked and intelligent Hamish Arryn was wise. He also enjoyed his time with him and would not let differences of opinion sour things. That would be irrational, and that was a sin worse than any the Seven could devise.
Notes:
I mostly post on AO3 because the few smut stories I have (Hiatus/Abandoned anyway lol) aren't allowed on Space Battles. I do post everything I post on SB on AO3 so you aren't missing anything from my stories other than discussions. The one exception is my Snippets thread where I talk about future works and give updates on the status of my writing.
You can check it out here!
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