Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen

  Vermax settled gently onto the granite sbs paving the floor of the Tyroshi ir and roared, announcing his return. Arrax answered him from his cave with a displeased clucking, Tyraxes with an envious whistle (like Baelon, the copper-rusty dragon was eager for battle, where he was not allowed due to his youth), Stormcloud and Aegarax chattered from their corner, but the roll call was interrupted by the imperious shout of Caraxes—the Blood Wyrm did not like fuss and noise. They had seen Syrax in the sky above the city, and Mother made it clear that she did not intend to return home yet; Seasmoke had left for the border three days ago, but the cave assigned to Vhagar seemed suspiciously quiet. Could Aemond have been sent home in the couple of days they were absent from Tyrosh? Or did Father become generous with a combat mission for his squire? Both options were equally unlikely and therefore ughable.

  Disappointed, Vermax gave a short roar, almost a mewl, and nudged his rider, who had managed to climb out of the saddle, in the shoulder, nearly knocking him over—the dragon could not learn to commensurate his size with human size, still believing that Jace could lift him without problems, and yet soon the length of the Prince's arms would not be enough to embrace his snout!

  "Lykirī! (Calmly!)" Jaehaerys shouted at him, and he grumbled guiltily. Shaming Vermax was always easy, as if he were not a descendant of Vhagar, as Uncle Aegon believed.

  As a reconciliation, the Prince reached out and scratched the dragon under his spiked chin. Under the jaw, the scales were smaller and softer than the ptes on the neck, causing a strange, poignant feeling of tenderness upon touch; before, Vermax felt like this all over—hot, rough, but not prickly. The dragon always loved affection, and as soon as fingers touched the favorite spot, the dragon squinted his reddish-orange eyes with pleasure, and the rider's strict shout was instantly forgotten. In the end, war is not the pce or time for quarrels between rider and dragon.

  They passed their first test in battle, repelling a raid of a Dothraki khasar on the continental possessions of Tyrosh; the Vontenes, presumably, paid the Khal to force the Targaryens to defend the nds feeding Tyrosh from devastation by nomads, or even ferried them across the Rhoyne themselves. There were some twenty thousand riders in the khasar, and before Jace and Father tracked them down, they managed to sweep away several border outposts, capture two small towns, besiege three castles, and burn nds for three leagues around each of them, turning them into a depoputed desert.

  Managing the herd proved not so difficult. Caraxes had to dive only three times, bringing down furious fmes on the Dothraki, before the formidable, bloodthirstily uluting khasar turned into an uncontrolble crowd screaming in terror, and then it was a small matter—two dragons were quite enough to enclose the riders in a ring of fire, and then, raid after raid, tighten it, burning more and more riders. Jaehaerys and Vermax also had to be distracted to catch up and destroy those who managed to break out of the hot embrace of death; Father wanted to destroy all the screamers at once, not allowing them to split up and scatter—even a hundred surviving horsemen threatened to become a pain in the arse, and there was no time to chase them across the steppes.

  The Dothraki could oppose Caraxes with nothing, but for Vermax their archers still presented some danger, but that too was mitigated by speed: in the end, the dragon got off with a couple of holes in the thin crests on his neck, and Jace with a scratch on his cheek. The Prince expected that after the first battle Father would appreciate his dexterity in controlling the dragon and the first battle mark (almost a scar!), but upon returning to Tyrosh he only snorted mockingly:

  "As if you cut yourself shaving on purpose."

  Arguing with him and trying to prove something was useless, expecting anything other than lectures—too. But the reaction of the rest of the family turned out exactly as Jace had hoped. Mother tried hard to suppress her anxiety (and, it must be admitted, coped with this quite successfully), brothers listened to the story of how the khasar burned with open mouths, interrupting each other with questions, sisters gasped and admired the courage of their elder brother. It was more interesting to know what Bae would say to this; in the letter to her, the Prince, of course, mentioned the personal result of the first battle, trying not to attach too much importance to the trifling wound, but not ignoring it either. having scribbled several sheets, Jaehaerys settled on the driest wording, hoping only that it would not be perceived as conceit and excessive coldness—Bae certainly would not appreciate that.

  According to the family agreement, they were betrothed several years ago, and parents prepared a rather lengthy speech for Jace about duty to the family, political necessity, and entertainments permissible for a man while observing decencies, but this was empty shaking of the air: the Prince himself had nothing against it. He and Bae had been friendly since childhood, and Father's quarrel with his brothers, despite all his expnations about the reasons for the conflict, changed almost nothing for Jace in retions with cousins and fiancée.

  Bae was smart (Prince Aegon the White could not have another daughter), brave, decisive, and, more importantly, very beautiful. Her twin sister might have been softer, more courteous, and more like a dy, but Jace liked precisely the combination of dragon fire in his fiancée, which pushed her to cut her beautiful silver-gold hair to her shoulders on a bet, and sensuality, which forced her to confess in letters that she missed him. Targaryen unpredictability, a coin tossed by the gods, manifested in her in its own way, and the Prince learned to determine this feature with excitement—a little restraint in the letter became another attempt to understand his future wife.

  Father did not sit long in the Archon's Pace, and flew to Torturer's Deep and the southern shores of his Essosi domains, setting fire to Vontene squadrons and cutting off supplies to the Triarch's troops in the Disputed Lands. This time Mother went with him on Syrax. Jace, expecting the King of Tyrosh to teach his heir to fight, was surprised then and appeared in his study, demanding to be taken along:

  "What use am I here? Syrax can protect the city better in case of anything, and besides Vhagar..."

  "The less often Vhagar takes to the sky, the better," Father cut him off.

  "Why? It is..."

  "The rgest and oldest dragon, yes. One of the most dangerous, yes. And now think, to whom is her rider loyal."

  That Aemond looked at everyone around as blood enemies and complete nonentities was not news, although, gods witness, Jace tried to get closer to him, engage him in conversation, offered to train, but the cousin possessed impenetrable stubbornness multiplied by pride excessive even for Targaryens. Of course, he did not always refuse, but looked at the outstretched hand as if a poisoned dagger were clenched in it, no less, and nothing could convince him otherwise.

  "Then why not... lock him up?" seeing an opponent in a retive disgusted the Prince, but there were circumstances he was powerless to overcome. At least for now.

  "A rat cornered has a tendency to rush into attack, even if its price is death."

  "Do you mean to say he is not cornered now?"

  "No," Father allowed himself a small smirk, and leaned back in his chair. "Merely sits on a short leash, from which I do not intend to let him off."

  "Why put him on this leash at all then? Why not re-educate him? Win him over?"

  "Because upbringing, friendship, and other kinship feelings do not guarantee loyalty," Father cut off harshly. "Grateful eyes are very easy to close—if not with gold, then with someone's skirt or cloak. Win him over? Think yourself, what can be offered to him beyond what Viserys will give him. And as for Syrax... She and your mother need this war even more than Vermax or Arrax, or Tyraxes. Why?"

  Rare was their conversation without checking the tter for something. This time the question was simple, but Jace did not like the answer—too much stood behind it.

  "She is older, but has not been in battles yet," he spoke discontentedly. "She needs combat experience. Both of them."

  "Why?"

  "So that Syrax represents value in battle," Jace squeezed out of himself.

  Father hinted at another answer, but this one was no better, although from the King's point of view, one should say "no worse." War, another war, not the one they were involved in now, hung over them like a Valyrian sword on a single horse hair. The stakes in it had to be even higher, and to bet and not lose, one needed to have more pieces than cyvasse allowed, especially dragons.

  The next morning parents flew away to burn Vontene ships, and Jaehaerys was left in charge behind the Bck Verge, but he managed the affairs of the kingdom together with Lord Ilyleon. The Lord Viceroy pleased the Prince not only for his sharp mind and fencing skill (as a swordsman he might have yielded to Father, but he was a much better teacher), but also for his ability to understand: he liked the current situation no more than the Prince, but, like Jace, he submitted to the will of the liege and the gods.

  With the arrival of the Veryon fleet and Ser Laenor on Seasmoke, the pattern of the political dance in the Archon's Pace became even more complicated. King Viserys deemed it necessary to send them reinforcements, and Jace could not but admit that this was a very clever move. However much Father tried to behave as if he needed nothing, ships and another experienced rider with a dragon in the sky were definitely not superfluous; even if one followed his way of thinking completely, this was quite opportune: let the Vontenes shoot at Seasmoke rather than Vermax and Syrax, and sink Veryon ships, not Tyroshi ones.

  Returning to his own logic and the logic of his crowned grandfather, Jaehaerys saw an outstretched hand and an attempt to overcome this ugly family conflict in the reinforcements. The moment for full reconciliation, of course, was already lost, but the attempt to neutralize its consequences was not bad. That by sending the fleet the King tried to take a feasible part in the war with Vontis so as not to give the ruler of Tyrosh a reason to call himself the sole winner when the war ended was also no secret, but the Prince regarded this too as a reasonable precaution—he would have done the same himself.

  Returning Father behaved with the Sea Snake as if the conquest of the Stepstones had ended only yesterday, but this deceived no one, and first of all Lord Corlys himself, who did not rex his vigince. Whose warnings were more in this—the King's, Uncle Aegon's, or was it the usual caution of a seasoned sailor—Jace never understood. Ser Laenor, on the contrary, seemed to experience no problems at all and did not notice political difficulties. As if nothing had happened, he joked with Father about marital duty and mented the fate of the deposed father-in-w triarch, under whom war could have been avoided; with Mother recalled how they tried to find out if Syrax could outfly Seasmoke; juggled witty hints with Lord Jaegaer; trained with swords with Jace himself, Baelon, and Aemond, and in his free time found out if Ilyleon's brothels were as good as they said.

  Caraxes, Syrax, and Seasmoke, taking to the sky in turn or in pairs, by the middle of 126 AC rid the New Freehold of most of its fleet, which, according to rumors, forced the eyks to hire a huge pirate flotil, gathered boat by boat from port to port from the Summer Isles to Asshai. All this armada had yet to be gathered in one pce, and the only avaible harbor near the Stepstones was Lys—Father wanted to visit there with all his dragons, counting on taking Aemond with his Vhagar to end this misunderstanding at once, but this still had to be waited for.

  There remained the nd army of Vontis itself. The easiest way was to burn infantry on the march—Jace and Vermax managed this even alone—however, the triarchs were not completely finished idiots, and bet by no means on slow legions. The main unpleasant surprise for Tyrosh in the first months of the war were raids by light cavalry detachments; they acted almost like Dothraki with the only correction that this was an organized army, not a gathering of mustachioed screamers: the words "strategy," "tactics," and "discipline" were not an empty sound for them, and therefore it was not difficult for them to seize first separate settlements, then towns at crossroads of the former Disputed Lands, and then, taking advantage of the fact that dragons were burning Dothraki and the fleet, pulled up the main forces and captured several castles.

  Another unpleasant surprise was the scorpions, with which the Vontenes studded practically every captured fortress and their own fortifications on the border. Rumors obtained by Princess Saera turned out to be true: the new mechanisms indeed shot more often, higher, and more accurately than anything the Targaryens had encountered before. At first, of course, the new weapon was ughed at, but as soon as Syrax missed a bolt piercing Qohorik armor through by just a yard, and Caraxes acquired a new scratch on his chest, Jace was forbidden to fly over territories occupied by eyks—Vermax would have had enough of that too. Father took them seriously, flying out with Ser Laenor now together, now singly, and left Mother to guard Tyrosh; Jace himself was entrusted with patrolling a wide section from the Broken Arm of Dorne almost to the very borders of the kingdom in the Disputed Lands. Were Baelon with Tyraxes at least a year older—they would fly together, from different ends, but as it is...

  "Karaksys!" Father's formidable shout, addressing both the dragon and the keepers at once, flew under the vaults of the ir like a whip crack.

  The echo had not had time to die down when Caraxes responded to his rider's call with anticipatory clucking, stirring in his shelter, commands of dragon guards lining up before his shelter flew.

  "Dāriros ?uhys, Vermakso se aōma dekurātās inkot (My Prince, move Vermax and yourself aside)," the eldest of them addressed Jace respectfully but adamantly.

  The Prince nodded, showing he heard him, patted his dragon on the neck for the st time, and let him go. Several Dragonkeepers with poles immediately jumped up to him, one took the chain-reins and pulled them toward the cave assigned to him.

  "Dohaerās, Vermaks! Dohaerās! (Serve, Vermax! Serve!)" the dragon hissed, much more for form's sake than out of natural malice, and as if reluctantly moved his legs.

  "Lykirī, Vermaks!" Jace shouted to him.

  "You coddle him too much," Father's strict voice sounded behind his back. The Prince looked back; the King of Tyrosh was in his Valyrian armor, with Dark Sister on his belt and a helmet under his arm—unlikely he gathered to keep Mother company in flights over the city. "He must understand himself when he needs to obey keepers, and this way you interrupt their commands with yours. The dragon obeys the rider in any case, but you are not going to feed him yourself and lead him out of the cave to clean up shit after him? Let people do their duty—do not ease the task for them or the dragon."

  Of course, the fact that even a rider might find it difficult to handle a tired and therefore irritable dragon, Father did not take into account.

  "Yes, Father," Jace bowed his head, avoiding unnecessary argument. "Has something happened? And where is Vhagar?"

  "Vhagar is in Dorne," the King of Tyrosh answered gloomily.

  "You let Aemond go to Dorne?" the Prince was surprised.

  "Dornish lords are trying to overthrow the Yronwoods, and Viserys magnanimously decided to support them. Rightly decided, generally. The stronger the Yronwoods are tied to us, the quieter it will be on the borders, and while Dornishmen bleed each other, they will not bother us."

  "Do you think the mere shadow of Vhagar will scatter all Yronwoods' enemies? Or are you flying to help Aemond?"

  "No, of course not," Father rolled his eyes. "He'll manage himself, and if not—his problems."

  Behind their backs, Caraxes, who had emerged from the cave, roared; deftly turning his long body, he curved his neck, staring impatiently at his rider. Father smiled at him, and for a second it seemed to Jace that he would roar in response, but instead he simply said:

  "Laenor Veryon is dead."

  "Seven Hells (Peklo)! Were they shot down? Where?"

  "No, praise the gods."

  "Then how?.."

  "One of the captured Vontenes stabbed him with a dagger in Korzos. Hid it somewhere, the bastard... But Laenor is a fine one himself—what in the Seven Hells (Peklo) did he go to them for? Wanted to gather a harem from prisoners or something?"

  "Does Lord Corlys know?"

  "Of course, he knows. The raven arrived before dawn, and he immediately put to sea. I think I'll catch up with him by sunset."

  "And... what now?" a stupid question, of course, but let Father answer it himself rather than Jace thinking for him.

  "Corlys will take the body, I will finish what Laenor started," he shrugged, cnking his armor.

  "And what about Seasmoke?"

  "Will follow the body. At least, we count on it."

  "How... untimely all this is. Postpone the raid on Lys?"

  "For now, yes. We need Seasmoke for that, and now he needs a rider."

  "If Seasmoke returns to Driftmark, Monterys or Lucerys can saddle him," Jace began to reason.

  "Unlikely Corlys's blood is enough for that," Father snorted. "We'll manage without Veryons."

  "Daenerys is still too small for such an adult dragon," the Prince reminded. "Besides, Seasmoke mourns..."

  "I know without you she is small," the King snapped. "Nothing, we'll find another."

  "Whom?"

  Instead of an answer, Father put on his helmet and went to the waiting Caraxes, waving his hand in farewell: simultaneously "bye," "dismissed," "think yourself," and "you'll find out ter." Following him with his gaze, Jace understood that he was not at all saddened by the death of a retive, and the severity and strictness now were only a mask behind which satisfaction was hidden at how well everything turned out. Unlikely Father started the war to free dragons for new riders, but he was certainly gd of Laenor's death and would definitely use it to the advantage of their family.

  Caraxes, waiting until the King of Tyrosh settled in the saddle, clucked, and the dragon guards scattered, and the younger dragons wailed from their corners. The Blood Wyrm, writhing, headed for the exit of the ir with wide strides.

  ---------------

  Read advance +50 chapters on my

  (.)com/WinterScribe