King Viserys Targaryen, Second of His Name

If Ser Warrick Manderly wore a mustache, he would look like a seal or a walrus, Viserys decided, looking at his trade representative in Braavos. The Northerner managed to throw off his fur-lined cloak and appeared before the King and his Small Council in a quilted leather doublet, legs wide apart; he did not look the Targaryens—him and Daemon, wrapped in the golden cloak of the Captain of the City Watch—in the eye, only bowed and silently handed over a letter.

Viserys nearly tore it from the Grand Maester’s trembling hands. On fine paper of Braavosi make flaunted a sweeping inscription: “To His Grace King Viserys the Second—Prince Aegon Targaryen”, on the reverse side in a blob of red sealing wax flaunted a three-headed dragon. Impatiently breaking the seal, the King unfolded the letter; fortunately, over years of study in the Citadel and bookish hobbies, his younger brother had developed such a useful quality as neat, understandable, and beautiful handwriting—a skill mastered not by every Maester, let alone lords.

“My Sovereign!

You sent me across the Narrow Sea to represent the interests of Your kingdom. I hope my actions in Pentos served this goal well. Following Your orders, I went further to the Free City of Braavos. Below I set out for you the sequence of events that forced me to make a difficult but necessary decision.

I arrived in the city on the tenth day of the tenth month of this year. Already on the twelfth, the Sealord Tycho Ortheris deigned to give me an audience, at which I demanded from him the execution of the treaty concluded between Illustrious Braavos and the Seven Kingdoms on Your behalf by Ser Bartimos Celtigar on the twenty-first day of the ninth month of this year. In response, the Sealord pointed out to me that Free Braavos, already experiencing internal difficulties, is in a state of war with Lorath and Ibben, who have secured the tacit support of Norvos, and precisely this fact prevents the construction of the fleet ordered by Your Grace. The Sealord made it unambiguously clear that starting construction before the end of the war is impossible. Furthermore, I was hinted quite transparently that the Seven Kingdoms will receive the fleet only in case of complete victory over the Lorathi-Ibbenese alliance.

Without further ado, Tycho Ortheris offered me to hasten said victory through participation in the war together with Vermithor. Besides building the fleet, he promised to pay one million golden dragons directly into Your Royal Grace’s treasury. Considering the state need for fleet renewal and acting in the interests of the Seven Kingdoms, to whom, undoubtedly, it is profitable to have a grateful Braavos as a friend, I deemed it not only possible but necessary to agree to the Sealord’s proposal.

At present, while I write these lines, Braavos recruits sailors for its surviving ships with purple sails and gathers mercenary companies all over western Essos. The Council of the Anchor and Sword wants to start the war with the onset of winter, when the enemy expects it least. Of course, this involves risks—winter storms in the Shivering Sea are merciless—but the Braavosi are ready to stake the rest of the fleet for the sake of surprise. I suppose there is my and Vermithor’s fault in this too: my consent literally gave them wings.

My Sovereign, I am convinced my decision will seem hasty to You, but I hope You will be able to trust me and believe in me, my dragon, and our strength.

Prince Aegon Targaryen. Free City Illustrious Braavos, Sixteenth day of the tenth month of the 105th year After the Conquest.”

Below, under a perfectly even dividing line, under which a perky and fat blot was planted (surely intentionally), in a more hurried handwriting followed a postscript:

“My brother on the throne!

You will undoubtedly be angry with me (and, in principle, will be right), but a fleet and a million golden dragons are not found on a hunt or a walk in the Conqueror’s Garden. Vermithor coped with the Dornish, will cope with hairy men too, and I, if you remember, in childhood dreamed of knightly deeds in war. Dreams come true! But reality is much better—in it they pay too, and directly to me. I shall receive as much as the Iron Throne, and something on top.

Taking the opportunity, I declare my will to you in case of my death. Do not be hysterical, my brother, everything must be foreseen. The money and jewels you gave me as inheritance from Grandfather, Grandmother, and parents, I leave to Rhaenyra. Summon Maester Marlon, born Manderly, or Maester Adrian from Rain House from the Citadel and entrust one of them with care for my books and notes—they are my comrades, and to them I trust the most precious thing I managed to accumulate. Leave Baelor as Commander of the Dragonwatch, and you can make Daemon Master of Dragons if you still need him.

Bow for me to your wife and strictly ask your daughter if she learned ‘Farewell to Valyria’ as I ordered her. And tell our brother not to envy too much. It happened by accident, I did not mean to.

Invariably faithful to you, Your clubfooted brother.”

Viserys confusedly placed the sheet of covered paper on the table and for some reason smoothed it; his hand very opportunely stumbled upon a goblet of wine. The King drained it immediately, not even feeling the taste (and yet this was one of the best Dornish wines!), and remained standing with an empty glass.

“Well?” asked Daemon impatiently, craning his neck and trying to peek into the letter.

“Our brother…” despite the wine drunk, Viserys’s throat went dry again, and he had to clear his throat to continue: “Our brother goes to war…”

“Oho, our little one outdid us all!”

“To war? With whom?” frowned the Lord Hand.

“With Lorath and Ibben. The Sealord of Braavos hired him.”

A Prince of the Seven Kingdoms hired like some wandering cutthroat! What a disgrace!

Silence reigned at the table. Shifting his gaze to each of the Small Council members in turn, Viserys noted they were just as shocked as he himself. All except Daemon; he, on the contrary, chuckled, stole the letter from the King, and began to reread it. Lord Otto frowned and tugged at his red beard; Grand Maester Runciter, Lord Lyonel, and Lord Lyman exchanged concerned glances; Lord Corlys drilled the tabletop with his gaze.

“Does this threaten us… with any problems? In a political sense,” inquired Ser Harrold Westerling not too confidently. He had become Lord Commander of the Kingsguard only a couple of weeks ago, replacing the late Ser Ryam Redwyne. Being a true knight, valiant, loyal, and noble, he so far felt not too confident in the Small Council, not understanding the complex political lace of intrigues.

“Maybe,” Lord Otto nodded just as gloomily. “Lorath and Ibben may perceive this as the entry of the Seven Kingdoms into the war.”

“They lack forces to compete with us,” objected the Sea Snake. “If we gather all ships of the eastern coast, we shall crush them with numbers.”

“We shall not even have to gather ships,” snorted Daemon mockingly. “We shall burn them with dragonfire, as the Old King did with the Dornish.”

“Too self-confident assertions. Ibbenese are whalers, what does it cost them to kill an air whale? And their ships? They are too large, neither dragonfire, nor dragon claws, nor ship ram will take them.”

The Hand was obviously too skeptical of the belligerent statements of the Master of Ships and the Captain of the Gold Cloaks; but for some reason Viserys did not give a damn about all diplomatic subtleties, all military ruses and tactics—all this was deeply indifferent to him now. Daemon returned the letter, and Viserys’s eyes fell again on Aegon’s words with his… last will.

“Gods, how did it even come to this?” burst from the King.

Debates instantly subsided; councilors’ gazes converged on the walrus-like Ser Warrick, who now flushed, now paled, managing to sweat all the time, despite late autumn—a white raven from the Citadel was expected any day. Scarce did Viserys raise his gaze to Manderly when the man finally mastered his tongue and squeezed out of himself:

“My Sovereign… We tried… We tried to dissuade the Prince…”

“Tried poorly, it means,” chuckled Daemon.

“Enough!” barked the King. “Think you this is funny? Our brother goes to war!”

“It is good for him. He has two best protectors: one grey, the second bronze. Nothing threatens him.”

“He…” damn, Viserys thought about this so often, but so rarely spoke of his brother’s injury aloud. “He is lame, after all.”

“Clubfoots fight too.”

“He became so through your fault!”

“Thank you for reminding!” snapped Daemon and added quieter, averting his gaze: “No one regrets this more than I.”

“Participation of the Prince in the war is out of the question,” announced the King to the Small Council. “We have no interest in that war, it is Braavos and Lorath’s war. Ser Warrick, you are to set off immediately for Braavos, I order Prince Aegon to return home.”

Contrary to his expectations, Manderly was in no hurry to be filled with loyal zeal and run (or rather, roll) to the Mud Gate; on the contrary, his face became ash-grey, and he trembled like a leaf in the wind.

“Are you ill, Ser?” inquired Runciter sympathetically.

“M-m-my, K-k-king… I… I… I ca-annot…”

“Why is that? If your ship is damaged, the Lord Admiral will issue you his fastest ship.”

“N-no, my S-Sovereign… I cannot p-pass your order to the Prince…”

“Why is that?!”

“He d-departed for… for… wa… war…”

“How? He writes that these suicides will go to sea only with the coming of winter! Ser Harrold, seat Ser Warrick already!”

The Lord Commander laid his heavy hand on the knight’s shoulder; his legs buckled of themselves, and he collapsed onto the moved chair. Catching his breath, Manderly wiped his face, but only smeared sweat over it; sighing noisily, the ser could continue:

“Prince Aegon, my King, charged me to deliver this letter just before his departure. W-we departed on the same day.”

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