Dennis did, after all, manage to charter a ship; the captain of The Striped Elephant demanded five thousand honors, and half in advance at that—allegedly to pay forfeits on orders already taken. The knight, naturally, paid, though he later confessed to his liege that they had been fleeced like babes. Aegon, who with every passing hour felt ever more ill at ease in the red-and-black manse, cared not a whit for honors, nor how much that amounted to in golden dragons. By evening, he and Vermithor had flown to the port, where Dennis, with the aid of five of the boldest sailors, was obliged to unload the belongings accumulated during their travels from the dragon’s saddle. To return to the red-and-black house thereafter was undesirable, yet however great the temptation to spend the night directly on the ship, Aegon returned to his aunt’s mansion.

Jaegaer answered the proposal to travel together with a tacit nod—Maerys’s death had made him sullen and taciturn; to confess, the Prince allowed that he might refuse or fail to appear at the hippodrome at the appointed hour, but his cousin surprised him. At the appointed time, he was waiting for them and Dennis, sitting on the stairs with a small knapsack.

“Are you ready?” Aegon clarified just in case.

“Yes,” Jaegaer rose, and the Prince saw that he had neglected not only the services of a barber, but sleep as well—bags had swelled beneath his eyes, his face was gaunt, and pale stubble was sprouting on his chin and cheeks.

“Is that all you are taking with you?”

“Not much, is it?”

“And money?”

“Mostly, it lies therein.”

Aegon shrugged and began to descend. How starkly all this differed from the last time! No Viserra (any thought of her now evoked an aching pain in his chest) holding his hand, nor Aunt Saera at the foot of the stairs. Only Tala saw them off, and even then, only to ensure that they had finally relieved the house of their presence.

Vermithor was already waiting for them at the hippodrome, having devoured three bulls in the evening, and was thus sated, content, and ready for flight. A push, a confident beat of wings—and already the Black Walls and the poorer quarters of Volantis were left beneath them; above the harbor, the Bronze Fury roared and breathed a jet of flame into the air—such was the sign by which The Striped Elephant was to put to sea. By agreement with the captain, the ship held a course for Lys, where it was to arrive on the fourth day following the dragon.

The flight passed without incident, and on the late morning of the twenty-sixth day of the tenth month of the year 106, Vermithor landed on one of the bastions of the Free City of brothels and pleasure houses. The Magisters of the city, naturally, poured out to greet the winged guests, burying them in assurances of their own deep reverence and heartfelt friendship, in order to issue a “gracious permission” to remain guests of the city. Naturally, a feast was thrown in their honor, and not one, but they could scarce compare in elegance and taste with the Volantene receptions.

At these, Jaegaer mostly drank, and if he remained sufficiently sober, he withdrew to a bedchamber accompanied by a serving wench, or even more than one, whom he then tupped to utter exhaustion. Dennis pretended to be bored, trying not to betray his interest in the naked dancers pirouetting directly upon the tables too strongly. Aegon tried to distract himself with empty conversations with the city Magisters, marveling at the persistence with which they tried to hire him and Vermithor for service; they met any refusal with an expression of extreme surprise and the question:

“But you helped Braavos, did you not? Name your price; our banks are no poorer than the Iron one!”

On the last day of the month, the Elephant dropped anchor in the Lysene roadstead, and a new question arose before the travelers, the answer to which Aegon did not wish to receive. After midday, he appeared in his cousin’s rooms; the other had scarce managed to take a bath after another night of sweet wine and unrestrained love, and thus looked languid and almost content. Almost, because the former Aeksio

had managed to sober up and remember why he found himself in Lys.

“Have you decided where you will go?” the Prince asked without preamble.

“Do I have a choice?” Jaegaer shrugged phlegmatically.

“Imagine it. To begin with, you could be sober for at least one evening.”

“A piss-poor choice. I do not like it. Are there others?”

“You can travel with us to Westeros.”

“To what end?”

“Because it is the only place in the whole wretched world where you will be welcome.”

“And what shall I do there? Scratch my arse?”

“If it pleases you—yes,” sighed Aegon. With every word, the conversation resembled the last meeting with Viserra more and more, and thus pleased him less and less. “You are still our cousin, so you will be gifted a cudgel to make scratching your arse more convenient. Perchance the cudgel will even be sharp.”

“Sounds not bad,” Jaegaer drawled. “But will my bastardy not hinder this? I am no Targaryen, nor even an Aglaris. What will I even be called in the Andal fashion?”

“Jaegaer Waters. But I shall ask Viserys to give you a proper name.”

“Make me a Targaryen?”

“At best—yes. At worst—he will find something else. You are of the blood of the dragon; to call you Waters is an insult to our whole House.”

“A wretched House you have, if the truth can insult you,” the cousin chuckled; of late he loved to indulge in self-flagellation and could endlessly chew over his origins and recent misfortunes, cherishing and nursing his grievances.

“Even if Viserys does not acknowledge you as a Prince, knighthood is assured you,” Aegon continued, ignoring the remarks. “You will receive a sword and will serve the Iron Throne. One need only ask for it and not forget to bend the knee.”

“To ask someone that I might be permitted to serve… And why the hell do I need that?”

“Truly, I know not what to answer. To obtain at least some meaning in life?”

“At the present moment, I see the meaning of my life in the necessity to drink more wine—I am outrageously sober, and it is already dinner, I believe. Yes, definitely need a drink. In truth, I have thought on the future, dear cousin. I considered the option of selling my sword as a sellsword; your knight said I am not a bad fighter. I shall try my luck, seek glory, wealth, and women. You, by the by, have you not tried the local slaves? Terribly skillful wenches! Viserra is far from them!”

In answer to this, Aegon, unable to restrain himself, struck him across the face with the pommel of his cane with a backhand blow; losing his balance, Jaegaer tumbled from the chair onto the thick carpet and only burst into laughter.

“Do not dare speak of her so,” hissed Aegon, leaning over him.

“Or what? You’ll feed me to the dragon?” the cousin grinned, palpating his cheekbone.

“The Elephant sails in five days. We fly at the same time, at dawn. If for some reason you do not wish to waste your life on wenches and wine—come, a place in the saddle will be found for you. If you like such a life better, then stay and burn while there is something to burn. In that case—farewell, cousin.”

Having said this, the Prince spat and limped away; he wanted terribly to kick the scoundrel in the stones with his boot, or count his ribs with the cane, but he restrained himself—the result was not worth the effort.

All the remaining days up to the very departure from Lys, reports were brought to Aegon of his cousin’s latest rampages: the wine he drank was measured in barrels, the bed-slaves who managed to service him—in dozens, the honors lost in gambling houses—in thousands; in a word, Jaegaer caroused as if for the last time. All this caused no small anxiety to Dennis, who feared they might be shown the door ahead of time.

“Calm yourself,” Aegon told him. “They will not drive us out while a groat can still be taken from us.”

But then came the last day of the term appointed by the Prince. The Striped Elephant had already left the port, setting a course for the Stepstones; there, a dragon in the sky would certainly be useful—judging by the news, an unmeasured number of pirates had settled on the Broken Arm. The sun had long since risen and was gilding the turquoise Lysene waters, but Aegon still tarried.

“My Prince, it is useless,” said Dennis. “He will not come.”

“Let us wait a little longer.”

Time passed; fishermen had already left the nearest piers, carrying fresh catch to the markets, a crowd of gawkers discussed Vermithor with a clamor, who had perched on the breakwater, but did not approach closely. Then, a figure separated from the “well-wishers,” wrapped in incomprehensible rags; with an unsteady gait, it approached the dragon. A murmur rolled through the crowd, but the mighty beast did not react to the newcomer.

“Is there room?” asked Jaegaer in a voice hoarse with hangover.

“There is,” nodded Aegon and, tucking his cane into his belt, began to clamber into the saddle. A smirk touched his lips—for the first time in recent days, the Prince did not have to say farewell.

—————

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