Princess Saera Targaryen
The Tyroshi harbor was as noisy and populous as the harbor of any other city Saera had visited in the four-and-forty years of her life. Her head was already splitting from the deafening din, the terrible crush all around was infuriating, and the dreadful mixture of smells—seawater, rotting fish, sewage, the sweat of men and horses, and a huge vat of cloyingly sweet aromatic oil that had shattered somewhere further down the pier—almost turned her stomach inside out.
The ship upon which the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, together with her now diminished household, had arrived in the former Free City, docked in the very center of the harbor. In Lys, they had been forced to search for a vessel with suitable conditions on board, but the investment had justified itself: the voyage passed in comparative comfort, and now the journey to the gates of the city itself was significantly shortened. Of course, the journey had consumed a significant portion of their remaining funds—they had only five hundred honors left, not counting hers and Viserra's jewelry caskets. There remained the promissory notes from the Lysene banks, but would they agree to cash them in Tyrosh?
Before disembarking, Saera sent one of the slaves remaining with her to find them a carriage or a litter, while she herself bid a warm farewell to the green-haired captain of the ship. He devoured her greedily with his eyes: had he been less accommodating, she would have had to give herself to him, but in Lys he had been satisfied with her honors, which he surely regretted later. Readily promising to choose his ship specifically for her next voyage, she allowed him to escort her to the gangplank, but descended to the pier on her own.
Belicho had already managed to find a driver, and Malaquo and Marqquo had loaded their meager belongings into the wain. First, most of their property had to be sold in Volantis, then they left another half in Lys—now only four slaves and half a dozen trunks remained with her and Viserra. Her daughter lamented their fate and bewailed the fall of their family, but Saera herself did not lose heart. She had fled across the Narrow Sea with only a couple of gold dragons that the captain, to whom she had given her maidenhead and then pleasured all the way from Oldtown to Lys, had thrown her in parting, so not all was lost.
The carriage proved not as spacious as Saera had hoped, so it was a bit cramped inside. She and Viserra sat on one side, while the faithful Tala settled opposite with Aerion in her arms. The boy cared nothing for the thunder and lightning that rumbled and flashed over the heads of his grandmother and mother, nor for the dwindling supply of honors, so long as his rag dragon, jointed legionary, and kind nurse were nearby.
"In the end, we were lucky," the Princess concluded as the carriage moved off.
"That we didn't have to pleasure the whole crew?" Viserra inquired gloomily.
"We wouldn't have had to do the whole crew—the captain is too greedy to share with the sailors."
"What a comfort."
"Don't play the Andal lady," Saera snapped at her daughter. "You spread your legs for whomever you wanted; nothing would have happened to you if you had to work for yourself and your son."
"Oh, and you are always ready!"
"Unlike you, I learned to keep the cock that fucks me."
Viserra snorted and turned away. Strictly speaking, all the misfortunes that had befallen them over the last couple of years were the consequence of a single mistake: her daughter should not have refused Aegon when he offered her his hand. The little fool, having listened to her mother's old gossip, decided that he would lock her up in the sept of the Red Keep and told her cousin to go to the Seven Hells (Peklo) with his proposal.
Saera never learned the whole story: her daughter spat venom at all inquiries, angry at herself, and the former princess and triarch was too absorbed in mourning Maerys at that moment to give both prudes a slap and look for a septon somewhere in the port to marry them quickly. With Aegon, one could have sent the bastard Vassar to the Seven Hells (Peklo) with his shitty game of political cyvasse—the Prince with a dragon would have easily overturned the board and smashed it over the heads of both "tigers" and "elephants".
There would have been no need to grovel before Laegon's kin, hastily distributing bribes of slaves, gold, and land to secure at least some support among the Old Blood, who recalled that the family of the unfortunate charioteer had always lived behind the Black Walls, whereas his surviving rival was actually the son of a whore. That this former brothel mistress had entered the high politics of the New Freehold thanks to Vogarro Vassar was quickly remembered and laid at the old intriguer's door as a fault. Affairs were already going poorly for the golden triarch (too many privileges for the goat-worshippers had been found in the new agreement with Qohor), and this scandal buried his chances for re-election entirely. In an attempt to hold onto at least a silver or even a bronze seat, Vogarro decided to rid himself of the inconvenient acquaintance and betrayed his old mistress to her enemies.
Unlike her daughter, Saera had never been a fool. When she realized her piece had been taken and Viserra's in-laws had broken off the betrothal, abandoning an inconvenient ally, she did what she had long wanted to do: ruined Vassar's life, using the remnants of her influence so that he not only failed to enter the new triarchy but received no posts at all. Rhaelyor Velaros, one of the "tiger" leaders, readily accepted her help in overthrowing an old enemy and proved noble and grateful enough to allow them to retire to a small estate on the Orange Shore.
It was there that Aerion was born. It made no sense to ask about his father. They allowed others to believe the half-truth, half-lie they had invented, but they never deceived themselves. Why lie to oneself when the answer is obvious? Her grandson, her nephew's bastard, resembled him in the eyes, as green as the Prince's own. Scarcely had the child survived the most dangerous first weeks than Viserra began to make plans to obtain what she had so rashly refused, while Saera pondered how they were to live on.
Prove paternity by eyes and pale-gold fuzz on the head alone? A common appearance for a Valyrian. Aegon knew that marriage awaited Viserra and could calmly claim it was not his child, but that of some Old Blood or even a bed slave. In the end, they agreed that Aerion should be presented to his father, but only when he had grown and strengthened: travel is dangerous for infants, and besides, the resemblance might become even more obvious.
For a time, they lived in expectation in provincial quiet, not dying of boredom solely because they were raising the child who made their existence somewhat justified. However, Vassar proved a vindictive bastard with long arms and tried to take revenge on the woman who had ended his political career. First, they had to change estates, then trade it for the newly captured Lys, but the bloodthirsty "elephant" managed to reach them even there.
They had to flee the city in haste, almost at random. Sailing to bow and scrape at the Red Keep, to appear there as a beaten, whining dog begging for scraps from the royal table, was unappealing, but fortunately, there was Tyrosh, where one could hide from pursuers and figure out what to do next. Already in the port, bargaining with various captains, Saera learned that the city, captured by her warlike nephews, was governed by a certain Lord Ilyleon, a cousin to two kings and one prince, their closest relative, advisor, and friend. The plan formed overnight; during the voyage, she positioned the pieces, and now it only remained to remove the screen, and the game of cyvasse could be played anew.
Meanwhile, their wain finally crawled to the port gates leading into the city. A muffled shout was heard from outside, the carriage lurched and stopped.
"What is it?" Viserra snapped irritably.
The door swung open, and Belicho announced with a guilty look:
"I beg forgiveness, gelas (ladies), but this gentleman wishes to speak with you."
Immediately, a broad-shouldered guard in a black surcoat shoved him aside. On his chest, two dragons, red and gold, spread their wings facing each other. It seemed someone had attended to a new sigil. The man himself was black-haired, but according to local custom, he had dyed his short beard with henna and surely considered himself irresistible. Examining the passengers of the wain intently, he inquired in a deep bass in the Common Tongue:
"Who are you and with what have you arrived?"
"This is my mother," Viserra interjected impatiently. "Princess Saera Targaryen, daughter of King Jaehaerys, the First..."
"And I am King Daemon himself then," the guard smirked, showing yellowish teeth. Did he dye those with henna too? "Who are you and with what have you arrived?"
"Forgive my daughter, ser," Saera hastened to intercept the conversation. "She bore the journey poorly. My name is truly gela (Lady/Mistress) Saera. We have arrived from the Volantene Freehold."
"From Volantis itself?"
"No, from Lys."
"Are these your slaves?" he nodded toward Belicho and the others.
"Yes."
"Do you intend to remain in Tyrosh?"
"I cannot say as yet," Saera answered evasively.
"If you decide to remain, you are obliged to give the slaves their freedom."
"On what grounds?!" Viserra was indignant. "They belong to us!"
"According to the Golden Law of King Daemon, the First of His Name, slavery is forbidden in Tyrosh, as in all the Seven Kingdoms," the guard explained, surely tired of telling this to newcomers. "If a slave owner intends to settle in Tyrosh, he must free his slaves and, if they wish to continue serving him, henceforth pay them wages as hired servants."
"What a..."
"Be silent!" Saera snapped at her daughter, and addressed the man with the same amiable smile. "And within what period, ser, must we do this?"
"You will have a month to decide."
"I think we shall determine our course within that time. Is there anything else, ser?"
"Yes, my lady. I must inspect your trunks."
Grimacing at the unfamiliar form of address, the woman nodded nonetheless:
"Look, ser. We have not much left. Malaquo, show this gentleman the trunks."
The slave, showing no interest in the prospect of freedom, readily executed the order. They had only four slaves left, but those were absolutely devoted to their mistresses, and one need not fear being left without servants. Even paying them some trifle—a helion a day, for example—was possible.
To oversee everything, Saera climbed out of the wain. One lock clicked, then another, and the guard began to examine their belongings with little interest.
"Fabrics for sale? Spices? Jewels?"
"Fabrics only in dresses, no spices, jewels only upon us," regarding the latter, the Princess lied, but the guard need not know that.
"Three gold dragons per free person and fourteen for each slave."
"How much?!" Saera was sincerely outraged. "Fourteen dragons?!"
"Slavery is forbidden in Tyrosh," the man repeated. "If you consider slaves property, then their import into Tyrosh is subject to a duty of fourteen gold dragons for each."
Saera had engaged in politics long enough to understand her nephews' cunning combination: keeping slaves must be less profitable than paying wages to servants. Credit where it was due, it was an interesting move, yet it did not solve Saera's own problems; hissing through her teeth, she inquired:
"We have only Volantene honors, can we pay with them?"
"Yes," the guard shrugged. "Dragon to honor—one and a half to one."
Some time was spent counting the gold, and the gela tried to ensure the cursed guard did not cheat them. She rechecked the calculations twice and only then handed over the money. The man smiled his yellow smile again and waved his hand, permitting them to pass. When the wain passed the guard post and rolled onto the flagstones of the Tyroshi streets, Saera allowed herself to curse:
"Hell-born (Peklo) pinchfists!"
"Why did you not give your true name?" Viserra asked in bewilderment. "You are a princess."
"I left Westeros seven-and-twenty years ago; I was seventeen. If anyone remembers that the Old King had a daughter named Saera, it is either the Targaryens or the Maesters. And of the former, I am not entirely certain."
"But still..."
"And how, in your opinion, were we supposed to prove our kinship? That man laughed at us and he was right. We look like merchant women, yet claim kinship with the House of the Dragon. Never make yourself a laughingstock before the smallfolk; they do not forget such things."
Viserra rolled her eyes and took Aerion onto her lap. The boy immediately scrambled to the window to gawk at the unknown street, and his mother held the child tighter. Suddenly, there was a knock on the wall of the wain.
"Gela, where to?" the driver inquired loudly.
"To a decent inn."
Saera absently stroked her grandson's white-gold curls as he chattered excitedly about something more to himself than to his mother. She needed to find out how to get to Jaegaer, but first, she must make herself presentable and rest. A couple of days would decide nothing.
They managed to rent rooms not so far from the city center, two blocks from one of the five main streets of Tyrosh. The inn for wealthy clients proved quite decent inside, and for a mere fifty gold dragons a week, Saera and her family could lead a lifestyle almost indistinguishable from before. The only trouble was that these dragons were beginning to resemble real ones more and more, striving to fly through her fingers into the sky.
Finding out where her son lived proved not difficult: as it turned out, Lord Ilyleon was known in Tyrosh as well as the notorious King Daemon, whose viceroy he served as. The nephew himself appeared in his lands for a week or two and flew back to King's Landing or Dragonstone. To the question of where to find them both, all the townsfolk, as one, pointed toward the Black Verge—a pitiful and clumsy semblance of the Black Walls of Volantis.
Once a week, the bronze gates opened, admitting petitioners into the holy of holies of the dragonlord conquerors. Saera did not wish to go with the common flow of lords, ambassadors, merchants, artisans, and other smallfolk to bow before her own son, and she wished even less to drag Viserra and Aerion along—there was nothing for a child to do at a "sweet family reunion," and her daughter, with her foul temper, was liable to ruin everything. In the end, Saera had thrown Jaegaer out the door herself, so it would be fair if she came knocking at his gates; only the fewer witnesses to her humiliation, the better.
It took several days to figure out how to get behind the Black Verge, and eventually, Saera settled on the most reliable move. Raagio Velgaris, a former Magister of Tyrosh, had proven sharp enough to side with the Targaryens immediately and now held the title of lord, and his pear brandy was supplied to the table of both kings. The proud possessor of a purple beard agreed to do an old trading partner a courtesy and bring a servant girl with a gift for the Warden of the Stepstones to an audience. Yes, the plan was not without risk, but with the right turn of events, they could be masters of their lives again by midnight.
Before dawn, the Princess handed faithful Tala the smaller of their trunks, which held Saera's grief and her greatest treasure: the urn-egg with Maerys's ashes; Jaegaer was meant to recognize both the old slave woman and his brother's final resting place. The heavy burden had to be entrusted to Malaquo: unlike Belicho and Marqquo, he was too stupid to think of approaching freedom, and under Tala's guidance, he was meek as a lamb.
Viserra was already accustomed to her mother sending one slave or two on errands, or even leaving herself, so she asked nothing and said nothing. This time Saera could only wait, and she forced herself to remain in her own bedchamber so as not to show her anxiety to her daughter.
The Princess did not know how to sit idle: in Volantis, there was always something demanding her attention, but here nothing depended on her yet. After seeing Tala off, she dozed again, after breakfast she acted out the coming conversation with Jaegaer to herself, but shortly before noon, she could stand it no longer and called the corridor maid.
"Bring me a lad, a comely one," she ordered her.
The girl nodded obediently and slipped out the door. Saera looked out onto the street. Autumn had firmly taken hold, and the weather was spoiling before her eyes. Not a day passed without accursed rain, and the damp wind chilled the stone houses, forcing everyone to huddle closer to braziers and hearths. In Tyrosh, as far as she knew, there was no snow, but this was even nastier: slush, mud, and the vilest cold. Aerion had already had several woolen suits sewn for him, and if this continued, she would have to fork out for several warm dresses for herself.
The door creaked quietly, and a velvet voice pronounced:
"Gela?"
Turning, Saera saw a youth of about eighteen, no older. He was dressed unseasonably: a short light tunic, cinched with a blue belt, did not reach his knees. Bright ultramarine eyes accentuated the blue hair hanging to his shoulders; swarthy skin, strong arms entwined with ropes of muscle, a comely face—the maid clearly understood her guests' requests well.
"What is your name?"
Ideally long ago, Saera had made it a rule always to ask the names of those she allowed into her bed. It flattered clients, even if they lied later, and then, when they began to please her, it allowed her to surrender to passion without reserve: there was little pleasure in mindless fucking with nameless cocks that looked one like another.
"Pello, gela," the blue-haired handsome youth answered with a soft smile.
"How much do you cost, Pello?"
"Five dragons. The master will include them in the bill when you leave us."
"If you work your tongue well, you'll get ten in hand," Saera said and, sitting on the edge of the bed, hiked up her dress. Pello smirked, showing even white teeth (a sure sign the lad was raised specifically for pillow houses), and obediently settled between her legs.
Credit where it was due, the youth handled the task virtuously: holding the woman's knees with his hands and acting only with his tongue, he managed to bring her to the peak. When she had no strength left to endure, Saera groped blindly for his head and pulled him up by the hair. Clever Pello understood everything himself and, quickly ridding himself of the hindering tunic, slowly entered her and made her finish that way.
Scarcely having caught her breath, she pulled off the dress, which had lost its ceremonial look. Pello wanted to work his tongue again, but Saera had other plans. Pushing the youth onto the bed, she straddled him herself, continuing to caress herself. Foreign strong hands shamelessly groped her body, squeezing breasts, stroking thighs and sides, allowing her to part with all cares, problems, and anxieties, allowing her not to think of "yesterday" and "tomorrow," allowing her to think of nothing.
When Saera, wet with sweat, saliva, and her own juices, collapsed onto the sheets and could once more discern the canopy above her bed, Pello, having managed to dress, sat nearby on the floor, smiling just as white-toothedly and unashamed of the darkening stains on his tunic.
" The best brothels of Lys would vie for you," their former employee rasped. "If you are in Lys, dare not sell yourself to anyone for less than three thousand panthers. In honors, that would be a thousand or a thousand and a hundred in gold, so in dragons, that would be about one and a half. Or more?.."
No, thoughts were still somewhere far away and blurring in her head.
"My thanks, gela. Do you desire anything else?"
"Only a bath."
Before Pello left her chambers, she gave him fifteen dragons—for the best pleasure she had had since leaving Volantis, such money was not to be begrudged. Saera knew how to be generous and loved to show this generosity before those who deserved it. The blue-haired craftsman definitely deserved it.
Then came the turn of the hot bath, where two maids scrubbed her with scrapers and anointed her with fragrant oils. Afterward, Saera went out into the solar, where she lunched with her daughter and grandson, then donned her best dress and began to wait again. At some point, she almost resigned herself to the fact that Tala had failed in a task for the first time or, worse, had conspired with Malaquo and betrayed them. But no sooner had Saera simply admitted such a thing than a noise was heard from the street, replaced by exclamations in the inn itself. The door to their chambers was unceremoniously thrown open, and Jaegaer appeared on the threshold.
Saera started: as it turned out, she was not ready for her son to have changed so much. Not a trace remained of his former effeminacy. His features had sharpened, become more masculine, and small scars had appeared. Of course, he must have fought... Jaegaer had let his hair grow only to his shoulders, as was fashionable in Tyrosh, but unlike the locals, he had not spoiled its natural silver with dye. However, he evidently preferred to dress in the Andal fashion, and seeing him in a luxurious blue doublet with gold brocade peeking from the slashed sleeves, and with a large gold chain around his neck, was strange. As if one of her brothers had looked into her solar again, but Aemon was taller and thinner, Baelon broader in the shoulders, and Vaegon always stooped.
"You look very much like your grandfather, Jaegaer," Saera, guessing, said, rising from the sofa. "Save that you wear no beard, and your hair is too short."
"So it is true," her son spoke, not taking his eyes off her. "And I did not even believe it at once."
"And yet you came."
Saera smiled and held out her hand to him, bracelets jingling on her wrist. Jaegaer did not move from his spot, continuing to drill his mother with his gaze, but then some commotion began behind him.
"My lord, allow me..." someone tried to squeeze into the room past him.
"It is well, Ser Roro. Wait outside."
Well, that is a good sign—he wants to talk. Jaegaer finally took a step forward, and the door closed behind him. Only then did he sweep the room with his gaze and notice Viserra, frozen tensely in the corner with a frightened Aerion in her arms. She looked at her brother like a sheep at a dragon, and in her gaze could be read hope, condemnation, and envy. Like many other women, Viserra preferred to blame anyone but herself for her misfortunes.
Saera sighed, preparing for a battle she could not lose. Jaegaer, meanwhile, spoke first:
"Is this..."
"Yes, this is your nephew."
"We named him Aerion," Viserra added.
"How old is he?"
"Almost four," answered his proud mother.
Jaegaer blinked, clearly counting the years that had flown by, and Saera hastened to come to his aid.
"Yes, he is Aegon's son."
"Is that certain?"
"Yes. One can count and verify. Viserra's betrothal did not take place, so there is no one else. Besides, the boy has his eyes. But I did not wish to speak of this."
Saera adjusted the hem of her dress and sat on the sofa again, patting the cushions, inviting Jaegaer to sit beside her. He, however, did not move from his spot. Well, that too can be used—these are her chambers, and he is a guest in them, and besides, she is his mother. Even if one must ask something of someone, one must do it from a position of strength, so that they themselves want to give everything and a little more.
"I am guilty before you, my son," she began. "A mother's duty is to protect her children and care for them, but I performed it not in the most proper manner. And yet I want you to know: all my actions, even if they seem unjust, wrong, and even cruel, were dictated by the desire to protect our family. All the angry words that undoubtedly wounded you, I spoke out of fear and grief. It took me a long time to cope with it, but I accepted this anguish and learned to live with it. I want you to know, Jaegaer, I do not blame you for Maerys's death, and never truly blamed you. By the by, where is his egg?"
"I left it at the palace," Jaegaer said hollowly.
"I thought you would return with it," Saera said, actually counting on the opposite result. The urn-egg was meant to be the first rope by which a ship is pulled to the pier, the anchor that keeps it from breaking away into the sea.
"Maerys does not deserve to be dragged back and forth after death. I shall ask my cousins for permission to leave him on Dragonstone. If not in their crypt, a separate one can be built, but he was of the blood of the Dragon too."
"Well, that is right."
An awkward pause hung in the air, which Saera hastened to fill:
"I see you have risen in rank."
"From bastard to Warden of the Stepstones, yes," he smirked. "I have not reached your ranks, of course, but still."
"It is a matter of time, my son. I am sure Daemon will appreciate your abilities and make you Hand in due time."
"Why are you here, Mother?" Jaegaer interrupted her. "Here, in Tyrosh?"
The Princess smiled sadly.
"We had to flee. Aegon stirred up a snake's nest with his visit. Vassar lost his post, not without my help, of course, but decided to take revenge. The 'elephants' have long arms. The Orange Shore, Lys, now Tyrosh... Gods know where we shall go next."
"Do you wish to remain here?" her son asked simply.
"Oh, sweetling, after all we have endured, I cannot..."
"Yes or no?"
Saera paused and lowered her gaze, examining the embroidery on the hem of her dress. Viserra, praise all the gods, was silent.
"I will not ask for myself," she finally said in a slightly cracked voice. "You have the right to be angry with me, even to hate me. But Viserra and Aerion are guilty of nothing and do not deserve the life of eternal wanderers. Therefore, I ask you to take at least them under your protection."
Jaegaer did not answer immediately, only shifting his gaze from his mother to his sister and nephew. While he thought, Saera felt her heart pounding in her throat from anxiety for the first time in many years.
"Do you have many things?" her son asked after a long pause.
"No," the Princess hastened to answer.
"Then gather them, all at once. I will not renounce my kin. At least in this, I shall be better than you."
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