Lord Jaegaer Ilyleon
"You do realize that they wipe their feet upon you? Use you as a servant and a political whore?" his mother spoke in a quiet, ingratiating voice, though Jaegaer understood perfectly well that deep inside, beneath the mask of concern, she was ready to tear and storm with rage. The Princess and former Triarch could not reconcile herself to the fact that her opinion was far from always heeded.
"I swore an oath," he reminded her. "I offered them my service, and I suppose it is natural that they expect a certain obedience from me. Moreover, Daemon could simply have commanded me, but he chose to explain everything. His arguments are quite reasonable..."
"Jaegaer, they have betrothed you to a Rhoynar!" Saera, losing her patience, almost broke into a scream.
"Not married, only betrothed. She is but eleven; we must wait."
"Do you hear me, my son? A Rhoynar! You could have chosen any maid on both shores of the Narrow Sea, and they foisted a grimy girl upon you!"
"Girls have a way of growing up and turning into beautiful women. And why does her Rhoynar blood trouble you so? You slept with gods know whom yourself! Mayhaps my father was some Dornishman?"
In response, the Princess only groaned theatrically and threw herself back dramatically into the armchair, covering her eyes with her palms, as if suffering the worst tragedy of her life. In truth, the problem lay only in the fact that Jaegaer had agreed to the marriage with Aliandra Martell proposed by his cousins without consulting his mother. The idea of asking his mother about anything had not even occurred to the Lord of the Verge himself, not after all the twists and turns of life he had been forced to endure.
"I cannot believe it..."
"And whom, in your opinion, should I have married?" Jaegaer asked with all possible patience.
"Oh, anyone at all! Even Viserra!"
"That is all I needed!" he snorted. "Perchance once, long ago, I would not have been averse to following family tradition, but now—no."
"You could adopt Aerion..."
"He grows up in my house and bears my surname as it is."
"You know what I meant."
"And you have already heard my answer."
"Very well," his mother folded her hands theatrically on her lap, smoothing the folds of her violet dress. "You could have taken Lord Velgaris's daughter to wife, any of them, for that matter. The Lannisters and Tyrells would also have agreed to ally with you; there have always been many of them, so your choice would have been great. If you liked the rivermen so much, since you fought them, the Tully women are ready to spawn, you have only to beckon. Note, I speak now only of the Great Houses, and there are their vassals besides."
"And not one of them compares in any way to the Martells," Jaegaer said condescendingly. "This is a royal house..."
"Former. Your adored Daemon overthrew them."
"They were overthrown by their own subjects for foolish politics and an even more foolish war. Living Martells are a guarantee that the Yronwoods will be meek and obedient to the dragon's will. If one day their brains fail them, the Iron Throne will have Martells kin to the Targaryens. It is a very clever move."
"Which makes you..."
"A political whore, I remember," Jaegaer nodded. "I remind you, Mother, each of my cousins has shown me so many favors that to refuse this marriage would have been flagrant ingratitude. You do not like it, but you will have at least five years to reconcile yourself to having a Rhoynar daughter-in-law. You can bear one more disappointment from me, can you not?"
Saera curled her lip and turned to the window, which offered a view of the square before the Archon's Palace.
"I thought as much."
At that moment, the inconspicuous side door of his study opened silently, and Uggo, all in blue from his Westerosi-style doublet to his own hair, glided toward him across the polished marble slabs.
"I beg forgiveness, my lord, but this is urgent."
With a respectful bow, the secretary handed over a letter adorned with a fat blot of red-and-gold sealing wax. Breaking the seal, Jaegaer scanned the text of the message. An ordinary letter—the castellan of the palace reported how many men had entered the service of the King of Tyrosh over the past month and asked if my lord viceroy wished to inspect the reinforcements.
"Pray excuse me, Mother, this truly brooks no delay," it seemed to Jaegaer he had feigned regret with a slight tinge of concern on his face well enough, but judging by the Princess's sour expression, he had either not succeeded overly much or simply had not fooled her with such a cheap trick.
"I regret it, my son," she said dryly, rising from the armchair, and without saying goodbye, walked out the door helpfully opened by the servants.
Scarcely had the leaves closed behind her than the Lord of the Verge inquired of his secretary:
"Are the walls in my study truly so thin that it could be heard I needed rescuing from my own mother?"
"No, my lord," Uggo responded impassively. "I deemed that a prolonged conversation with Princess Saera might weary you."
Well, his mother truly had wearied him, that was true. Although Viserys had permitted her to remain at court, the Queen ruled the roost there, having not forgiven her husband's aunt for her thinly veiled mockery. As if in revenge for the suggestion to send her son to a septry, Alicent Hightower had turned the Red Keep into a semblance of one: every seventh hour the court went to worship, and every seventh day was spent in strict fasting; minstrels were ordered to perform only pious ballads and hymns; grand feasts were cancelled entirely under the pretext of the oncoming winter.
Saera cared nothing for others' prayers or withering glares, but it was precisely her behavior that prevented her from establishing herself at court. Relations with the Queen did not work out, and the Velaryons ignored her entirely after the failed attempt to ingratiate herself with Aegon. Rejected by two factions, the Princess remembered the existence of a third and, having asked the King's permission to visit her son, who had managed to return to Tyrosh, moved into his house as if she owned it, taking Viserra, Aerion, and a few personal servants—their old faithful slaves from the past—with her. Jaegaer did not tell his mother that the court septry had ceased to exist as soon as her ship's sail melted on the horizon.
"Do not pull such tricks with others," he told the secretary sternly. "Only with the Princess. With the rest—only if it is truly urgent."
"As you command, my lord," Uggo replied imperturbably. "Do you wish to visit the castellan?"
"He will wait. How fares Princess Rhaenyra?"
"I heard everything is nearing its conclusion."
"A happy one, I hope?"
"One must assume so, my lord."
"Then the castellan will indeed wait."
With these words, Jaegaer rose from the table and left the study, leaving Uggo in his beloved realm of paper and ink. A pair of guards trailed behind: getting used to everyone in his own house wearing his colors, blue and white-and-gold, proved surprisingly easy, just as getting used to the house itself, the second most luxurious palace behind the Black Verge. Now Lord Ilyleon, Viceroy of Tyrosh and right hand of his King, strode through its corridors, and servants in azure livery pressed respectfully against the walls.
Of course, his current position implied not only rights and privileges but also duties, which he continued to accumulate. No sooner had Tyrosh opened its gates to the Targaryens, no sooner had the cousins sorted out who, how, and with what title should rule the city and the entire Kingdom of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, than Daemon, without further ado, offered him the post of his viceroy. Jaegaer agreed, for it was impossible to refuse. Not after he, a Volantene exiled and abandoned by his own mother, had been raised from the mud, given the opportunity to win not only abstract glory but also to earn very material goods in the form of gold and lands on the other side of the Tyroshi Straits.
"You are perfectly suited for this office," the new Conqueror had persuaded him then. "You know how they live in the Free Cities, you have seen how they rule in Westeros, and besides, you are our kin. Who is more suited for this office than you?"
Thus Jaegaer became the Hand in all but name, since the Hand of the King could not have a Hand of his own. The first times were expectedly difficult: he and Daemon survived a couple of assassination attempts, several times they tried to poison them, but with each failed attempt, the number of those willing grew smaller. Not simply because someone became disillusioned with the methods of struggle—Daemon resolved the problem of the loyalty of the magisters who swore allegiance to him uncompromisingly. Heads rolled, foreign blood flowed, gold, property, and allotments in the Essosi borderlands flowed from one hand to another, allowing worthy and faithful servants to be rewarded. Not only Westerosi landless knights and third sons of great and small lords rose, but native-born Tyroshi, former merchants, and captains received knighthood and a piece of land, and for three of them, Daemon managed to obtain lordships from his elder brother.
Thus ruled Daemon of House Targaryen, King of Tyrosh, the Stepstones, and the Narrow Sea: ruthless to his enemies, generous to his friends, and strict with his servants. To the latter belonged Lord Ilyleon, of whom, despite their friendship—or perhaps precisely because of it—more was asked than of others. Daemon might spend a week or two in the Red Keep, then return to Tyrosh for a few days, and every arrival in his domains began the same way: with a detailed report from the Viceroy.
In the year and a little more that had passed since the conquest of Tyrosh, Jaegaer had more or less managed to establish the administration of the city and the entire kingdom. The old Archon's apparatus of officials and servants was partly destroyed by the war, partly purged during the pacification of the magisters, but what remained became the foundation of the new system, into which, of course, Andal blood was mixed. Although officer commissions were issued equally to Westerosi and Tyroshi, within just a few months the City Watch acquired almost Westerosi features, save perhaps for the spreading fashion of dyeing beards and mustaches. In contrast, the civil service remained Tyroshi in spirit: although the Targaryens, obeying their Andal upbringing, had abolished slavery, the laws of the city underwent comparatively small changes, and Tyroshi were left to execute them.
"You cannot force our lords to part with coin," Daemon said. "Let them double-check them."
Monitoring the auditors was not easy, but such was a problem wrestled with even in the Old Freehold. Having identified discrepancies in revenues for the first time, Jaegaer, after brief reflection, decided to repeat Daemon's measures: arrears were collected from Lord Agnalis with truly indecent interest, confiscating his sugar plantations in Essos, and the official who had turned a blind eye to this was hanged on a cord of gold threads before the only gate in the Black Verge. The act of intimidation had to be repeated twice more (and both times Westerosi were the ones evading taxes) before it began to dawn on the auditors whom they served, and the thought flickered in the lords' minds that it was more profitable to pay voluntarily than to try to cheat. By this means, a semblance of unity was somehow secured for a kingdom consisting of three dissimilar parts: the islands, the city, and its continental holdings; the latter, if the Andals were to be believed, strongly resembled the Dornish Marches before the overthrow of the Martells.
Naturally, ruling a kingdom on another's behalf alone was impossible. In all matters concerning the fleet and the operation of the ports, Jaegaer relied on Malentine and Rogar Velaryon, the younger brothers of the Sea Snake. Maester Gerardys, whom Daemon had summoned from Dragonstone to aid his pregnant wife, undertook the organization of the Viceroy's chancellery; Jaegaer still could not get used to the fact that among the Andals, the cleverest men were simultaneously healers, simple scribes, and councilors. Lord Raagio Velgaris, a former magister who had chosen the right side, became the link between the Tyroshi and their new ruler.
He treated Jaegaer with almost fatherly attention, offering counsel only when it was truly needed, yet the Viceroy did not delude himself: he remembered who had brought his mother's senior slave woman with his younger brother's ashes to his house, and it was foolish to think Saera would not use old connections given the opportunity—Velgaris was almost certainly her man. Lately, he had been gently but steadily leading the Viceroy to the thought that the Velaryons had been given too much power and their maritime monopoly should be limited. Whether he yearned to be a captain himself or was defending someone else's interests, Jaegaer had not yet understood, and therefore left the lord's hints unanswered. He ought, of course, to speak of this with Daemon, but how can a man attend to business while awaiting the birth of a son?
Lord Ilyleon stepped out into the covered gallery-bridge connecting the wing of his mansion with the Archon's Palace. Although there were no towers behind the Black Verge like those in Old Volantis, some buildings were connected by bridges—after all, Valyrians had built Tyrosh, preferring not to descend to the sinful earth unnecessarily. The roof over the bridge was supported by elegant marble columns, the spaces between which Myrish glassblowers had filled with window frames of small panes, and in sunny weather, it seemed a man walked upon lace made of shadows.
Beneath the gallery, between the two palaces, spread a garden, closed off from the square by inner walls. Despite the cold north wind that had blown almost incessantly since the beginning of winter, someone was walking among the half-bare trees and bald bushes. Slowing his pace, Jaegaer recognized in the strangely bent silhouette Tala, holding Aerion firmly by the hand; the boy was hurrying somewhere, shuffling his feet, almost running, and the servant woman was trying either to keep up with him or to wipe his nose and adjust his clothes. They did not look up and soon disappeared under the span of the bridge. Viserra was expectedly nowhere to be seen.
His sister had borne the move to Tyrosh far better than the trip to King's Landing, and having settled behind the Black Verge, began to behave just as she had in Volantis. She turned her own chambers in her brother's house into a small semblance of their red-and-black mansion in the New Freehold, receiving guests from all over the city every other evening. Naturally, with such a lifestyle, little time remained for her own son, and the main burden of caring for the child fell upon his grandmother and uncle. Saera, however, was too busy with intrigues and politics, and she remembered her grandson only when she needed to assuage her maternal longing, to replace Maerys. The realization of this accumulated like acrid bile somewhere inside, but outwardly Ilyleon tried not to show his irritation. Not for his mother's sake, no, but for Aerion's. The nephew had already endured enough in his four years—that disgusting scene of bargaining for paternity alone was worth something.
The marble slabs underfoot gave way to red granite as soon as Jaegaer entered beneath the vaults of the Archon's Palace. The deeper he went into Princess Rhaenyra's private apartments, the more crowded the corridors became: the hum of courtiers' conversations filled every corner, every niche, though each of them lowered their tone by half; ladies rustled their dresses, lords, knights, and officials sedately discussed their own affairs.
Passing through the motley gathering and absently answering greetings, Jaegaer was unpleasantly struck by what this part of the palace had turned into. In its very heart, the King's heir was about to be born (no one doubted it would be a boy), yet the process of birth itself, which in Volantis was considered perhaps even more intimate than the rite of worshiping Valyrian gods, had become something like a mummer's play. Fortunately, Daemon had wits enough to shield his wife's boudoir and bedchamber from the intrusive attention of most of the courtiers, but the guards let the Viceroy of the city into this holy of holies.
There were few people in Rhaenyra's solar: a pair of Rhaenyra's ladies-in-waiting huddled on a low sofa, nervously fingering their handkerchiefs, while by the window, the King himself stood like a gloomy statue, arms crossed over his chest. The crown of three jeweled hoops sat almost on his very eyebrows, and the amethyst in the cross on his forehead seemed almost black. In response to Jaegaer's questioning look, he only grimaced and returned to contemplating the palace garden. The last time Daemon became a father, it was through the death of his wife, so he had grounds for pessimism. Ilyleon thought that during childbirth a woman should scream, but if any noise came from behind the massive door, it dissolved completely in the courtly noise drifting from the outer chambers.
The door through which Jaegaer had entered opened again, admitting Princess Saera. His mother had managed to change clothes, skillfully managing to flatter her nephew: the light, almost summery violet dress had been replaced by heavy velvet, black with red and gold inserts. Black was the common color of all Targaryen coats of arms, but on his own, Daemon had replaced one dragon with two: two beasts, blood-red and golden, facing each other, intertwined tails, clung to each other with claws, almost touching noses.
Curtsying to the King, who barely paid her any attention, Saera approached Jaegaer and inquired with a light smirk:
"So these are the urgent matters of which you spoke?"
"The birth of an heir to the King of Tyrosh is indeed an urgent matter, Mother," he remarked coolly.
She had scarcely opened her mouth to say something when the noise from the bedchamber intensified; a clamor was heard, exclamations, something like weeping and screams. The ladies-in-waiting jumped up from the sofa; Daemon, turning sharply on his heels, rushed to the door and nearly flew into it when it swung open. On its threshold appeared one of the midwives, sweating but smiling.
"A boy, Your Grace!" she announced, and was immediately forced to jump aside, making way for Daemon.
Jaegaer nearly followed him, but his mother held him back by the sleeve.
"Wait. Your Rhoynar will bear you your own son, then you shall run," she said, grimacing as if any mention of Lady Martell caused her a migraine.
Soon Daemon himself came out to them, holding a crying bundle in his arms.
"Congratulations, Nephew," Saera smiled, looking at the swaddled infant. "The boy will obviously be a glorious knight, since he screams so. Jaegaer cried loudly too; my midwives could not marvel at it enough."
"Yes, perhaps," the happy father chuckled, not tearing his proud gaze from his son.
Jaegaer also peered into the bundle of sheets in which the future King of Tyrosh and the Stepstones was wrapped. Lord Ilyleon had seen infants before, and this one differed in no way from others, save that soft fuzz silvered on his head.
"It seems customary to say that the son looks very much like the father," he remarked cautiously. "I always considered it rare nonsense, but now I think that perhaps he does look like you. Like you at that age."
"In that case, he will be a handsome man," Daemon smirked.
"Have you thought of a name?"
"Rhaenyra proposed naming him Baelon, but I told her that is not the most fortunate name for an heir in our family. Our family would not survive a third Aegon, so we settled on Jaehaerys."
"A name worthy of a king," Jaegaer assessed.
His mother, barely covering her mouth with her hand, made a strange sound, something between a suppressed chuckle and a sob. Of course, she did not love her father, but she could have kept silent now.
"The name suits a king, but not an infant," she remarked. "But you seem to have decided everything?"
"Yes. Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen."
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