"Your Grace, the envoy from Lys has arrived."
Entering Aegon's chamber, Prince Draezell was, for once, dressed in an impeccably tailored and lavish robe. Over a high-collared deep purple tunic, he wore a silver half-cloak, with a roaring dragon and a laurel wreath embroidered across his chest in silver thread. He had even donned gloves and the Valyrian steel signet ring of his house. At his waist hung the Valyrian steel sword Silverblood.
This alone was enough to show the gravity of the meeting. Lysandro Rogare had made one miscalculation—word of his visit had reached both King's Landing and Dragon's Nest long in advance. However, since Lys had not formally announced its arrival, neither Draezell nor Aegon, nor even Prince Regent Daemon in King's Landing, saw any need to personally receive them. But as one of the three magister of the Lysene Magister's Conclave, Lysandro still warranted a respectful audience.
The current First Magister, Magister Bambarro, was facing ruin after his disastrous military failures. His fleet and estates had been pillaged by the Red Sea Horror, leaving him drowning in debt and under constant threat from his creditors. His position as Triarch was teetering on the brink. Meanwhile, the Second Magister, Magister Rendal, was little more than a puppet of Lysandro. It was only a matter of time before absolute power in Lys fell into the hands of the man now waiting outside the grand hall of Silverblood Tower, where the Obsidian Throne stood.
If, that is, Lys could survive the merciless raids of the Red Kraken's iron fleet.
"Prince Draezell, how should I respond to this Magister?" Though they had discussed their approach the night before, the young king still felt nervous now that the moment of the meeting had arrived.
"Listen to his pleas in silence," Draezell said, adjusting Aegon's collar and straightening the Valyrian steel sword Blackfyre, which still seemed too large for him. "Your Grace, all you need to do is shake your head when he speaks of Lys's misfortunes, nod when he speaks of its importance, and remain silent when he proposes an alliance or mediation with Dalton."
Draezell gave Aegon a once-over, nodded in satisfaction, and personally placed the Valyrian steel crown upon the boy's head. Aegon silently repeated his foster father's words under his breath as he followed him out of his chambers.
"My lord, what if they propose a marriage alliance?" Aegon pressed on with the same question they had debated the night before. It was a difficult issue. Daemon had long sought a union between House Targaryen and House Vaelarys, the two great dragonlord families. Failing that, he had always advocated for maintaining the Targaryen tradition of intermarriage.
For Viserys, Daemon's plan was to betroth him to either Vaelar's daughter, Daenyra, or to Draezell and Daena's next daughter—if, in a few months, Daena's pregnancy resulted in a girl. If so, she would be wed to Viserys.
There was, however, one other ideal candidate: Dowager Queen Baela. But Baela had always been wild and untamed, devoted to her freedom. No sooner had the Dragonpit in King's Landing quieted than she had flown Moondancer to Driftmark to visit Joffrey, choosing to reside in High Tide instead. It seemed that High Tide had a greater pull on her than King's Landing ever could.
As for the idea of marrying Viserys, Daemon had once broached the topic with her—only to be met with a firm refusal. She would rather remain widowed for Jacaerys's sake than remarry, refusing to forsake the husband with whom she had never even consummated her marriage.
Her words had been clear:
"Father, I have already been wed once. My husband was Jacaerys, the King of the Seven Kingdoms, the beloved Wise King of the people. I wish for them to believe that his queen, too, is a wise and just ruler, like Queen Alysanne before me. So please, do not ask me to wed again. I am already married—to Jacaerys, and to the realm."
Daemon had no choice but to let the matter rest. However, neither he nor Draezell had devised a contingency plan for one particular scenario—what if a ruler of equally high status proposed a marriage alliance?
The Baratheons were not worth mentioning. Lord Borros had already tucked his tail between his legs and accepted his diminished status. His only two remaining daughters had been quickly wed off after his eldest son, Royce Baratheon, was safely born earlier that year. Ellyn Baratheon had married Duncan Estermont, while Floris Baratheon had been wed to the widowed Lord Thaddeus Rowan.
Among the other great houses, there were no suitable noblewomen of age, and Daemon had no desire to introduce foreign blood into the family line once more.
"We'll have to judge the situation and consider Viserys's own wishes, Your Grace," Draezell said impassively. "The Rogares carry Valyrian blood, though they are not a dragonlord family. Still, their ancestors once received royal favor, and they are immensely wealthy."
Aegon understood Draezell's meaning. If the offer was substantial enough, selling off his brother wouldn't be an issue—after all, the girl would be marrying into their family, not the other way around. It hardly mattered.
Lysandro Rogare was visibly tense, but his eyes reflected more awe and infatuation than anxiety. He had just witnessed Vermithor take flight. The moment the great dragon soared into the sky, Lysandro was utterly enraptured. His brothers and children, however, were left stunned, unsure how to react.
Of course, how could those children possibly understand the devotion and passion Valyrians felt for their dragons?
Steadying himself, Lysandro motioned for his daughter, Larra Rogare, to step beside him. The young woman, astonishingly beautiful, was one of the strongest bargaining chips he had brought. His eyes were set on Aegon's younger brother, Viserys. Within this fortress, there were many of noble blood, but of those who were of the right age and whose marriage could realistically be arranged, only Viserys was a viable candidate.
A marriage alliance with House Targaryen was essential to cementing Lys's relationship with Westeros.
"Lord Lysandro, you may enter."
A voice called out in fluent High Valyrian. The speaker was a man dressed in a vibrantly painted Dothraki vest, layered beneath a blood-red and silver half-cloak. His hand rested on the hilt of his long, Valyrian steel sword, Steppeflame, shaped like a Dothraki arakh.
Lysandro hesitated. A Dothraki here? And civilized, at that?
There was no time to dwell on the matter. Lowering his head slightly, he stepped into the vast hall, his siblings and children following closely behind.
The Obsidian Throne Hall was emptier than expected, save for three imposing thrones at its far end. Alongside the hall's original Obsidian Throne, two more seats of weirwood stood adjacent to it.
A voice rang out with unwavering clarity.
"Presenting His Grace's Hand of the King, Lord of Dragon's Nest, Lord of Silvercrown, Warden of the Marches, Protector of the Stone way, Protector of Princes's Pass, Shield of Brandyeport, Guardian of Summerfield, the Voice of the Citadel, Master of Dragons, Keeper of the Boneway, Scion of Silverblood, Heir of the Valyrian Emperors—Prince Draezell of House Vaelarys."
Lysandro adjusted his collar. He knew—the true power in this audience had just arrived.