Scent Of Copper And Death
120 AC, THE YEAR OF THE RED SPRING
Draco had attended more funerals than most would in a lifetime, but this would be his first as Aegon Targaryen. When the raven brought word of Laena Velaryon's death and the family's imminent departure to Driftmark for the dragon rider's final rites, Aegon decided to fly on Sunfyre the very next morning. Although it pained him to leave Daeron behind so suddenly—Tessarion wasn't yet ready for such a long flight, and traveling by boat would mean missing the funeral—Aegon knew his presence in Driftmark was a necessary one.
While he might not have known Lady Laena Velaryon, with his family's deep ties to the Velaryons and his role as the eldest son of King Viserys, it was crucial to show his respect and support. Aegon could only promise Daeron that he would visit soon after the funeral and stay by his side until the boy had had enough of him. Draco hoped his assurance would offer some form of comfort to his brother during his absence.
Aegon's journey to Driftmark had taken him four days, marked by necessary detours that added days to his travel. His stop in Highgarden had been especially telling. Lord Tyrell, though outwardly cheerful and pleasant, could not entirely hide his disdain for the Hightowers of the Oldtown. Aegon could sense it, as the Emmon Tyrell insecurity was almost palpable for his mind to ignore. And he understood where the man was coming from in a way.
Unlike the Hightowers or most great houses in Westeros, The Tyrells had never ruled as kings in their own right. The Tyrells had begun as mere stewards, serving House Gardner, the kings of the Reach. It was only when Harlan Tyrell, the hereditary high steward, had wisely surrendered Highgarden to Aegon the Conqueror that the Tyrells were granted dominion over the Reach. It was an act of submission that had elevated them to lords, but it had not erased the centuries of being perceived as lesser by their peers.
Draco could see why that history might sting. The Tyrells, despite their current power and wealth and the moniker as the Lord Protector of Reach, were often overshadowed by the overmighty Hightowers, their bannerman, who were not only affluent and more influential but also deeply entwined with the politics of the realm through their ties to faith and trade across the realm. The very existence of the Hightowers served as a nuisance to Tyrell's ego, a constant reminder that despite their rise, they were still regarded as second to those who had once been their equals or even their superiors.
But that did not stop Lord Emmon Tyrell from pushing his far-too-old daughter toward Aegon during the dinner feast, where the Lord of Highgarden had hired a singer from Meereen to play the high harp and recite a ballad from one end of the hall. Yet, the singer's voice was barely audible above the Tyrells' boastings and the clangor of pewter plates and cups. The entire situation was as awkward as it was unpleasant, and Aegon found himself eager to escape it as quickly as possible.
He swore he could almost hear Pansy chuckling at his misery from the other side. The situation reminded him of the time after the second wizarding war when his father, desperate to restore the family's reputation, tried to arrange for Draco to marry into one of the so-called respectable families after his betrothal arrangement to Astoria Greengrass fell through. The same forced smiles and veiled desperation—oh, how he had missed finding himself in these uncomfortable situations.
He was glad that something good had come out of it. Pansy Parkinson matched Draco's family perfectly, with a temper from hell and a face to match it. Pansy was someone no one had expected, not even Draco, and perhaps that was exactly why it worked. His mother once remarked that she had never known anyone who could cultivate sneering into an art form quite like Pansy, and that was probably the highest compliment Narcissa Malfoy could give to the new daughter-in-law she disapproved of.
He wondered, as he sat there in the Great Hall of Highgarden among the Tyrells, taking control of the situation and slipping into the familiar role of a practiced diplomat, what his old family would think of his new one. Would his parents like Helaena? Draco doubted it. Perhaps his father might see her in a different light if he knew Helaena could dream of the future. But he was skeptical about his mother and his wife. Despite their disagreements, neither had much patience for dreams and prophecies.
Aegon's next stop was Tumbleton, situated near the Reach's northeastern border, just sixty leagues southwest of King's Landing. When he arrived on Dragonback, Lord Footly was waiting there to greet him with his men. Although House Footly boasted the smallest keep that Draco had encountered so far, Tumbleton seemed like a thriving market town, bustling with shops, septs, inns, and rich lands along the Mander.
The feast hosted by Lord Jon Footly was more modest compared to the Tyrells', but Draco made sure to express his gratitude for their hospitality and the effort they put into arranging it on such short notice. The sweet, fruity taste of summerwine filled his mouth, bringing a smile to his lips as he savored the roasted meat and freshly baked bread—without the interruption of boring theatrics of the ambitious adults or the raucous delight of the youths around him. Aegon noticed the shared look of relief between Lord Footly, his wife, and their young son at his compliment.
Despite his demanding nature, shaped by being born into one of the wealthiest families, Draco had long since ceased to care about such grandeur, particularly after enduring the trials of the third wizarding war, which had left him with nothing but a desperate need for revenge and a deep-seated appreciation for the simpler and more meaningful aspects of life.
After spending months fixated solely on vengeance, Draco has been stripped of any interest in luxury or superficial displays of opulence, leaving him with a profound respect for authenticity and practicality—and a bitterness that he clung to like a lifeline. But they didn't need to know that. A prince had to maintain his appearance, like any Malfoy. He had, however, spent the better part of his time in Tumbleton exploring the market with Lord Footly's son, Victor, rather than wasting it away sipping tea and strolling through rose gardens as he had with the Tyrells in Highgarden. Which, if you haven't experienced first hand, is nothing short of torture.
At least talking with Victor Footly didn't seem like a chore. Though he was bumbling in his speech for the first two hours, he relaxed considerably, of course, once he realized that Aegon isn't the type to burn the town for the smallest slight or overlook in decorum. Victor was much easier to deal with than the insufferable Lord Emmon Tyrell's son, Lyman, who seemed like he could give Crabbe a run for his money—and that's not saying much, considering Vincent Crabbe accidentally killed himself using Fiendfyre. Aegon feared for the people of the Reach when the time came for the boy to assume his lordship. And for Rhaenyra, who would eventually have to deal with all these fools.
Or, perhaps, she is the bigger fool for wanting to deal with such arduous work.
By midday the following day, Aegon and Sunfyre were gliding over Driftmark, their path taking them past the bustling dockside of Spicetown, where sailors, shipwrights, porters, and fishermen went about their work. Aegon briefly considered trying to spot his family from above, but given the vast expanse of the open sea, the chances of locating the Targaryen-bannered ship were slim. And the scale of the journey made it nearly impossible to cover such distances efficiently.
For all he knew, the King and his court might have already arrived at Driftmark. Moreover, he doubted Sunfyre would welcome another detour despite her enjoyment of the sheep and cattle offered at the various keeps they had visited. Aegon could sense that the dragon's patience for detours was limited, and the prospect of another diversion was likely to be unwelcome. Both his golden dragon and Aegon himself needed rest after three days of relentless travel.
When he finally reached High Tide, the seat of Sea Snake, Lord Corlys Velaryon, the dragons Syrax, Caraxes, Seasmoke, Vhagar, Meleys, Vermax, Arrax, Tyraxes, and Moondancer were already present. With Dreamfyre expected to arrive later, Driftmark would soon resemble a new Valyria in its splendor. He only hoped it could have been in better circumstances.
Once Sunfyre was settled in, the Valyrian prince turned towards the welcoming guard bearing the Velaryon sigil, the sea horse. "My Prince," the steward, who introduced himself as Allard Wayn, bowed deeply, followed by a similar gesture from the captain of the guard. He was an old man with a feeble voice, "I regret to inform you that the Lord and Princess are in mourning and cannot greet you in person."
"Of course, no one would fault two parents for mourning their daughter in privacy," Aegon replied as he removed his riding gloves and tucked them into his charmed pouch tied to his belt. "I heard there is nothing more crueler than having to bury your own child. I can only imagine the grief they are going through."
The steward nodded solemnly, eyes reflecting the deep sorrow of the occasion. "Indeed. Lady Laena's demise has cast a long shadow over the castle." The steward continued, "However, we will ensure that your stay is as comfortable as possible and that your needs are met during these trying times. We have already arranged accommodations for you in the North Tower, where the entire Royal Court will be staying during their visit to High Tide. If it pleases you, I can have someone take your belongings there."
"My thanks," Aegon replied as he followed the steward and the captain into the castle constructed recently by Lord Corlys to replace the crowded ancestral Velaryon seat, Castle Driftmark, a grim-looking castle on the south side of the island with its dark, salt-stained walls. "I assume the King and his retinue have not yet arrived then?"
"No, my Prince," This time, it was the captain of the guard who had answered. Ser Jacelyn Quaynis is a tall and robust Tyroshi man with a thin black mustache. Despite his origins, his command of the common tongue is excellent, suggesting he has been with the Velaryons for a considerable time. "However, the watchtower reported sighting a ship bearing the three-headed dragon just 100 leagues from here. If the winds favor, they should be here by sunset."
Good! he had missed his family, even his scheming, no-good, ambitious grandfather.
"And what of my sister and nephews?"
"Princess Rhaenyra and the Princes are in the family wing next to Ser Laenor Velaryon's chambers," the steward answered dutifully. "They arrived here just two nights ago. I believe Ser Laenor and Princess Rhaenyra stood vigil over Lady Laena's body last night."
"Would you be so kind as to send word to her, Sir?" Aegon asks, turning towards the man. "I would very much like to see them if possible. It has been almost a year since we last met."
"Of course, my prince." As the captain turned to instruct one of the knights to carry out the order, Aegon sought out the steward to clarify the details surrounding Laena Velaryon's death. The silver-haired prince had only a vague understanding from a hurried letter sent by the Maester. And he had heard even more conflicting reports of the event from his spies during his stay at Highgarden and Tumbleton.
One of them had talked about how Laena Velaryon had fallen ill and succumbed to childbed fever following a prolonged and arduous labor that had birthed a stillborn child. While the other spoke of how Laena, with a swollen stomach and dried blood running down her thighs, ran to Vhagar and begged him to burn her when she heard the maesters talking about how they had to cut her open to take out the babe due to the complications in labor.
However, according to the steward Allard, after a day and night of labor, Lady Laena had birthed a weak and malnourished son who had died within an hour. Grief weakened and delirious after three days with childbed fever, Laena Velaryon, in her final moment, perhaps intent on one last ride on her dragon Vhagar, had staggered from her bed, pushing past the septa's prayers, only to collapse and die on the tower steps before she could reach her dragon.
Regardless of the truth of events, the Velaryons and Aegon's uncle had lost two beloved family members within just three days. While Aegon might have claimed he couldn't fully grasp the depth of the Velaryons' grief, Draco knew of the pain all too well. He had lost his entire family in a single night and buried them with his own hands. Though it might seem like a lifetime ago, the grief hadn't diminished with time, contrary to what many believed. He had just learned to shake hands and live with it.
True to Allard's word, the steward had diligently attended to Aegon's every need. The servants prepared a bath, filling it with hot water from the kitchens and infusing it with fragrant oils. Aegon had lingered in it until the water turned cold, scrubbing himself raw. Riding Sunfyre under the blazing afternoon sun had left the silver-haired prince feeling soiled and sweaty. When he finally rose from the tub, the maids, efficient and practiced, swiftly attended to him. They dressed him in a freshly washed green silk tunic, a pair of breeches, and a green velvet doublet worked in gold thread upon his chest, the only spot of color on him sewn atop his chest: His Golden Lady, Sunfyre.
It didn't take long for one of the squires to arrive at his door with a reply from Rhaenyra, inviting him to a private meal in the morning room of the guest wing. Aegon paused to ensure he knew the way as he followed the young squire, a boy around Aemond's age. It wouldn't do to get lost in the maze that was High Tide—a grey stone labyrinth of walls, towers, courtyards, and tunnels stretching out in every direction. He had heard that Lord Corlys had built the new castle with the same pale stone as the Eyrie, its slender towers crowned with roofs of beaten silver that flashed in the sun.
"What's the situation?" Aegon asked, his gaze sweeping over the bustling courtyard where nobles and servants moved about their tasks. The boy, one of Aegon's little snakes, was well-trained; Draco could tell that much. The spy network Aegon had inherited from Larys had expanded over the years, with operatives stationed across the globe—from Essos and the Narrow Sea to the Wall. Their loyalty was maintained through coin, a warm meal, and subtle blood magic that obscured the true identity of their master. Yet, in Aegon's presence, they recognized him and their fellow spies instinctively, bound by a mystical connection they could neither comprehend nor explain. Still, they had come to accept and adapt to it.
Just as the spy before him did not hesitate, leaning in slightly with a voice, low but steady, delivering his report with unwavering readiness. "Prince Daemon has not spoken to anyone since he arrived at High Tide with his daughters and the bodies of Lady Laena and his newborn son. Princess Rhaenys was inconsolable upon receiving the news, unable to believe it until she saw her daughter's body with her own eyes. She has since directed her anger at the Rogue Prince, blaming him for keeping his daughter away from home. She is convinced that the tragedy could have been avoided if her daughter had remained in Driftmark instead of being away due to the prince's stubborn pride. Lady Baela and Lady Rhaena have clung to their grandmother ever since."
The boy paused to let Aegon absorb the information before continuing, "Ser Laenor is the most distraught and has been standing vigil by his sister's body. Despite Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenyra's efforts to comfort him, he remains unmoved. Lord Corlys seems to have shifted his focus to Prince Lucerys, seemingly designating him as the next heir to Driftmark. However, Ser Vaemond Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys do not appear to share this view. Since her arrival, Princess Rhaenyra has been met with a chilly reception from her good mother and has kept her distance ever since by remaining close to her own sons during the past two days.
"Well, I would too," Draco thinks to himself. "It is not wise to poke a grieving dragon. Angering Cousin Rhaenys now, while she's grieving, could have repercussions far beyond the immediate situation if she were to cause a scene in front of the Westerosi lords and ladies attending the funeral. Jace, Luce, and Joffrey's faces are so painfully clear for them to be anything but the Strongs. The only traits they seem to share with Ser Laenor are that they each have two hands and legs."
"Anything else?" Aegon prompted, his tone sharp and expectant.
"A week ago, Lord Corlys was visited by a woman during the hour of the owl," the squire began quietly. "She was young, perhaps two-and-twenty, and came seeking the Sea Snake's help. She wanted the Driftmark maester to treat her ailing father, a shipwright from Hull. She had two boys with her, both silver-haired and purple-eyed—dragonseeds. They could be Lord Corlys' bastards, but there's nothing to prove it for certain. The Lord didn't meet with her; he had just received word of his daughter's death, you see. She didn't appear again after that. We received word yesterday that the fever claimed her father, though."
Aegon hummed thoughtfully. While the concept of bastards was relatively unfamiliar in the Wizarding World, unlike the Muggle world, where unions between individuals were held in high regard due to the sacred nature of family magic and the exchange of unique traits, Westeros was a stark contrast. Marriage and blood oaths were paramount in the magical realm, and Draco had only encountered a few cases of children born out of wedlock, none of which compared to the complex and often brutal consequences seen in the Seven Kingdoms
In Westeros, the legitimacy of a child could profoundly influence the course of history, determining the rise and fall of houses and shaping political alliances. Lineage and familial honor were of immense importance, with bastards often seen as either threats or tools, depending on the circumstances. Despite this, high lords frequently fathered illegitimate children.
However, the situation took on a different tone when such affairs involved highborn ladies or the heir to the Iron Throne, provoking a level of outrage and concern that seemed disproportionate to the situation. It all seemed unfair, but given the stark contrast in how women were treated in Westeros compared to the Wizarding World, Draco knew better than to expect any sense of equity or rationality from the fools of this realm in such situations.
Due to this, Draco wasn't often sure whether to admire Rhaenyra's bravery or pity her foolishness for not adhering to the traditional expectations of a patriarchal society. He just hoped her defiance wouldn't ultimately become a noose around her neck.
"Good work," Draco said, tossing a gold coin to the squire as they neared their destination. "Let the others know we have a new tavern in Spice Town. It will serve as a hub in Driftmark where you can gather and a rookery to pass messages. They'll be able to supply you with any medicine or poison you might need. So be careful not to lead anyone suspicious there."
Draco's approach to expanding his network from Oldtown was meticulous, driven by the fundamental principle that secrecy is crucial for spies. He had absorbed valuable lessons from Severus Snape, not just in potion-making but also in the art of espionage. According to the spymaster, a spy's true strength lies not in what they reveal but in what they conceal, to hide under the mask or be prepared to erase every trace of their presence, to operate unseen and dwell in shadows, and if need be, to die or to eliminate any witnesses if the situation demands it. And Draco had taken these lessons to heart and passed them on to those under him.
"Sister," Aegon greeted Rhaenyra with a warm smile, pressing a gentle kiss to her hand. Despite her haggard appearance and the stress that marked her features, her beauty remained undiminished. The Realm's Delight, the bards still sang her praises. "I have missed you." He then turned to ruffle little Joffrey's hair. "And you, my little terror of nephews. I trust you aren't giving your mother too much trouble."
"Of course not, Uncle Egg," Jace replied, clearly affronted by the suggestion. His love for his mother was as fierce as Rhaenyra's affection for her sons.
"Uncle, uncle," Lucerys burst out, his eyes alight with excitement. "Is that really Sunfyre that we saw from our windows just now? I can hardly believe she's grown so large—she looks even bigger than Syrax now, doesn't she?" His enthusiasm was palpable, the kind of fervor that only a child could muster when faced with a world of wonder. "What are you feeding her? Will Arrax grow that large? What about Vermax? Oh, and did you know Joffrey's egg hatched? We're trying to decide on names for her."
"Luke, let your uncle at least sit down first, will you?" Rhaenyra chuckled, her amusement evident. She then turned to Aegon with a small, warm smile. "Hello, Brother. I hope your journey was not too troublesome."
"Oh, nothing I couldn't handle," Aegon replied, settling into a chair as he waved nonchalantly. "Though my time at Highgarden was less than ideal. The Tyrells are as dull-witted as ever. I had to go to great lengths to avoid Lord Emmon's daughter, Elinor. The stories I had to concoct to keep her at bay—" He paused, reaching into his inner coat and producing a small book, which he handed to Rhaenyra. "Speaking of stories, I brought a little something for you. I thought you might enjoy reading it to the children. It's written in Valyrian; I had a scribe in Oldtown compile it into a neat little book."
"Oh, how thoughtful," Rhaenyra said, opening the book to show it to Luke and Jace. "Look, Luke, it even has pictures!" Both boys gasped in delight, their eyes wide with excitement, while little Joffrey tried his best to stuff both hands into his mouth in an attempt to get a closer look. "Thank you, Aegon. We haven't started their Valyrian lessons yet, but this will be a wonderful start."
"Don't mention it," Aegon shrugs his shoulders as maids come in to set up the dishes before them.
"And how is Oldtown?" Rhaenyra asked as she handed Joffrey over to the wet nurse. "Did the Citadel live up to your expectations?"
"Oldtown is incredible, Rhaenyra," Aegon replied enthusiastically. "You really should see the drainage system there. We should consider implementing something similar in King's Landing once you ascend the throne. Daeron's been busy too—he's grown bigger from the last I saw him, started flying Tessarion, and will soon serve as a squire for our cousin, Lord Ormund. Until then, Uncle Gwayne is overseeing his education. As for the Citadel, well, it has its moments. Some of the lessons are truly engaging, though others are as dry as the parchments they're written on.Though, I've already forged three links: silver for healing, gold for arithmetic, and copper for history."
Rhaenyra listened intently, her eyes, along with those of her two sons, lingering on the metal links he displayed proudly. "You've certainly been keeping yourself occupied," she said with a nod.
"I'm planning to forge a few more when I return."
"Oh, what else are you studying?" Jace inquired, jumping in between the two, the boy's curiosity piqued.
"Well, there's Valyrian Steel for Higher Mysteries, which covers magic and arcane arts. But honestly, I doubt I'll learn much about it there. The Maesters at the Citadel acknowledge magic, but they don't regard it highly, so I'm not expecting to gain any new insights. I might end up getting a Black Iron for Ravenry, Electrum for Alchemy, Iron for Warcraft, and Lead for Smithy. There's just so much to learn. Though I'm a bit disappointed I couldn't meet with our Uncle Vaegon when he was alive."
"Yes, Uncle Vaegon. I've never seen him myself either," Rhaenyra admitted, wiping Lucerys' mouth with a cloth to remove the mutton stew stains. "I've only heard rumors that he was the one who proposed the idea of convening a Great Council for his father, King Jaehaerys." She settled back into her seat. "Don't tell me you're thinking of following in his footsteps now."
"Oh, no," Aegon replied with a chuckle, cutting into his meat. "I'd be bored stiff spending that much time in dusty towers with old rats. And besides, I intend to marry Haelena. I want to take her on a tour and show her all the colors of the birds, bees, and centipedes she's curious to see."
"I'm sure she'd love that," Rhaenyra smiled, her sons listening on as their heads moved like a pendulum. "Though I'm not sure I can say the same about your mother."
"Well, she won't know until we're well away from the Red Keep and across the Narrow Sea," Aegon said with a grin. "Remember the first time you took me flying?"
"You mean the first time you blackmailed me into taking you flying," Rhaenyra teased, her smile causing Aegon to shake his head fondly. It was a topic they both seemed to agree to disagree on, a humorous banter they'd shared for as long as Aegon could remember.
"How is he?" Aegon asks after a while. He did not need to say about whom he was talking about; they both knew. Ser Leanor had been in Aegon's life for as long as Rhaenyra had. "I heard from the steward that you were both on vigil last night."
"As you might expect," Rhaenyra said, her tone somber. "He's devastated. She was his only sister, and he felt terrible about not being there for her when she needed to. He had planned to go to Pentos, but something changed at the last minute, and he couldn't. And now he's consumed with guilt. Think he could've done something if he had been there."
"Unless he suddenly gained medical knowledge that the maesters don't possess, I doubt he could have changed anything," Aegon says, his tone somewhat waspishly but not lacking in empathy.
"Well, of course, I know that," Rhaenyra replied with a sigh. "He knows it too, but a grieving man always needs someone to blame, and Laenor blames himself. Unlike my good-mother, who seems to be blaming our uncle for this." And me and my sons, she doesn't say, but her words echo loud in Aegon's mind.
Aegon gave a small sigh and shook his head. He wondered if this was what his father had always meant when he complained about the infamous Black family dinners and diatribes whenever he spoke of their lost lineage. "Well, I doubt anything you say to him now will get through his head. Maybe it's best to give him time and let him sort through his guilt on his own."
Rhaenyra hummed in acknowledgment. The room had grown quiet, so Aegon shifted his attention to his two nephews, eager to bring some levity back into the conversation. "So, Luke, you were saying Joffrey's egg hatched, right? What color is it? And are you really sure Sunfyre has grown bigger? I was starting to worry she was just getting fat from all the fish she's been eating from the Sunset Sea!"
And just like that, the atmosphere in the room shifted, lightening as the little black-haired boy's eyes lit up with excitement. None seemed to realize that just twenty-four hours later, all the smiles and laughter would turn to venom and accusation—into blood and betrayal. For the year 120 AC, would be penned in the histories by the maesters as the year when the long-simmering tensions and jealousies that had plagued the Seven Kingdoms have finally come to a boil.