The night on the journey passed poorly: Aegon slept without dreams, which was a rarity, but in the morning felt beaten and as if drunk. They entered the mouth of the Blackwater before noon. From the ship, Aegon spotted two knights of the Kingsguard standing like immobile statues on the pier and a carriage with the red dragon of the Targaryens on black, lacquer-gleaming sides. Slowly (not slowly enough, in the Prince's view) the ship moored, and a wide gangplank with high rails was lowered. Dennis was the first to descend to the pier, offering a hand first to the Queen, and then to Aegon. The latter, however, preferred not to notice it.
From the Fishmonger's Square, the carriage ascended the Hook to Aegon's High Hill. The Red Keep was entirely decked in Targaryen banners and floral garlands, which to Aegon's eye looked rather strange against the background of black-and-red standards. Climbing out of the wain in the Outer Yard, Aegon discovered with surprise that they were being met. Viserys helped Grandmother out of the carriage; he had wits enough not to offer help to his brother.
"Grandmother," Viserys boomed, kissing her hand.
"Your Grace," his petite spouse spoke quietly. A more contrasting pair than Viserys and Aemma could not be found: against the background of her stately husband, she looked almost a doll. Aegon hoped her brains took after her father, who in his time was Master of Laws, and not her simple-minded and semi-literate mother.
"My dears," the Queen kissed both. This marriage, like many others across Westeros, was her brainchild, but the conclusion of this union gave her special joy. "And who is hiding here?"
Only then did Aegon notice that a girl with silver-gold hair was clinging to the hem of Aemma's red dress. Rhaenyra, the first of his nieces, had managed to grow during the few months the Prince had spent on Dragonstone, and now she shyly hid her face in the folds of her mother's skirts, glancing timidly at the great-grandmother reaching toward her.
"She is afraid," Aegon stated the obvious. "The scary three-legged people have returned."
"Aegon!" Viserys looked at his younger brother with reproach.
"She simply has not seen you for a long time," Aemma hastened to put in.
"Indeed, in her place I too would have forgotten such a relative as myself," Aegon grumbled and, seeing Viserys gathering to say something again, hastened to change the subject and moved toward the Middle Bailey. "How fares Father?"
"You know he worries," his brother allowed himself to be led away.
"Quite in vain. I am still dragonless."
"Actually, so am I."
"You are the last rider of Balerion, that does not count," Aegon grimaced, kicking a pebble from the road with his cane. It, naturally, hindered nothing, but he needed to vent his irritation. "By the by, when you become King, you can add it to your personal style. It will look weighty."
"Remind me of it when it happens," Viserys nodded importantly and, unable to maintain his own seriousness, immediately snorted and laughed.
Having left the potentially dangerous topic, the brothers switched to less grand matters, and all the way to his chambers Aegon listened to his brother's rapturous stories about his daughter, oohing and agreeing in the necessary places. From the height of his own fourteen years, children seemed to him something strange and harmful; he found their benefit in the near perspective unobvious, and worry for the sake of long-term perspectives unjustified. Take for instance the story of their Aunt Saera, who had frayed the nerves of the whole family. Or his own, for that matter.
On the threshold of the bedroom, Viserys left him, allowing him to recover. Aegon skipped the midday meal, pleading fatigue and leg pain, but he was forced to appear for supper. At the long table fit the whole large family of Jaehaerys and Alysanne: two sons, a daughter, four grandchildren, and three of their spouses; the three great-grandchildren were left in the nursery due to their tender years. The King, amiability itself, drank much and laughed; the Queen maintained conversation with everyone and was gracious. Viserys spoke of something with Lord Corlys, likely about daughters. Daemon drank goblet after goblet, trying not to look at Rhea. Father stubbornly tried to draw Uncle Vaegon into conversation, who was serving out the family meal as a heavy duty.
Vaegon Targaryen, having renounced his family name upon taking his Maester's vows, had done everything to renounce his family, but even one of the youngest Archmaesters in the history of the Citadel could not calculate that the family was not ready to renounce him. Parents and brothers sent him letters, to which he replied reluctantly, extremely sparingly, and solely out of a sense of duty and propriety; his late sister Maegelle, serving her obedience in the Starry Sept, visited her brother monthly, though she knew he cared not whether she came or no. The Golden Jubilee of King Jaehaerys's reign became the sole reason the uncle left Oldtown. And even then, as Grandmother suspected, the Citadel had rather sent him as its representative to the festivities than that he wished to see his father again.
Uncle Vaegon was stooped, squinted, and seemed older than his five-and-thirty years. To every question of Baelon's, whether he remembered such-and-such from childhood, the Archmaester pursed his thin lips and answered in monosyllables: only "Yes" or "No." Scarce was the meal finished than Vaegon, having waited the minimum time allowed by decency, apologized briefly and went out.
"A bookworm he was, and so he remains," Father snorted displeasedly, taking a sip of wine. "I would not be surprised if he has bolted to the library now."
Aegon heard Grandmother sigh heavily. Family squabbles and discords had darkened her old age for years; the Prince knew she pinned great hopes on the upcoming tournament, reckoning it would help heal old wounds. However, judging by what Aegon saw at the table today, a final reconciliation was as far off as the Wall from the Stepstones.
One after another flashed the days of the Great Tournament, identical and dissimilar to one another. Both the nobility and the smallfolk gossiped that for the first time since the Doom of Valyria, so many scions of the four houses of the fallen Freehold and so many dragons had gathered in one place and at one time. Even Silverwing, left by the Queen on Dragonstone, flew to the capital after her rider, disrupting several performances with her sudden appearance.
Duels took place in the squares, beyond the city walls, in the Outer Yard of the Red Keep, but the brightest and grandest, naturally, were held in the arena of the Dragonpit. Daemon, who a year prior had received Dark Sister from his grandfather along with his knighthood, showed off in black armor with the famous Valyrian blade in hand. Having won some two score victories, he was deftly disarmed by the Kingsguard knight Ser Ryam Redwyne. Returning the sword to the Prince, the knight said:
"I hope, my Prince, you hold no ill will toward me. You ought to practice more; one must be worthy of such a sword."
Daemon, accepting Dark Sister, flashed a white-toothed smile:
"You have just taught me a good lesson, Ser Ryam. You shall not be so lucky again!"
Ser Ryam himself reached the very final, where he clashed with his comrade—another Kingsguard, Ser Clement Crabb. It seemed all King's Landing had come to watch the battle of two White Cloaks: the Dragonpit was filled to bursting, but the impression was created that there were far more people than the supposed eighty thousand the amphitheater could hold. The knights clashed on horseback time and again, the crack of breaking lances deafened no less than the roar of the crowd rising after it, but both guards stubbornly kept their saddles. Finally, after the thirtieth pair of lances was broken and the thirtieth pair of shields smashed to splinters, the King stopped the duel and awarded victory to both knights. When the spectators roared in jubilation, Aegon winced involuntarily and remembered the last cry of the dying Balerion. The dragon was scarce as thunderous. So, the essence lies not in the size of the throat, but in their quantity?
Every evening was even more wearying than the day. Numerous feasts and balls, flowing smoothly one into another, demanded the mandatory presence of all princes, even those who wore a Maester's chain. Vaegon, however, though present at each, invariably slipped away as soon as opportunity allowed, and scarce anyone noticed his departure save the Queen and Aegon. The Clubfoot Prince was also ill at ease. He had no desire to sing and play for such a crowd as gathered in the Great Hall, eternally insufficiently fed and insufficiently drunk. Behind the shouts and loud conversations merging into a single cacophony, he himself could hear neither the music nor even the one speaking to him personally.
Once, in a short interval between two dances, Lady Rhea, already thoroughly drunk, somehow appeared before him. Flushed and breathless, she adjusted her hair and asked:
"What, my Prince, are you not merry? I, you know, find it no sweet matter with your brother either, but look—I drink, dance, and make merry! Finish this cup and come! A short leg, like a short cock, is no reason to shirk!"
It did not escape Aegon's attention how those around gawked at them; some had the misfortune even to choke on their food. His lips spread into a crooked grin of their own accord.
"I fear, my Lady, that to start a dance with you, one cup will be too little for me," the Prince watched with deep satisfaction as the skewed face of the Lady of Runestone lengthened. To complete the phrase, he drained the cup in a gulp, rose with a showy groan, glanced at his sister-in-law, and nodded to himself. "Aye, definitely too little."
And, pleased with the effect produced, he limped away. After a few steps, loud laughter caught up with him—it seemed the eyewitnesses, having come to their senses, managed to appreciate his irony. Scarce had he left the Hall when Dennis appeared at his shoulder like a devil from the Seven Hells.
"You ought not have spoken to her so," he put in.
"She ought not have opened her mouth near me," Aegon grumbled. "And you, by the by, neither."
"The Royces are an old and proud house, and you threw those words in her face before the eyes of the nobility of all the Seven Kingdoms," the tiresome servant continued. The Gods had not cheated him of wits, it must be admitted, and in a few years at court he had learned to feel its pulse. "She will forgive neither you nor your brother for this."
"I am certain my brother will survive it," the Prince chortled. "I wonder, if I get drunk, can I dance? All drunkards begin to dance at a certain moment."
"I fear not, my Prince."
"A pity."
"Lady Rhea must have been drunk and did not remember..."
"Hey, Dennis!"
"Yes, my Prince?"
"Go to the Seven Hells."
He was silent for a little and tried to object:
"My Prince, I am not to blame that you cannot dance."
"You are to blame for annoying me. I say, go to Hells!"
Enraged by the backtalk, Aegon spun sharply on his left heel and swung his cane at the servant. The man recoiled reflexively, breaking the distance to several paces. Pursing his lips (just like Uncle Vaegon), Dennis bowed and left. Aegon remained alone in the middle of the Outer Yard.
His legs somehow carried him to the Godswood of their own accord. Few came here—south of the Neck scarce any followers of the Old Gods remained, and houses like the Blackwoods were rather exceptions. Nevertheless, the Godswood was tended, turned from a place of worship into a garden. Aegon thought that the semi-wild Conqueror's Garden on Dragonstone was more suited for prayers than these manicured flowerbeds and trimmed bushes.
With a sigh, he sank onto one of the benches scattered about the grove, staring at the quiet, serene surface of the pond. It seems Daemon had offered him a swim here after training then; that training which changed everything in his life. A light breeze carried snatches of some melody and laughter over the high walls. Aegon squeezed his eyes shut not to weep or howl from vexation—whatever he had said to that drunk fool Rhea, he wanted to dance with the rest to the point of madness. Just to be like everyone else. Just not to see pity and sympathy in their eyes.
"I see they have finally broken you," came an unfamiliar dry voice.
Aegon threw open his eyes and with amazement discovered his uncle before him, who until this day had not said seven words to his nephew, thereby already giving cause to respect him.
"Uncle Vaegon?" the Prince whispered, swallowing tears that had not fallen.
"Archmaester Vaegon," the other corrected him haughtily and sat at the other end of the bench. With surprise, Aegon saw a jug in his hands, to which the Archmaester did not delay in applying himself.
"Perhaps one of the few advantages of the position of a Prince is excellent wine, for which they take not a groat from you," Uncle said, as if thinking aloud.
"The Arbor and Dorne are closer to Oldtown than to King's Landing."
"True. Only thanks to the bastard-seneschal, the Citadel buys cheap swill with which it is shameful even to wash a wound."
"Father told that Mother once poured a jug of Arbor Gold on you," Aegon recalled and cut himself short at once, remembering how Vaegon reacted to all memories of childhood. This time, however, he chose to answer more fully:
"True," Uncle nodded again and drank from the jug. "The most foolish act of her life. The vintage of that year was surprisingly tasty."
Silence reigned for a time. Both princes looked at the reflection of stars and trees in the water, each thinking his own thoughts.
"I read your 'Notes on the Last Days of Balerion'," Vaegon said suddenly. Aegon stared at him in surprise.
After Balerion's death, he had tormented the Dragonwatch and Viserys with questions about the Black Dread's habits in his last years, his behavior and temper, appending to them his own account of the great dragon's death and the measurements taken thereafter. Naturally, a ten-year-old boy would never have managed this alone, but Aegon was lucky to obtain two first-class scholars as assistants at once: Grand Maester Elysar helped to set out the facts consistently, accompanying them with illustrations and proofs, whilst conversations with Septon Barth about the nature of dragons significantly simplified the work and defined its conclusions. The resulting study Aegon titled "Notes on the Last Days and Demise of the Dragon Balerion, styled the Black Dread, as well as Certain Reflections on the Funeral Rites of Dragons" and signed with his own name. Fortunately, he had the tact to dedicate the work to his two mentors, paying tribute to their diligence in the preface. The "Notes" were kept in two copies in the libraries of the Red Keep and Dragonstone, and Aegon tried not to look at them unnecessarily: conscience gnawed and shame consumed the Prince for his childish vanity and naivety. So when Uncle decided to speak of his first work, Aegon was considerably surprised and therefore inquired as carelessly as possible:
"Is that so? And what do you think?"
"Talentless efforts and childishness," Vaegon's words forced the Prince to remember the pain of the first days after the fall. "Moreover, you managed to make simply an outrageous number of arithmetical errors. Who taught you sums?"
"The late Grand Maester," Aegon scowled.
Uncle only snorted:
"Elysar was always distinguished by the sharpness of his tongue, not his mind. Small wonder you understand not a whit of mathematics. Tell me, pray, why did you measure the dragon's length in steps? You write that half a dozen Maesters were with you; did not one of them tell you that for such works surveyor's compasses or a knotted rope are used?"
"I did not..."
"You did not think? You did not know? Of course, you did not think and did not know! How old were you then? Eight?"
"Ten," with every word Vaegon, who had just begun to seem human to the lad, acquired the features of Father's "bookworm."
"That is no excuse," he shook the shorn pale-gold hair of a true Valyrian. "If you undertake to write a scholarly work, you must either do it well or not do it at all. And in no case should you mix science and magic—it is a disgrace for a researcher to write of the blood magic of Ancient Valyria and creatures changing their sex at their own will."
"But Septon Barth deems it quite logical," Aegon tried to object, but this only goaded the Archmaester.
"Oh, of course, Septon Barth deems it logical! Naturally! Only your Septon Barth always thrusts his views everywhere possible. Where he cannot give a coherent explanation for a fact of objective reality or at least admit his own incompetence—one would think, what could be simpler!—he calls upon the Seven-Pointed Star and magic for aid. The Gods, he says, created the world thus. Magical interference is to blame, Seven Hells take it. Septon Barth, that you might understand correctly, is a charlatan at whom the whole Citadel laughs. Our, heh-heh, neighbors from the Starry Sept consider him nigh a heretic. Praise all that is holy, he at least turned out a tolerable Hand and not a bad friend to our glorious King, long may he reign."
Here Vaegon's fuse ran out, and he applied himself to the jug again. Aegon, who felt hurt not only for himself but for his teachers, snuffled resentfully. Perhaps Uncle had simply had too much of the excellent wine "costing not a groat," but even so—he ought to watch his tongue. Having caught his breath, Uncle passed the jug to his nephew and continued much more quietly and calmly:
"In general, the work is weak and almost entirely erroneous, both in facts and in conclusions. But I liked it."
Aegon choked on the wine:
"Kuh... I beg pardon, what?! You just covered it with common abuse?"
"I liked it because you deemed it necessary to record data about an important event—and the death of the last creature remembering Valyria and a disjointed Westeros is undoubtedly an important event—and drew your own conclusions. Erroneous, yes. Based on controversial assertions and incorrect facts. But your own. Your striving for this deserves praise."
Uncle's sparing words finally knocked Aegon off balance, and he ceased to understand anything. He is scolded and praised for the same thing he is scolded for? Uncle Vaegon, meanwhile, took the jug from him, finished the wine, and stood, preparing to leave.
"In truth, I envy you, Nephew. To write a book at ten years... That you might understand correctly—I wrote my first study at eighteen."
Having said this, the Archmaester headed for the exit of the Godswood with a slightly unsteady gait. Uncle was definitely drunk.
The next day, the traditional morning family meal passed with a reduced company. Lord Corlys had bolted to the port at first light, Cousin Rhaenys preferred to breakfast with the cranky children, Viserys and Aemma did not appear at all, and Daemon appeared alone, gloomier than a thundercloud.
"I offer you my apologies," he bowed his head guiltily before his younger brother.
"For what?" Aegon was surprised. "We did not seem to quarrel."
"I ought to have watched that Bronze Bitch better. Scarce did I turn away, and she managed to insult me and my brother before the eyes of the whole court," Daemon grimaced in vexation. "Someone should shorten her tongue."
After the strange conversation with his uncle-Archmaester, Aegon did not immediately recall the events preceding it.
"Oh well," he shrugged and nudged his brother with an elbow. "I avenged us both."
"You certainly can," Daemon chuckled.
Here the King entered the hall with a most resolute expression on his face, a displeased Queen, and following them Father with Uncle, discussing something in low tones. The latter circumstance inspired vague anxiety, since Jaehaerys's sons, despite Baelon's efforts, never got on particularly well, and the tournament had not fixed this. Surveying the family, Grandfather fixed his gaze on his grandsons and said:
"I was told of yesterday's most regrettable incident. It would be just to admit that all three are to blame for what happened. Rhea behaved disrespectfully, but you, Daemon, were insufficiently attentive to her as a husband, thereby giving very well-founded cause for displeasure."
Daemon only snorted in reply and rolled his eyes. Meanwhile, Jaehaerys shifted his attention to Aegon.
"You, however, ought to have shown more courtesy to your brother's lady wife."
"So I should have danced with her?" the Prince immediately rushed to the counterattack, shifting his feet and tapping his cane for greater effect. "How, in your opinion, should that have looked?"
"Most certainly you ought not have been rude to her. Such behavior is unworthy of a Prince of House Targaryen. I wish that by supper all three of you offer one another apologies, forgive offenses, and we sit at table again as a large and united family. Any discord between us breeds a crisis in the whole kingdom, which may ruin it."
Aegon remembered the two Great Quarrels between Grandfather and Grandmother and thought these words sounded somewhat hypocritical in the Royal mouth. The Prince had already hoped that Grandfather's opening speech ended there, but he still had something to say.
"It has not escaped me and your father," the King began in that tone with which he usually made appointments to various posts. Somewhere in Aegon's stomach, a bad premonition awoke and stirred anxiously, "how much time you, Aegon, spend in the library here and on Dragonstone. I fully understand and, moreover, share your thirst for knowledge. The fact that you decided yourself to compile an account of Balerion's last days invariably brought the late Maester Elysar to rapture and served as a subject of his pride in your successes. He considered, and here I and your father, as well as Septon Barth, absolutely agree with him, that you definitely have abilities, one might even boldly say talent, for learning. Not to give it opportunity to develop means to commit a crime against human nature and divine will. Therefore, having conferred with your Uncle Vaegon, we have decided that you should continue your education at the Citadel."
Silence reigned in the hall. Daemon shifted his gaze from Father to Uncle and Grandfather in surprise. Grandmother, expressing protest against this idea with her whole demeanor, contrariwise looked at no one. Aegon himself did not take his eyes off his grandfather.
"So that is how it is," he pronounced at last with a bitter chuckle. "Is this a new tradition of our family? To give unwanted children to Oldtown? Well, thank you for not making me a Septon."
"We are not forcing you to wear a chain all your life," Grandfather grimaced. "I give you a King's word that no one will force you to take vows if you yourself do not express such a desire."
"But you are sending me away from you all the same," Aegon concluded. "It seems my long tongue has begun to hinder you."
"Aye, and it would not hurt you to watch it," Father said grumpily, but immediately softened. "You will not be alone there. I managed to persuade your uncle to lodge you in his rooms. Furthermore, naturally, Dennis will go with you, who will look after you and ensure you a position commensurate with your status."
The sour expression on Uncle Vaegon's face spoke volumes about what sacrifices he had made for his brother's request. One must suppose, thought Aegon, that he did not remain the loser either; surely he dipped his hand into the royal cellars.
"If you deem the chambers in the Citadel too uncomfortable," Jaehaerys put in, "Lord Hightower will consider it a great honor to provide you shelter for the duration of your studies. In any case, you shall want for nothing."
Resistance was useless; the decision had been made without him and for him. Bitterest of all was the realization that his father had not even asked his opinion. Nothing remained for Aegon but to offer the King a ceremonious bow and pronounce:
"As Your Grace wishes."
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