In the Citadel, it was not so bad, and Aegon would surely have liked it there, had it been a single building and not an entire district of Oldtown, sprawled on both banks of the Honeywine and the multitude of islands between them. The passages, bridges, stairs, streets, alleys, and dead ends drove him mad with their disorganization and, far more importantly, their extent.
Uncle Vaegon, as an Archmaester, had several rooms in one of the houses adjoining the Seneschal's Court. Hissing at his brother like an angry dragon, Vaegon nevertheless deigned to allocate one of them for his nephew and his servant, crowding out numerous stacks of books and simply scribbled-upon papers. Living with Uncle proved difficult. The Archmaester turned out to be a taciturn man and a lover of silence, so at home one had to speak in low tones. The Archmaester was pedantic to a fault in all that concerned science, especially arithmetic and economics, yet treated all things mundane, such as cleaning and food, with disregard. The Archmaester rose at the hour of the nightingale, before dawn, and considered it his duty to wake the rest. Sometimes it seemed to Aegon that Uncle did not sleep at all; at least this could explain why, being six years younger than Father, he looked nigh on ten years his elder.
Early rising became another unpleasant and torturous surprise for the Prince. His leg, weary from the day, had no time to rest during the short night snatched from cramming and Uncle's extra assignments, and in the morning protested in every way against new exertions. It must be admitted that Dennis fared even worse: to his old Targaryen, he had received another, and for the same money at that, and the character of neither was sugar. Aegon's servant had to rise even earlier than his master to attend to breakfast, the bath, and compresses. The former Dragonkeeper took his own during the day, when Aegon went to hear the Maesters' lectures—all the time of the lessons, at times quite lengthy, Dennis gave to sleep, having learned to sleep in any position.
For the first couple of months after arriving in Oldtown, Aegon remained in a state of deep surprise, bordering on shock. What was happening seemed an unceasing dream, like the one in which he had inhabited Caraxes. From the increased pains in his weary leg, he had wanted to take milk of the poppy again, but Uncle Vaegon replied in an icy tone that he would not allow his nephew to spend his years in the Citadel in a sweet, drugged slumber. To the request to find another remedy, the Archmaester of economics and sums remarked with a wry smirk that this was not his field, and Aegon, since he had need of medicines, might try to forge himself a silver link.
The challenge was accepted, and for the first year Prince, and now Novice Aegon, did not miss a single lecture of Archmaester Ebrose. Like most Targaryens, he did not lose face at the sight of blood, learned all the bones and muscles in the human body in a couple of weeks, and, to the great surprise of the other novices and Uncle Vaegon, in less than half a year was admitted to the dissection room to dissect corpses. His outstanding successes the Prince modestly explained by the desire to heal himself before treating others, yet in reality, matters stood somewhat more complexly. Dennis, who at first treated his young master's studies rather coolly, gradually became interested and began to attend lectures with him. Years of caring for an infirm father and a lame prince had left their mark, and, having received the opportunity to properly "cut and polish" the experience gained, Dennis the Grey decided to avail himself of it.
The other novices and acolytes, of course, chuckled at the colorful pair of Valyrians, goading Aegon to send his servant to forge the link for him. He, however, remembered the lesson of Lord Sheep and only raised his head higher, intending to pass the examination before the others. His hopes were equal to his confidence in his own powers, springing from the ease with which knowledge came to him. He learned the descriptions of many diseases and the ways of their treatment in an evening, to answer them playfully at the morning lesson. When Archmaester Ebrose admitted him to treat a real patient with a simple poisoning, Aegon was somewhat lost, but managed to pull himself together and coped quite tolerably for a youth of fifteen years.
However, scarce had the time of the decisive examination approached than Oldtown turned its back on Aegon once more. Having spent a year studying medicine, the Prince appeared for the trial filled with great hopes, only to fail it with a crash. It all began with him failing to distinguish a heart attack from poisoning by one of the Essosi poisons by the first signs. Already thoroughly nervous, the Prince answered the question about the symptoms of the shivers anyhow, confusing the stages of the disease's development, only to then break the arrow with trembling hands while extracting it from the wound. Having suffered failure, Aegon was forced to accept Ebrose's offer to try to pass the exam another time.
Trembling with shame and hatred for the novices and acolytes surrounding him, for Archmaester Ebrose, but above all, with contempt for himself for such foolish and unforgivable mistakes, Aegon, hearing only the pounding of blood in his ears, left the lecture hall. He did not remember how long he stood by the door, leaning powerlessly against the wall, seeing and hearing no one and nothing around him. At one moment he discovered Dennis beside him, waiting for something like a faithful hound at his master's feet.
"My Lord? We cannot stand in this spot until the next examination."
"Say again what I cannot do," Aegon spoke in a hollow voice, but nevertheless allowed himself to be led home.
Vaegon, poring over another book, scarce turned his head in their direction when they entered:
"Passed?" was all he asked.
"No," Aegon answered just as briefly.
The Archmaester gave a harrumph, managing to express thereby a whole gamut of emotions and feelings: neglect, and disappointment, and contempt, and lack of surprise, and even, as it seemed to Aegon, satisfaction. The Prince's lips parted in a responding crooked grin, and he limped silently into his room and collapsed onto the bed as if cut down. Exhausted by his distress, he did not notice falling asleep.
When Aegon woke, the evening outside the window had long since come into its own. The setting sun touched the clean-whitewashed wall weightlessly, and the warm pinkish-orange ray of light looked upon it like fate's mockery of the youth's failure. His soul felt wretched, but neither impudent nature nor the soulless gods had the wit to send rains to an Oldtown languishing from the summer heat, so that the mood might be disgusting for everyone, and not only for Aegon. Muffled voices could be heard through the wall, conducting a lively dispute which, by all appearances, had woken the Prince.
"...it makes no sense..."
"But, mayhaps, it will help him..."
"Help in what?.. Furthermore, it would be a violation of the statutes and principles of the Citadel. I have no right..."
Intrigued by the potential lack of rights of an Archmaester, Aegon rose soundlessly and, trying not to creak the floorboards nor tap his cane, slipped out the door. Stopping past the threshold of the neighboring room, which, like all the others, served Uncle as a study, he saw that Dennis stood before Vaegon, holding something in an outstretched hand.
"The examination must demonstrate the novice's knowledge. If your master did not demonstrate it, well, the fault lies only with him. In the end, not passing an exam is no disgrace. Some geniuses of sums come to me ten times to receive a gold link, and it is nothing. The earth does not open beneath their feet. But what you propose is treachery and a crime against all the principles of the Citadel. I wish to hear no more of it."
A chair creaked, being pulled back to the table, the pages of a turning book rustled—Uncle Vaegon was returning to the world of equations, theorems, and unknowns.
"To think of such a thing: to renounce one's own link for the sake of another! What folly..." the Archmaester's muttering reached Aegon, and in the next instant the Prince collided nose to nose with Dennis, still clutching something in his hand.
"What have you there?" Aegon asked hoarsely, knowing what answer would follow, and therefore fearing to hear it. Dennis was grimly silent.
"Show me!" Aegon demanded again.
The servant, surrendering, obediently unclenched his fist. On his palm lay a neat oval link of pure silver. The sign that a novice had passed the examination in medicine and become an acolyte.
"I wanted to give it to you," the former Dragonkeeper spoke quietly. "You deserved it just as I did. Your knowledge is sufficient..."
Aegon, who until then had stared dully at the dully gleaming link, did not let him finish and struck him across the face with the pommel of his cane with a backhand blow. Dennis recoiled with a howl, clutching his nose from which blood gushed.
"What the devil?.." Uncle Vaegon began to voice his indignation, rising from his chair, but Aegon had already rushed out of his chambers.
Neither the gatekeeper, leaning out of his cubbyhole, nor even the stairs, his good old enemy, stopped him. Curses buzzed in his head like an angry swarm of agitated bees, but neither in the Common Tongue nor in Valyrian did there exist words capable of expressing all the resentment, anger, and fury that burned in Aegon's heart with dragonfire.
How could it happen so?! He, a Prince of the Royal House, blood of the blood of Old Valyria, could not pass a damned exam, whilst his own servant, whose merits were three drops of Valyrian blood and a roan head, received a silver link for medicine?! Gods, Gods, how could such a thing happen at all? He knew everything, after all; he could have told them everything and even more, but how could it happen so?
Seeing no road before him, Aegon tore through the crowd on the evening street. From all sides, the good citizens of Oldtown pushed and shoved, stepping on feet, having poured into the streets after the day's summer heat, making his soul feel even sicker. Aegon recalled the words of his brothers, who had said more than once, both singly and together, that there is no problem a good cup of fine wine cannot ease; moreover, in the worst case, that is if the problem is too big, even not-too-good wine will do, the main thing is that the cup be large; well, or simply not one. Aegon decided to follow the advice of his elders and, looking around the unfamiliar and not-too-clean street, turned into the first door he found under a sign promising drink.
In the stuffy dark room, it proved rather crowded: it was the end of the week, all work was finished, and tomorrow the same people who were now swearing and preparing to beat each other's faces, guzzling wine, cider, and the devil knows what else, would stream side by side into the seventy-seven septs of Oldtown to pray away their petty sins. Now, however, they indulged in simple entertainments and eased their simple sorrows with wine, knowing not that a whole Prince of House Targaryen had failed an exam today. Beside him, some wretch who had had too much vomited right under Aegon's feet, parting with what he had eaten. Aegon was already thinking whether to look for a more decent place, but here the landlord, preparing to throw out the drunkard, noticed him.
"Welcome, m'lord, welcome," the innkeeper, as was fitting, proved paunchy. Reflections from cheap tallow candles smoking the low ceiling danced on his bald pate, surrounded by a halo of greasy hair. Evidently, the man had spotted Aegon at once and decided that a tidy sum could be shorn from him. "What is your pleasure?"
"Wine," Aegon cast out, shivering internally from his appraising gaze. Surely the fat man had examined cattle at the market this morning with the same look, which he had slaughtered for supper. "Meat. And a quieter corner."
"Of course, m'lord," the innkeeper nodded vigorously. "Naturally, m'lord. This way, please."
"I wonder," thought Aegon, "will this lackwit realize that he is serving the grandson of the Old King himself?" He was seated at a table in the corner, from which one could see the whole hall, the innkeeper's counter, and the entrance to boot. The fat man wiped the table with a dirty towel, sending the remains of the previous meal to the floor, and pushed a chair for the dear guest. Soon a rough iron cup, a jug of wine, and a plate with steaming meat, running with juice and blood, and a pair of baked potatoes appeared before the Prince.
The wine proved sour, and the meat tough, but Aegon drank and ate, trying to forget the day's disappointment as quickly as possible. Somewhere around the beginning of the third jug, he was already observing tavern life with detached curiosity and a light smile; in the end, here it is—the life of Grandfather's subjects; there will be something to tell Father and Viserys when Aegon returns to the capital. Let them know that the good citizens of Oldtown are vexed that the best wines, made quite nearby on the Arbor, sail to the eastern coast of Westeros, whilst they themselves must be content with sour swill from the north. The innkeeper loudly shared a story of how he tried to buy up at least one keg of Arbor from a ship in the harbor, not even for the tavern, but for his family and his dearest mother-in-law, that she might not be cold in the Seven Hells; so the captain told him from the gangplank that, he says, he, the innkeeper, hasn't got the face to drink Arbor Gold.
Guffawing rose up, someone loudly agreed, someone just as loudly denied what happened, a serious argument arose, someone called someone a son of a bitch and was sent in return to the Seven Hells (no doubt to check if the innkeeper's mother-in-law had frozen). In general, word for word, mug for mug, cup for cup, and lo, Aegon observed a tavern brawl with pleasure. There was almost more excitement here than at the knightly tournaments held in King's Landing; the crowd quickly decided on favorites, shouts of support rang out, bets began to be made.
Aegon, getting a little carried away, shouted out the name that rang out most often in his corner, and in the next instant one of the combatants flew into the wall, after which he was dragged out into the street by the arms. Who won and who lost, whose name he shouted—all this remained a mystery to the Prince, since the crowd seemed not a whit upset, but refilled cups and mugs anew and, applying themselves to them, bawled out a vulgar little song about someone's full cellar, as if hinting to the innkeeper that it was time to open the bins. Another followed it, about a keg of ale, afterwards they sang something about unhappy love, from which many grim drunkards wept bitter tears, then a fourth, again about full tables. Aegon listened to the simple motifs and bawdy verses, drank, and gradually mellowed.
At last, when the people had thinned out slightly, and the regulars struck up about the cellar for the sixth time, the Prince beckoned the innkeeper with a gesture and asked how much he owed him. Licking his lips greedily, like a castle cat at the sight of a saucer of cream, the innkeeper, without batting an eye, delivered:
"Two silver stags and three stars more," the insolent fellow demanded in such a tone that Aegon realized at once he was being fleeced like a rich fool. And then he realized that he would not find even a bronze penny on him. And understandable it was—the accursed Dennis carried the purse on his belt, always managing expenses and buying everything necessary. Something had to be devised urgently. The first thing that came to mind was the cane gifted by Grandfather: small grains of ruby were set in the carved pommel, serving as the dragon's eyes; however, Aegon immediately rejected the thought of picking one out—one could buy this whole fleabag establishment for such a thing. Sorting through the valuables he had on him, the Prince removed a ring from his left hand and held it out to the fat man.
"This is silver," he declared in the most peremptory tone. "The ring is worth no less than three dragons. Tomorrow morning you will bring it to the Citadel to the house of Archmaester Vaegon, and you will be given your stags."
"And stars," the innkeeper reminded, devouring the ring with his eyes.
"And stars," Aegon nodded and let a threat creep into his voice. "If tomorrow by midday this ring is not on my finger, the watch will turn the whole city upside down, but they will find you and this ring. Choose wisely: either the stags and stars you earned, or the ring and a whole sea of troubles."
"Of course, m'lord, what could be more important than coin earned by honest labor? Nothing, m'lord! But this, will they let me in to the Archmaester, then? To your Vigon?"
"They will let you in. And he is Vaegon. Archmaester Vaegon."
"Just so, m'lord, Archmaester Vaegon, Citadel. We'll do everything in the best way, doubt it not, m'lord. Only don't you forget, two stags..."
"And three stars," Aegon agreed, placing the ring in the broad palm.
When he tried to stand, his leg buckled, and he crashed back onto the chair. The innkeeper tried to support the rich client, but he merely waved him off. It seemed Aegon had drunk more than he imagined. Gathering his strength, he nevertheless extricated himself from the table and, leaning on the cane harder than usual, hobbled somehow to the door. Beyond the threshold, it had grown quite dark, and after the stinking room of the tavern, it was surprisingly easy and sweet to breathe; standing a little at the entrance, Aegon felt that the earth no longer threatened to leave from under his feet, and decided to return home. Here he faced a new problem: he had absolutely no idea where he was.
Craning his neck, Aegon tried to find the silhouette of the Hightower. It should be visible from everywhere, from any end of the city, even at night; that is the point of a lighthouse, after all—to show the way to travelers in the night, helping to avoid danger and return to native hearths. A little later, Aegon remembered after all that lighthouses are needed by ships, not people lost in a strange city, and decided that this was terribly unfair. Even more unfair than Daemon having a dragon and Aegon not; than Dennis having a link for medicine and Aegon not.
So he wandered along the gradually emptying dark street, wherever his eyes looked. If one thought about it, Aegon decided, the Hightower is not needed—one needs to come out to the river or the city walls; moving along them, one can easily find the Citadel. Praising himself for resourcefulness, he approved the plan of action and proceeded to its execution, limping on with enthusiasm, but after a couple of steps he was rudely hailed:
"Where are you hurrying, old man?"
Glancing back, he saw three shadows detach themselves from the walls of the houses surrounding the street and approach him.
"Home," Aegon answered honestly.
"Home!" one of the shadows admired. "And where is your home, old man?"
"In the C-Citadel," he answered. "I am in a hurry... And I am not an old man!"
"How not an old man?" another shadow was surprised. "Only ravens, old men, and novices live in the Citadel. You don't look like a raven, and there are no lame and grey-haired novices. That means you are an old man."
"Wait a moment," the third shadow stopped his colleagues with a gesture. "Here, come over here."
Aegon, like an obedient sheep, took a couple of steps forward. Here a waning moon slipped out from behind a cloud, and the Prince's long white hair flashed silver. The shadows themselves turned into three men of dubious appearance, dressed in whatever came to hand.
"Seven Hells," one of them swore. "It's that... What's his name..."
"Well, that one..." another tried to help him.
"Devil take who he is," the third decided. "The main thing is he's strange. We can push him to that merchant from Pentos. For such hair, he'll fork out a hundred dragons, or even two."
"Greg, tell me, are you always this stupid or only when the moon is waning?" the first inquired.
"And why stupid right away?" the one named Greg bristled. "What's wrong then? The money is good..."
"What money, Greg?" his interlocutor explained to him. "Open your eyes, this lad is lame! What the hell does your merchant need a cripple for?"
"How should I know? Maybe he's some pervert? A Pentoshi, after all. Or maybe he knows some other pervert who only takes cripples..."
Here several important circumstances dawned on Aegon. First, he was not recognized, and that, in general, was good. Second, they did not want to rob him, and that was also good. Third, they intended to kidnap him and sell him into slavery, which could not be good in any way. His heart plummeted, the remnants of the wine buzzing in his head fled shamefully, leaving Aegon alone with three cutthroats and awakened fear. He instinctively took a couple of steps back, stumbled on a cobblestone, and, trying to keep his balance, clinked the brass tip of his cane against the stone. The trio, having gotten carried away by their internal dispute, remembered the object of bargaining.
"Hey, lad, where are you hobbling off to?!" Greg was indignant. "Hugh, hold him!"
In the blink of an eye Hugh, who until then had doubted that the unknown Pentoshi would buy a cripple, was before Aegon and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, tearing him from the pavement like a kitten.
"Where are you going, lad?" Hugh bared his teeth. "We aren't finished with you yet!"
Aegon tried to smash him with the cane across his insolent, grinning mug, hoping to break his nose, however, the brute managed to intercept the blow and tossed the stick aside; it was immediately picked up by the third bandit. Twirling it in his hands for a short while, he tapped the pommel with a fingernail and clicked his tongue:
"And the stones, looks like, are real," the scoundrel said, trying to examine the ruby dragon eyes. In the next instant, he broke the cane over his knee; wood crunched, splinters flew to the ground, and in the bandit's hands remained the dragon pommel with a metal spike.
"No-o-o!" Aegon howled, but the bandits only laughed.
"That's it, lad, you won't hop away from us now!" Greg guffawed.
"Why the hell did you break it?!" Hugh was indignant, shaking Aegon for order's sake so that his teeth clicked. "We could have pushed it at the market!"
"You're a dullard, Hugh," the other chuckled, twirling the pommel in his hands. "The stick was too distinctive, but if you break off this spike—it'll pass for a figurine. They'll give money for it too, and maybe even more than for the cane. Come on, Greg, lead the way to this merchant of yours, or we'll run into the watch..."
Like an angelic song sent down from the heavens by the Seven, a painfully familiar confident voice seemed to Aegon:
"Well, run into them you already have."
Big Hugh turned his whole body, and the Prince could see his savior and servant. Dennis, with a swollen nose and blood baked into a black crust above his upper lip, stood a few paces from them, clutching a sword in his hand. Aegon did not even know he was allowed to take a weapon with him; on the other hand, a part of him huddled somewhere in a corner of his consciousness thought detachedly, it seemed logical—Dennis was, after all, the personal servant, nurse, and bodyguard of the Royal Grandson.
"Let him go," Dennis demanded.
"Or what?" Greg smirked, drawing his own short blade from under his cloak. His two other comrades followed his example. "As you see, there are more of us."
"Not for long," Dennis cast out and rushed to the attack.
Aegon had no time to understand anything before he felt Hugh trying to cover himself with him as a shield, and he already wanted to yell to Dennis to stop; the servant, however, diving under the big man's raised arm, slashed him across the ribs, managing on the follow-through to nick his throat with the tip of the blade. Hugh toppled to the ground, wheezing and struggling to clamp his hand over his slashed neck; Aegon, falling, hit his head painfully on the pavement and lost consciousness for a few moments.
When the ringing in his ears stopped and circles ceased dancing before his eyes, the Prince heard abrupt cursing and the desperate ringing of swords.
"Ah, you bitch!" howled either Greg or the nameless third bandit, crashing into the wall of the nearest house.
Dennis, meanwhile, had crossed blades with the remaining opponent; his left arm already hung like a whip—evidently, he had been nicked after all. Aegon, grimacing, began to rise cautiously: first he turned onto his stomach, pushed off with his hands, and sat on his knees; now he needed to find the cane; the Prince looked around and noticed the pommel glinting with a ruby eye. Barely reaching it, Aegon tried to pull the cane to himself, but the accustomed weight was not there, and the Prince remembered that only splinters remained of the cane. Pulling his left leg under him, he rose somehow, still clutching the pommel in his hands.
However, he was not the only one to come to his senses. While Dennis tried to cope with the Third, Greg, who had hit the wall hard, was preparing to rush into battle again. One need not be a skilled knight like Viserys or Daemon to recognize the obvious threat: a wounded Dennis would not manage two at once.
Aegon, not thinking a second, threw himself with all his might to cut off Greg, ignoring the pain shooting through him from heel to crown. Crashing into the bandit, who did not expect such a swift attack, the Prince, of course, did not knock him off his feet, but impaled him on the spike of the cane handle thrust out before him. Greg stumbled and stared in surprise at the lad, whom he thought lame and therefore harmless in a fight. Aegon, unlike him, did not hesitate; yanking out his improvised weapon, he swung wide and drove it into the attacker's side again, then again, again, and again. Aegon struck disorderly, thoughtlessly, without any system, hitting higher or lower than the previous blow each time, completely forgetting which organs he might damage to take a man out of the fight.
But now Greg, still staring at him in astonishment, coughed, blood flowed down his chin—that meant he was lucky enough to hit between the ribs into the lung. Aegon swung once more and pricked him once more; in that same instant Dennis, as if gathering his strength, managed to reach the Third and with a chopping blow almost took his head off his shoulders, but the blade, evidently, had managed to dull and could not cut through the spine. The Third collapsed as if cut down, and following him Greg, wheezing, slid off the spike, falling to the pavement like a punctured sack.
Breathing heavily, Aegon and Dennis stared at one another.
"It seems I arrived in time, my Prince," Dennis spoke abruptly, scarce having caught his breath. Aegon noticed that the sword in his hand was shaking violently; he shifted his gaze to his own hands and saw that they, and he himself, were all covered in blood. Fortunately, someone else's; unfortunately, still warm. From the realization of what had happened, of what had occurred, and what could have occurred, he felt sick, and his right leg obligingly reminded him that taking a run, however short, was a big mistake on his part. The Prince's knees buckled, and he, printing them painfully into the pavement, vomited, parting with the remains of the damned supper.
Dennis, wiping his sword on the Third's clothes, sheathed it and began to drag the dead to the wall. Doing this with one hand, evidently, proved not too convenient, so soon he changed tactics and began to push the corpses with his feet.
"Not too respectful toward the dead," Aegon chuckled crookedly, crawling to the opposite wall.
"For an attempt on you, their hands and heads should have been displayed above the city gates," Dennis muttered through his teeth. "They deserved no respect even from the Silent Sisters."
He had to work hardest with big Hugh; when he too was reunited with his pals under the wall of the strange house, Dennis stood somehow unnaturally straight, threw back his head, as if fighting something. His efforts, however, proved vain, and he vomited right onto the corpses. Seeing this, Aegon laughed hoarsely.
"There is not a damn thing funny in this," the servant cast out angrily.
"And to my mind, it is funny," the Prince answered, giggling nervously. "It looks very much, Dragonkeeper, that you too had no occasion to kill before."
"Of course, I had no occasion," the other snarled. "I joined the Dragonwatch, not the City Watch or any other. My care was to be dragons, not capricious lame princes."
"Lame princes are also a kind of dragon," Aegon remarked philosophically and sighed heavily. "I ought not have hit you. You did not deserve that."
Dennis approached him, wiping his mouth, and held out a hand.
"Does that mean I am forgiven?" the youth stared at him.
"It means that it is time for us to clear out, my Prince," the other answered. "The Watch of Oldtown will need long proof of your lineage. We should return to the Citadel—let them sort it out with the gatekeepers, Archmaesters, and the Seneschal."
Aegon took this as forgiveness and allowed himself to be lifted, however, after a couple of steps he nearly ended up on the pavement again, and only Dennis's timely reaction saved him.
"Lean on me, my Prince," the servant suggested, judging by his tone, believing not himself that his help would be accepted. But Aegon no longer had the strength for bickering and disputes about the degree of his independence; moreover, he had lost his cane today through folly, and so had no choice. There was some hitch as to which side was best for whom to walk so as not to hinder the other; in the end, Dennis managed to bend his left arm somehow, and Aegon clung to the blood-soaked sleeve. Walking was frankly uncomfortable, but both the servant and his master proved too stubborn and proud to admit it.
"Daemon said," Aegon pronounced when the gates of the Citadel already loomed in the distance, "that if two knights emerge from one battle together, they may consider themselves brothers-in-arms and friends forever."
"The Mother Above deprived neither you nor me of brothers," Dennis chuckled. "And, if it comes to that, my Prince, you and I are neither of us knights."
"Unheard of!" Aegon feigned indignation. "A Prince offers friendship, and he is refused!"
"The Prince smashed my nose today."
"But I apologized!"
And both, unable to restrain themselves, laughed.
"Promise me you will do no more such foolishness, my Prince," Dennis spoke with all seriousness.
"I shall promise, if you tell me how you passed that damned exam," Aegon was already hissing from pain.
"First I shall have to obtain a link for teaching, that I might teach you something."
"Then you shall have to endure my foolishness, Acolyte Dennis," Aegon goaded the servant.
Contrary to the Prince's expectations, they were let through the gates without any questions—evidently, at the hour of the wolf, when the night is darkest, they were taken for two carousing novices. Uncle Vaegon showed no particular anxiety either: even from the street they saw a light in one of his windows, but when they crossed the threshold, no one met them.
"Returned after all?" came a dry voice expressing nothing.
"Yes," Aegon answered boldly. "I was nearly kidnapped!"
"By all appearances, they came to their senses in time," the Archmaester deigned to appear after all and now stood like a pale shadow in the corridor, candlestick in hand. "Evidently, they did not think to stop your mouth with a gag, and that saved them."
Aegon wanted to answer something no less caustic, but Dennis forestalled him:
"We need help, Archmaester."
"I see," the other nodded. "You are bloodying my floors. How untimely you, dear Nephew, decided to fail the exam: now you would have stitched your servant yourself, but now I shall have to do it. Bring candles, let us see if I remember anything of medicine..."
Uncle Vaegon cut away Dennis's sleeve and washed the wound with boiling wine; the cut proved not too long, but deep enough that it had to be stitched. While the Archmaester plied the needle, Dennis hissed like an angry dragon.
"Now you know what your victims will feel," Vaegon consoled him.
"Will you inform Father of... what happened?" Aegon inquired with hidden anxiety.
"No," Uncle cut him off. "Else he will fly here to deal with all the thieves and murderers of Oldtown personally. And he will be able to do that only if he burns the slums and the port. I fear Lord Hightower and the merchants will not appreciate his help."
"Aye, Vhagar is accustomed to burning crowds of people, and she has been to Oldtown..." the Prince drawled.
"But that does not mean today's farce will go unpunished for you," Vaegon said grumpily, cutting the thread and setting the instruments aside in a dish. Sighing heavily, he rubbed his face with his palms with force, as if wringing, wiping fatigue from it, and continued: "I shall speak with that useless dullard Ebrose."
"Why?" Dennis asked again, carefully examining the new scar. "I trust you quite well; besides, the seam is neat, the wound simple—I do not think it will cause problems."
"I intend to speak not of you, you narcissistic blockhead, but of my dear nephew-dullard. It will cost me a couple of kegs of Arbor that Baelon sends me, but I think I shall manage to persuade Ebrose to hold another exam in some two months, and not at the end of the year."
"Why?" it was Aegon's turn to ask again.
A more bitter sigh Vaegon had not yet wrung from himself. Rising to his feet, he looked at Aegon as at a five-year-old boy asking why dragons are so big and do not fall from the sky.
"That you, dear Nephew, might obtain that seven-times-cursed silver link. Oh, merciful Gods, to what have these two driven me?! I, an Archmaester of the Citadel, am bribing my brother of the Conclave! What next? The High Septon will release me from my vows that I might, to Mother's joy, marry?!"
Ceasing not to lament (more for show, as Aegon supposed) and shake his head, Vaegon took one of the candlesticks and retired to his bedroom, slamming the door demonstratively.
In the morning they were woken by noise in the courtyard, where the innkeeper from before was hanging about, having pulled on, it seemed, his very best clothes.
"M'lord!" he exclaimed, seeing a displeased Aegon in the window.
The Prince, desperately wishing not to deal with the stairs, opened the window and grumbled displeasedly:
"Could you not have turned up even earlier?!"
"But you said in the morning..."
"'In the morning'," the Prince pronounced deliberately, "does not mean 'at the hour of the nightingale'. Dennis! Dennis, give this man two stags."
The servant, who until then had blinked sleepily in the doorway of the room, opened his eyes in amazement.
"And three stars more, m'lord!" the fat man reminded.
"Two stags and three stars," the Prince corrected himself.
"My Prince," Dennis seemed shocked by the sum no less than by yesterday's incident. "Tell me this is a gambling debt, and not a bill for supper."
"It is a bill for supper," Aegon answered imperturbably.
"He is fleecing you! Even in King's Landing one can carouse all evening in a good tavern paying only one stag!"
"I gave this man my ring as a pledge. Give him the money, Dennis."
The servant swore quietly, but reached into the purse with his good hand and counted out the required amount. Shaking the coins in his hand, the Prince threw the innkeeper the stag and the three coppers one by one.
"You get the second silver when you give back the ring. Throw!"
The man obeyed and, taking aim, threw the ring; naturally, he missed the first time, as he missed the second and the third. After several minutes of attempts, the innkeeper was sweating, covered in dust, and judging by the expression on his face, had managed to regret getting involved with a damned rich man. The unfolding performance already had spectators from among the Seneschal's servants, meeting every failure with hooting and whistling. Finally, when Aegon was ready to have mercy and send Dennis down, the fat man, howling thinly in vexation, swung wider and finally threw the cursed ring into the window. Aegon, catching it, immediately slid it onto his finger and threw the remaining stag.
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