Prince Aegon Targaryen
"It seems to me that my whole life is a succession of someone's deaths and funerals, rarely interspersed with others' weddings," Aegon told his uncle somewhere in the middle of the Reach, as they rolled along the Roseoad in a wain graciously provided by the Hightowers.
"If one thinks on it," the other remarked philosophically, "that is not far from the truth. My predecessor, Archmaester Septimus, believed that life is nothing more than a brief span of time between two visits to the Septon. Amusing: despite such a curious name, he believed not in the Gods, but deemed he had the right to jest about them. In the end, the Gods played a jest on him: he died in the seventh month after receiving his golden mask."
"And you, it seems, were ransomed by the prayers of Septa Maegelle," Dennis put in his half-groat.
"It seems so," Vaegon nodded and turned the page of another book.
The Hightower carriage was packed to the very ceiling with books and scrolls—to all Dennis's objections to leave at least a little space for things truly necessary on the road, Uncle replied with aplomb that Archmaesters travel no other way. Scarce having driven away from Oldtown, Vaegon and his nephew buried themselves to the eyebrows in the pages of old codes, laws, and compendiums, starting from the Andal Conquest itself and ending with the Code of Jaehaerys. Aegon first supposed that Uncle wanted to force him to prepare for the exam for the steel link for jurisprudence during the journey, but the man took up the books himself. To the unspoken question, Vaegon explained:
"Did you not understand why the King summoned me? My brothers are dead, and he knows not to whom to leave the crown. Last time he passed over Aemon's issue, so what hinders him now from passing over Baelon's issue?"
"You think he will offer the throne... to you?" Aegon's surprise knew no bounds. "Forgive me, Uncle Vaegon, you are the King's son, but Viserys..."
"Is the son of the last heir, he is married to a young woman who has already given him a daughter and will give a son. In other words, he is Rhaenys in breeches nine years ago. Think you my Maester's vows will stop him?"
"And do you not wish to become King?" Dennis asked as if by chance, but the Archmaester stared at him as at a madman. "What of it? Ask anyone—no one would refuse a royal life."
"Precisely," Vaegon raised a finger. "No one refuses a royal life, but what of royal duties? No indeed, spare me this filth—I have already been elected Seneschal twice. To rule the Citadel is not the same as the Seven Kingdoms or even Oldtown, of course, but this is that very case where we may form a judgment of the great based on facts known to us of the small. I like my life, and I do not wish to renounce it for the sake of the squabbles and intrigues of the Red Keep. I have not the slightest inclination to become King; if I sit upon the Iron Throne, I shall be someone like my grandfather Aenys—a weak King, incapable of ruling even one kingdom, let alone seven."
"You belittle your abilities..." Aegon tried to object. "You are the Archmaester of economics and sums, you know the essence of the Master of Coin's work..."
Uncle laughed hoarsely:
"Precisely, boy! I am a Maester. To be a Maester and to be Master of Coin are completely different things. It is like going to preach the Faith to wildlings: at best they will not understand and will chase you away, at worst—they will kill you, and at the very worst—kill you painfully. I wish no such fate for myself, and I warn you against it."
"Therefore you seek ways to renounce the inheritance?"
"Aye, dear Nephew. I wish to turn trouble away from myself."
"And who then should sit upon the throne?"
Vaegon fell silent for a long time, staring at the rural landscape floating past the small window. The Reach was beautiful with that special beauty acquired by any landscape under the influence of the miraculous power of human labor. Fields stretching on both sides of the road went beyond the horizon, interspersed with hedgerows in which birds twittered.
"Whoever ascends the Iron Throne after Jaehaerys," Vaegon finally uttered, "it will cause the displeasure of the losers. The party of the crown and the party of the losers will divide the country in two; if the new monarch, whoever he be, is not sufficiently magnanimous to the defeated, then... May the Seven preserve us from this!"
To Aegon's horror, Uncle nigh for the first time mentioned the Gods not in vain, ironically, just so, but seriously counted on their help. The prospect of an unspoken war hung in the carriage like a sharp dagger on a thin thread, making it suddenly too cramped and uncomfortable. Now that the Archmaester had shared his anxieties with him, Aegon, as a Prince of the Royal House, felt he had no right to ignore such a threat. First, Viserys is Father's first heir, meaning, by all possible logic, he should receive Dragonstone. Second, war between kinsmen? That the blood of the dragon should go against one another? The Gods see, there is little enough of it left as it is, to what end spill it? To what end spill the blood of others, noble and nameless? Aegon had read enough books to understand what internecine war can lead to, and now images, one gloomier than the other, flashed before his eyes. To distract himself somehow, he dived headlong into the old laws.
Days on end they read and reread records yellowed by time, as long as daylight sufficed, and when it became impossible to make out a single word, uncle and nephew retold what they had read to one another, discussed and reasoned how this might influence the unfolding situation. Being bookmen to the marrow of their bones, they would have forgotten food, rest, sleep, and other natural needs, had Dennis not taken upon himself the labor of sustaining their mental activity, literally dragging them from the carriage so they might eat and stretch their legs. Vaegon grumbled about someone's irrepressible insolence, Aegon complained that the servant wanted to take the use of his legs entirely, but Dennis was inexorable and merciless.
The closer their carriage drew to King's Landing, the greater the anxiety that seized Aegon. What reception would they meet in the Red Keep? He had not seen his brothers for almost four years: he knew that nothing had changed in their families since that time, but is that an indicator that they themselves had not changed? In the end, he himself had certainly not remained the same.
On the day they saw the Blackwater flash among the trees of the Kingswood, the sky was gloomy, and the wind drove low clouds across the sky, ready to pour rain upon the earth at any moment.
"We must hurry," Vaegon told the Hightower escort that had come with them from Oldtown itself. "There is nothing to do on the Blackwater in a downpour."
The driver cracked his whip, urging the horses, and a pair of riders galloped ahead, hoping to find a boat large enough for the crossing. The Archmaester finally put aside his books and began absently fingering his chain; by the way he pursed his lips so that the line of his mouth turned into a barely discernible line on his pale face, the Prince realized Uncle was nervous too. He himself could scarce force himself to sit still and endlessly spun the bracelet of five links he had forged dangling on his wrist. Only Dennis sat imperturbably, like a sphinx at the gates of the Citadel, hands folded on his knees, with the serene face of a man doing what he must and caring not what would be in the next moment.
One of the riders galloped back and reported in a pleased voice that they were in luck and in the fishing village there was a spacious longboat capable of taking the whole carriage on board. The travelers were lucky again when the fishermen proved smart enough to carefully roll the wain into the vessel, and strong enough to overcome the current and ferry them to the port.
Scarce had they entered the River Gate than the heavens opened and streams of water poured onto the earth. Looking apprehensively at the ceiling, Vaegon knocked on the wall of the carriage.
"Make haste!" he shouted to the driver. "We need not this rattletrap to start leaking."
The whip cracked again, and the carriage rushed along the cobblestones up the Hook. The gates of the Red Keep were open, and Aegon managed to notice the wet and joyless guard present arms as they passed. When they stopped in the Outer Yard, Uncle unhurriedly fastened the straps of the gold Archmaester's mask at the back of his head, adjusted the ring on his index finger, and, taking the golden staff, his last insignia, in his hands, turned to Aegon and said:
"Do not shake. This is your home."
The Prince swallowed nervously, but nodded nonetheless, rising from his seat.
"I shall enter every room with the right foot. There is nothing worse than disharmony and asymmetry, so do not lag behind."
With these words, Uncle threw open the door and stepped out into the rain. The carriage stopped near the Small Council Chamber, at the entrance to which carpets had been laid and a black canopy raised with red fringe, now hanging in heavy wet tassels. Beneath the canopy, Daemon and a certain lord, richly dressed in royal colors, met them. Both were gloomy as the clouds in the sky, but the Prince brightened somewhat at the sight of his kin.
"Uncle Vaegon," he bowed his head. Aegon grimaced and shook his head barely perceptibly, already knowing what would sound in response.
"Archmaester Vaegon," sounded hollowly from beneath the mask.
"Forgive me, of course, Archmaester," Daemon smiled, but there was not a drop of repentance on his face or in his voice. Turning to Aegon, he bowed again briefly, with emphasized ironic politeness. "Acolyte Aegon."
"Just 'brother' would suffice for me," the other grumbled.
Daemon snorted and gathered him into an embrace.
"And you have grown," he noted. And indeed, now they were of almost one height, though Aegon could still outgrow him.
A polite cough sounded. Daemon pulled away with visible regret and introduced his companion rather sloppily:
"This is Lord Rosby, our new Lord Chamberlain of the Household."
"My Prince, Archmaester," Rosby bowed restrainedly to each. "His Grace the King awaits you in the Small Council Chamber. Pray follow me."
Aegon swallowed the sarcasm ready to slip from his tongue out of nerves and looked at his uncle by habit, however, his face was hidden by the impassive mask, which seemed to be weeping due to the rare drops flying in. Nevertheless, Vaegon likely noticed his nephew's involuntary gesture and tapped his staff lightly, reminding him of the plan. Lagging half a step behind, Aegon hastened after his uncle, proudly striding after the Lord Chamberlain.
"I hope you had the wits not to throw away the pommel of the old cane?" Daemon inquired in an undertone, settling beside his brother.
"How do you know?.." Aegon began to be amazed, but cut himself short in mid-sentence. Surely, Dennis had written of that story to Father after all, and he had deemed it necessary to share with everyone. As if guessing what he was thinking, his brother smiled slyly:
"You think your Dennis tattled to Father?"
"Why, did he not?"
"To him—no. The most general letters once a month, mostly that you are alive and, as far as possible, healthy, and you and Uncle have not torn each other's throats out. But of what happened that night, he wrote to me. I am proud of you, my brother. To kill your first opponent at fifteen years... Here you have outdone Viserys and me."
Aegon glanced briefly at Daemon, expecting a caustic mockery, but the other smiled warmly and sincerely.
"So what of the pommel?" he clarified nonetheless.
"It remains," Aegon let drop, confused by fraternal feelings he had managed to unlearn.
But now the door to the Chamber itself where the Small Council sat appeared ahead, and conversation died away of itself. Coordinated metallic strikes of the golden staff and the copper tip on the end of the new cane rang on the dark red stone flags; Aegon thought that this was what Uncle sought—impressiveness; for greater importance, he squared his shoulders and raised his head. He is not afraid. Ziry zaldrīzes iksos.
At the carved portal of the door, depicting the sigils of all seven Great Houses with the royal dragon at the head, stood a pair of Kingsguard in their dazzling white cloaks. Their faces were unfamiliar to Aegon; evidently, they had been accepted after his departure. One of them opened the leaf and announced resonantly:
"Archmaester Vaegon of the Citadel and Prince Aegon of House Targaryen!"
Still synchronizing the strikes of their "third legs," the Archmaester and the Prince entered the Small Council Chamber. At the head of the long table sat Jaehaerys himself. Now he could truly be called the Old King: his hair, the color of white gold and never shorn, had now become completely white and lost its luster; his beard, not yielding to his hair in length, had also faded and now lent no moral authority, but only aged him further. His violet eyes had faded too, and his hands absently fingered the Hand's brooch. The King was dressed in a loose black doublet with wide sleeves, more resembling a robe, and only the crown on his head prevented him from being taken for a veteran of the Night's Watch.
The chair nearest him on the right hand—the Hand's place—was empty. Next sat Lord Maemion Celtigar, Master of Ships and Lord Admiral; nicknamed "Lord of Cod and Crabs," the head of the third Valyrian house to escape the Doom had light brown hair with several separate white-gold strands and dark brown eyes—unlike the Targaryens and Velaryons, the Celtigars trembled less before the purity of Valyrian blood, due to which it was actively diluted by the houses of the Crownlands. Beyond Celtigar sat Lord Lyman Beesbury, Master of Coin and Lord Treasurer. A middle-aged man with soft curly hair, he had sat in the Small Council recently and looked at the entering princes with respectful interest.
On the King's left hand sat the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Ryam Redwyne. Dennis, who walked about Oldtown while Aegon studied, said that in the Reach they were displeased that Ser Ryam's cousin had been passed over in the appointment to the post of Lord Admiral, but the man, by all appearances, held nothing against Lord Maemion. The next chair was occupied by Grand Maester Runciter, hung with two dozen of the most diverse chains, a newcomer at this table. The Conclave had sent him to the Red Keep after the death of old Allar, and so far the only thing Runciter could boast of was the failed attempt to save Prince Baelon. The place beside him was occupied by a reddish-haired middle-aged man with a neat beard; Aegon had often met him in Oldtown—Ser, now Lord Otto Hightower, brother of the Lord of the Hightower, was a frequent guest in the Citadel library. Several times they had struck up brief conversations about sciences, but these were not full-fledged discussions, but rather polite conversation in which one loses time and yawns furtively from boredom. Several months ago he had left the Citadel—it was rumored he had been summoned to the capital, but that he had been made Master of Laws, Aegon did not know.
When Vaegon and his nephews entered, the members of the Small Council rose from their seats; Daemon headed straight for the wall behind the backs of Celtigar and Beesbury and stood beside a gloomily pale Viserys. The elder brother nodded to the younger in greeting, and Aegon answered in kind. At the opposite wall, Corlys Velaryon stood frozen in a tense pose with Cousin Rhaenys. Just in case, Aegon nodded to them too, but waited for no reaction in return.
Vaegon processed to the very head of the table and stopped a couple of steps before it.
"I confess, I did not expect such a representative meeting," he spoke, and Aegon felt Uncle's face twist in a sour smirk beneath the mask. Not letting those present recover from such insolence, the Archmaester bowed. "My Sovereign, we have appeared at your summons."
"Archmaester Vaegon," Jaehaerys creaked. The King. Not Grandfather. "Aegon."
The Prince bowed obediently and was himself surprised at how easily the court greeting came to him. And yet he had not bent his back before anyone for four years!
"Sit," the King cast to his Small Council, and chairs rumbled being pulled up.
Silence reigned in the Chamber for a time. The King silently bored into the new arrivals with his gaze; finally, he raised a slightly trembling finger and leveled it at Vaegon.
"Remove the mask," he ordered. "I wish to see my son."
The Archmaester obeyed without a murmur, leaving the mask to dangle on his neck.
"Hello, Vaegon," the King spoke a little warmer.
"Father," the other nodded just as restrainedly.
"You were delayed."
" The way from Oldtown is not short."
True enough. Leaving the Citadel a day after the messenger's arrival, they had traveled nigh on a month in the Hightower wain.
"Your brother is dead," the King continued.
"Yes, we received the letter. It plunged us into shock."
Uncle, as always, expressed himself too briefly. Aegon, despite his age, had had a real fit of hysterics. He had sulked at his father, of course, but when he left, without word, without farewell, without a last word, without apologies... To realize his guilt and shame for too-harsh words once thrown and not to have the opportunity to ask forgiveness for them was agonizingly painful. Jaehaerys studied the son standing before him just as silently.
"Do you want to become King?"
Aegon would never have thought that the silence accompanying the dialogue of father and son could be even quieter. The wind walked behind the stained-glass windows, rain beat against the glass, but all this was somewhere not here. Such tense silence reigned here that it seemed a lightning bolt was about to strike. The Prince saw Viserys frown, saw Daemon's jaw muscles work and his hand lay on the hilt of Dark Sister. Runciter blinked confusedly, Celtigar, by all appearances, did not realize the meaning of the offer and was preparing to swear fealty to the new Prince of Dragonstone, Hightower brought his bushy brows together in puzzlement.
"No," Uncle answered with a firmness unexpected by all save Aegon.
"I shall leave you the crown and all Seven Kingdoms," Jaehaerys continued as if nothing had happened.
"No."
"You shall receive Dragonstone with the library of our ancestors."
"No."
"The High Septon shall release you from your vows, and you may marry."
"No."
"You shall saddle a dragon. Vhagar herself, if you wish."
"No."
The last "No" exhausted the King's patience, and he slapped his hands on the table with unexpected fury and sprang up.
"No?! I offer you everything there is in Westeros, and you tell me 'No'?! Permit me to know, insolent one, what became the reason for your so haughty refusal?"
The Archmaester, contrariwise, remained completely impassive.
"Three-and-twenty years ago you yourself deprived me of all this. A dragon. A possible family. The right to the Iron Throne. You sent me to Oldtown, and I took vows. I am no longer a Targaryen. I am an Archmaester of the Citadel, and you made me such, just as Mother made Maegelle a Septa."
"You both did not object too much to such a fate," the King remarked in a calmer tone. "You even smiled for the first time in fifteen years."
"Yes," the Archmaester did not deny. "I am content with my life. And precisely for this reason, I do not wish to change it. I need not your throne and your crown."
Jaehaerys chuckled disappointedly and sank wearily into his chair. Playing a little with the Hand's badge, he pushed it across the table to Vaegon.
"Since you do not wish to be Prince of Dragonstone, you shall be Hand. Do not argue. This is an order. Do they still honor the King's word in the Citadel?"
"They honor it," Vaegon nodded and picked up the brooch, but did not fasten it to his grey Maester's robe. "What is His Grace's pleasure?"
"My Grace needs counsel," Jaehaerys sighed heavily, and in this sigh Aegon felt all the weight of years lived, problems, betrayals, and family quarrels. "I need the counsel of each of you. I and my good Alysanne had thirteen children. Of them, only one remains alive, but he too, as you see, is not too useful to the crown. I have no other sons, but I need an heir. Prince Aemon left behind Rhaenys, Prince Baelon—Viserys, Daemon, and Aegon. To whom should I leave the throne? You all owe me counsel, and I demand it of you."
"My Sovereign," Vaegon began. "To begin with, let the aforementioned Rhaenys and Viserys leave this place."
Rhaenys, flashing her violet eyes angrily, turned swiftly and nigh ran from the chamber. Viserys hesitated slightly, and Daemon nodded encouragingly to him:
"Go. We shall manage."
Passing Aegon, Viserys clapped him on the shoulder and disappeared behind the door. Scarce had the heavy leaf slammed shut when Vaegon rubbed his face with force. He had been Hand but a couple of minutes, and already managed to tire. Here Jaehaerys deigned to pay attention to Aegon, leaning heavily on his cane, and permitted all standing to sit. Aegon settled directly opposite the King, Daemon sat on his left hand, and on the right, two seats away, the gloomy Sea Snake.
"We are listening," the King declared.
"My Sovereign, I dare assure you that you need not our counsel," the Archmaester stunned everyone.
"Truly?" Grandfather did not believe.
"Truly so. In the ninety-second year After Aegon's Conquest, you rejected, ahem... other points of view and by your will appointed Prince Baelon your new heir. In this is your right and your prerogative as King. If you please, one may view this as a particular case of the precedent created by Aegon the Conqueror himself: Queen Visenya was his elder sister and was considered the senior wife; the son by her, in theory, had more rights to the father's inheritance; but, contrary to this, the King appointed Aenys his heir, his firstborn son by the younger sister-queen Rhaenys."
"Royal will has nothing to do with it," Lord Otto objected. "By the laws of the Andals, sons inherit from the father in order of seniority."
"Quite right," the Archmaester nodded with a sly smile. "But did the Andals practice polygamy?"
Hightower had nothing to cover with.
"That is just it. By this expression of his will, Aegon the First defined his future successor. It is important not even so much the fact of proclaiming Aenys heir itself, as that the Conqueror did it himself, not relying on the laws of the Andals, as we have seen. In other words, you, my Sovereign, have the full right to pass the title of Prince of Dragonstone to any relative of yours who can and wishes to accept it."
"That is the question, my son," the King sighed with bitterness. "To whom should I pass it?"
"My Sovereign," Lord Corlys entered the fray. "My spouse, Princess Rhaenys, is the daughter of your eldest son. In the ninety-second year, you preferred Prince Baelon to her, but now that he, to our sorrow, is gone, the priority of inheritance has passed to her again. She is the only daughter of your first heir."
"And she is a woman," Celtigar emphasized the obvious. Having occupied the post formerly belonging to Corlys himself, Maemion tried to prove to everyone that the Celtigars are no worse mariners than the Velaryons, and, naturally, contradicted his predecessor in everything.
"There is more courage in her than in some knights and lords," Velaryon cast an angry glance at the "Crab Lord." "She is the rider of Meleys, she traveled with His Grace through the Reach and the Stormlands. Damn it, she fought with me against pirates in the Narrow Sea! What other proofs do you need that she is capable of ruling? In the end, she is a Targaryen by blood, what of your doctrine of the exceptionalism of Valyrian blood? Andal laws are inapplicable to Valyrians!"
"Sit, Lord Corlys," Jaehaerys ordered, and the Sea Snake had only to obey the steel that cut through his voice. "We have other grandchildren, no less capable and brave."
"When a lord's son dies," Runciter began, clearing his throat, "then the lord's heirs become his grandsons by this son, and only then does the inheritance pass to the lord's other sons."
Aegon nearly snorted. The Grand Maester said this only for the sake of saying it; his words could be interpreted however one liked, and Corlys, it seems, took them as support for his position. It seems the Conclave erred and sent a useless Maester to the Red Keep; he is no match for Elysar.
"Yes," Hightower remarked. "But this rule speaks of a lord's grandsons and nothing of his granddaughters."
Daemon rubbed the bridge of his nose with showy fatigue and let drop:
"Please, let us cease engaging in nonsense. Viserys is our father's eldest son and after his death inherited all his property."
"Save Vhagar," Vaegon let drop. Aegon did not understand what hid behind this remark: a simple statement of fact or characteristic light mockery?
"Dragons are not property," Daemon snorted.
"And yet Prince Viserys has no dragon, unlike Princess Rhaenys," the Sea Snake could not refrain from remarking.
"Viserys was the rider of Balerion," Daemon rushed to his brother's defense. "Does not the fact that the Conqueror's dragon accepted him confirm his right to the Iron Throne?"
With these words, the Prince looked expectantly at the King, as if awaiting support from him, but Jaehaerys only ran his fingers into his beard and began to comb it absently. Waiting for no confirmation of his words, Daemon rushed to the attack again:
"If Viserys received Father's money, Father's horses, Father's ships, Father's sword, Father's lands, then why can he not receive his title and all rights to the throne? How do they differ from all the rest? How does he differ from the ordinary grandson of that lord whose son died? He is the eldest among your grandsons, Grandfather, and..."
"Enough!" the King barked. Not Grandfather. It seems that in all the years spent at court, Daemon had never learned to distinguish the masks Jaehaerys wears; then why does Aegon, even after four years' absence, see them so clearly? The King, meanwhile, continued: "My Lord Hand, what counsel can you give me?"
"I advise you to appoint an heir, Sire. The sooner, the better," Vaegon answered without hesitation or any compromises. "You must be guided not by feelings of kinship, but solely by the welfare of the Seven Kingdoms."
"I cannot," Jaehaerys groaned, hiding his face in his hands, and it seemed to Aegon that he was about to weep.
Another mask rattled on the floor and, when it fell, the Prince saw an old, tired, deeply unhappy and very lonely man who had outlived all his kin and friends. His grandchildren were far from him, and now bustled like a flock of carrion crows at the foot of his high throne, waiting only for him to breathe his last so they could sink their claws into him and into each other. The Gods blessed Jaehaerys with long years of rule, and with them they cursed him. Hardly did Lord Corlys notice this—surely he saw only weakness to be exploited; hardly did Daemon notice—judging by his face, he was uncomfortable and a little ashamed that his grandfather (and he believed that his grandfather sat before him) behaved so inappropriately. What Uncle Vaegon saw remained only to be guessed—with an imperturbable expression he added more softly:
"My Sovereign, it is your duty."
Jaehaerys finally lowered his hands, and it turned out that beneath them hid the gaunt face of an old man who no longer runs from the Stranger, but is ready to throw open the door to him himself.
"All out," he cast angrily, but the chairs had not yet creaked when the King changed his mind: "No, stay. Aegon."
Finally, he paid attention to the grandson sitting opposite. The other hesitated, not knowing whether to stand or remain seated, but in the end only bowed his head.
"Your Grace," the Prince's voice trembled treacherously.
"How is your education in the Citadel?" the King inquired in a conversational tone. "We see you have already forged yourself several links. How many are there?"
"Five, my Sovereign."
"Five links in five years..."
"In four years, Your Grace," Aegon dared to correct him. "Five links in four years, of which two are for history."
"Is that so?.. I too love history. Of what did you read last?"
Last Aegon had read of the laws of inheritance among the First Men, but evidently, that is not what interested Jaehaerys now, and therefore he said what was expected of him:
"Of the Valyrian Freehold, of its conquests. And of dragons."
"Of dragons..." Jaehaerys repeated like an echo.
Taking this as a sign to continue, Aegon explained:
"I read Valyrian scrolls on the nature of dragons and discovered that Septon Barth erred when he said they have no sex. The ancients distinguished..."
"Is that so? And what said the Maesters?" the King interrupted him hastily, scarce was Barth's authority called into question.
"The Maesters said the hypothesis is not without sense, but..."
"Is that so? So they agree with you?"
"Not all and not fully. I need proofs, I wrote to Your Grace requesting permission to go to Dragonstone. Furthermore, I would like to study a dragon personally, in the flesh, and for this, I need to saddle one of them."
"No," the King cut him off without batting an eye, and Aegon heard the ringing of shattering hopes.
Tense silence hung in the Chamber again.
"My Sovereign," Aegon pushed the lump formed in his throat with great effort. "I am a born Targaryen. Targaryens were both my parents, and their parents too were pureblooded dragonriders. There is no other blood in my veins save Valyrian, and this blood gives me the right to..."
"The right gives We," the King's voice was cold, and steel glinted in it. "And We deny you this right. For your own good, for your own safety. Dragons do not tolerate weakness, and you are... unwell."
The pause Jaehaerys made, trying to smooth the edges somehow, escaped no one. Aegon again, for the first time in a very long time, felt the astringent bitterness of accumulating poison at the very base of his tongue; he did not notice himself how his lips formed a caustic smile and pronounced:
"And you, Your Grace, is it long since you visited Vermithor? We were informed in Oldtown that you are unwell too."
The King's violet eyes flashed angrily, and his finely trembling hands clenched into fists. Had Maegor the Usurper lived to old age, he would undoubtedly have cast just such murderous glances.
"I forbid you to approach Dragonstone, do you hear? And the Dragonpit!" he hissed through his teeth. "You will not get a dragon! Do you understand me?!"
"I understand you, Your Grace," Aegon lowered his gaze, feeling grim satisfaction that he had managed to prick the old man.
"Then get out of here. All of you get out! Go, I am weary of you!"
Having duly paid their respects to the enraged King, the Small Council obediently went out.
---------------
Read advance chapters on my Patreon
Patreon(.)com/WinterScribe