Father's chambers in Maegor's Holdfast had not changed a whit over the past years. Father's bedroom was now occupied by Viserys and Aemma, and the grown Rhaenyra was settled in the neighboring room where Viserys himself used to live. Passing the door, Aegon started in surprise when he heard girlish giggling and a gentle woman's voice behind it—Aemma, by all appearances, was a good mother. Daemon and Aegon kept their chambers.
In the younger Prince's room, everything remained exactly as it was four years ago, on the day of departure. There was not even dust. Aegon had a sharp, wrong feeling, as if he had crossed the threshold of the room only a minute ago, forgot something, returned, and everything remained in its places. His old books on the shelves, the lute on the chair where Rolland of Felwood sat, the mahogany harp with the carved three-headed dragon finial in the corner. Everything remained the same, only nothing was as before. Grandmother and Father are dead, Grandfather has aged, and he himself has turned from a youth offended at the whole world into a young man who could only have books, scrolls, and maps ahead, not balls and tournaments. What struck Aegon even more—he hardly noticed how these four years passed; for him, they were filled with study, exams, banter with few comrades, periodic pains in an overworked leg, and flew by so quickly that he had no time to look back. This made him sad.
"I ordered everything prepared for your return," came Viserys's voice from the door.
Turning, Aegon smiled faintly.
"So that is why there are no rat droppings on my bed..."
"Sorry, did not know your tastes had changed so much," the other answered in the same tone, and the brothers laughed quietly. "I received your letter. Well, the one where you asked to send old books. Daemon scoured the library of Dragonstone and set aside everything he found there. I searched here, and, well... Everything that touches on dragons at all lies there."
He pointed to the table by the window, piled with scrolls and stacks of books. Before, it stood at the foot of the bed; Aegon saw as if now the figure of Elysar in a grey robe with chains on his shoulders, clinking medicine vials and muttering something displeasedly.
"The King forbade me to approach Dragonstone and the Dragonpit," Aegon complained absently, still immersed in memories of the first days after his injury.
"What? Why?" Viserys was surprised. "Were you not supposed to speak of..."
"Of the heir to the Iron Throne, yes. Daemon defended you, Corlys objected. Uncle Vaegon tried to force Grandfather to make a decision, but so far it looks like a waste of time."
"Grandfather is completely shattered after Father's death," Viserys tried to defend the King, though there was little confidence in his voice. "He stood at the funeral pyre alone, allowed neither me nor Daemon to be near."
Aegon limped to the armchair and sank into it with a sigh. What he intended to ask required firm support, and he had already learned not to trust his own legs.
"How... how did Father die? I mean... how did it happen?"
Viserys sighed heavily and looked not like a dragon, but like an upset hound.
"We went hunting beyond the Blackwater—foresters saw a royal stag, an albino at that. We had already found the trail, but Father suddenly cried out so loud he scared the birds; he nearly fell from his horse. We returned at once. Runciter brought down the fever, gave milk of the poppy, but... it was all in vain. Grandfather was beside him almost round the clock. The pains were simply hellish, he screamed even more terribly than you then."
Naturally, thought Aegon, he himself was not dying then.
"Was he conscious?"
"Almost not. The milk of the poppy..."
"Yes, plunged him into sleep. Well, maybe it is for the best. Did he say anything?"
"Nothing coherent," Viserys grimaced. "Muttered something about Mother, but when Runciter let us in to him, he immediately fell back into sleep."
"And he died?.."
"On the fifth day, likewise, in his sleep."
"What did Runciter say?" Aegon asked a professional question and immediately regretted it. It was visible that the interrogation he inflicted was unpleasant to his brother, and the man nigh squeezed out every new word.
"Runciter said that... that it was a rupture..." the brother clearly fought unpleasant memories. "A rupture of the innards."
Interesting. A rupture of the abdominal innards. It could not happen by itself. Poison? Aegon knew poisons capable of causing internal bleeding, poisons capable of making a man literally vomit up his stomach and shit out his guts, but poisons capable of rupturing them, the Citadel knew not. And to whom could the Prince of Dragonstone and Hand be a hindrance?
The answer is obvious—Rhaenys and Corlys. But the Lord of the Tides and Driftmark was not a poisoner. A traveler, discoverer, warrior, merchant, but not a poisoner. They say poison is a woman's weapon, but Rhaenys was a match for her husband and would sooner have come out against her uncle with a sword in hand than with poison in a cup. Someone else? But everyone loved Father, and who did not love—respected and feared him. No, there was no poisoner.
That means the cause is natural, and if so, it developed not in one day. Father surely noticed at least some slight malaise that could indicate a problem, but preferred to ignore such a trifle until it became a trouble of dragon size and killed him. But still, what was it? A tumor? Ulcers? I must question Runciter.
Deep in his semi-maester thoughts, Aegon almost completely forgot about Viserys, yet he remained standing before him. Finally, his brother could bear it no longer and coughed awkwardly.
"Forgive me," Aegon smiled guiltily. "I subjected you to such an interrogation..."
"Indeed, royal inquisitors would be envious," Viserys returned the smile. "Let us go to supper, my brother from the Citadel. We have not eaten together for a whole abyss of time, I missed you!"
"And what of Aemma?"
His brother smiled even wider and squared his shoulders proudly:
"We are expecting a child again."
"Oh," Aegon showed due surprise. "Congratulations."
"Yes, so I bade her take care of herself and stay in our rooms."
"Say it straight: 'I am tired of her and want to rest'," came a mocking voice from the door. Daemon, with loose hair and doublet open at the chest, propped up the doorframe and looked expressively at his elder brother. "You understand, Aegon, I simply cannot grasp how he can spend so much time with her? I am ready to flee my Bronze Bitch after a day."
"Therefore, for every day at Runestone, you have seven in the Red Keep," Viserys ribbed him. Apparently, the bickering had long turned into an empty formality for them—only spouses after a couple of decades of marriage and brothers knowing each other from birth scold so.
"Nyke hen ñuho Brāedāzmo Bratsiot ēlio ono gō dāerēdoks (I am freed from the burden of my First Brother)," Daemon grumbled, earning a condemning look from his elder brother.
"Muñāzma gaomiles daor raqiles (You do not love your Mother)," he said. "Zyri jeldas ao naejot sagon biare (She wanted you to be happy)."
"Drīvose, ziry qringōntas (Truthfully, she failed)," Daemon spread his hands and, returning to the Common Tongue, waved a hand. "Let us go already, I am hungry as a dragon!"
Aegon, slightly grimacing, rose and followed his brothers. The dining room where they had eaten with Father for all the first fourteen years of his life had changed very little too. In the reflections of numerous twisted candles, the Prince saw that the solid black drapes had been replaced by rich red ones with a pattern of elongated dragon scales. Aegon could not suppress a smile, realizing that in their shape they rather resembled bird feathers than dragon skin; definitely, Aemma had her own notion of taste, and she definitely remembered that half her blood was the blood of the first Andal Kings of Mountain and Vale. Aegon preferred to swallow the comment ready to slip from his tongue—Viserys seems happy, and for that sake, it is worth keeping silent.
The princes sat in the same places where they sat in childhood, leaving Father's place at the head of the table unoccupied. Servants hastily placed exquisite viands on the table, true works of art of the palace kitchen: duck fillet stuffed with nuts, with pears poached in Dornish wine, a suckling pig roasted whole with a deliciously large apple in its mouth, a whole pile of quails on a golden tray, boiled salmon a whole arm in length surrounded by crab legs and claws, plates and baskets with intricately cut exotic fruits from Essos and Sothoryos. Yes, all the same (if not more) could be found in Oldtown, but Uncle Vaegon considered such refinements a waste of money; not because he was stingy and as a true Archmaester of economics and sums was ready to strangle himself for an extra copper groat, not at all—he sincerely did not understand why spend more than necessary. During his studies, Aegon, of course, did not starve, and Dennis always brought the best and freshest from the markets, but the Prince had managed to lose the habit of such refinements.
Noticing some confusion on his face, Daemon did not miss the opportunity to prick him:
"What, eyes wide?"
"Yes," Aegon did not hide it, but remained not in debt: "Probably whores on the Street of Silk see such a face when you return from the Vale."
"Oh, you are right there!" Daemon cheered up. "But since we speak of whores, my brother... Tell me, how are the brothels in Oldtown?"
"I have no idea," Aegon shrugged. "I, you know, had no time to go to wenches: now study, now they tried to kidnap me and sell me to that same brothel..."
Viserys's face, sitting with the air of an exemplary family man in the company of libertines, elongated in surprise.
"What? Why do I not know of this? When was this? How... where was your Dennis looking?!"
"Long ago," Aegon answered simply. "And Dennis actually saved me. It seems knighthood is due for saving a Prince's life? Or lordship straight away?"
"Well, a white cloak is guaranteed him," Viserys remarked, still shocked.
"A pity," the youngest of the princes sighed feignedly. "I counted on bargaining a castle and coat of arms for him. Will have to risk myself a couple more times."
"Do not think of it! When I become King..."
"If you become King," Daemon remarked bitterly. "Grandfather may take the side of Rhaenys and Corlys. In the end, he always pampered her in childhood."
"When I become King," Viserys repeated stubbornly, "I shall make your Dennis a knight and offer a white cloak. His loyalty deserves the highest reward."
"Aha, especially after I smashed his nose."
Now both brothers looked at him with undisguised surprise, and Aegon willy-nilly had to recount that nasty story with Greg and big Hugh in full. The princes both laughed and cursed, and at the end Daemon, wiping tears of laughter, said:
"Give me that pommel."
"What for? Will you put it in the armory as a monument to the brave attack of the Clubfoot Prince on a city thief?" Aegon chuckled, shredding the duck fillet.
"I shall order you a new cane," Daemon answered with a sly smile.
"Thank you for the care. You know, my brother from the Vale, you would make an excellent father."
"Not with that sheep," the other grimaced. "Though no, comparison with a sheep defames the poor animal."
An awkward pause arose. Aegon felt a little ashamed that he had again disturbed his brother's pride wounded by marriage; Viserys bowed his head disapprovingly—evidently, this topic was unpleasant to him almost more than to Daemon himself.
"We forgot about Father," the eldest of the princes remembered, changing the subject. He filled his goblet and raised it, the ruby on the cup gleaming. "To his memory."
"To his memory," the brothers repeated in chorus, saluting his empty place. Sipping wine, all three bowed their heads.
"By the way, you are due a share of the inheritance," Viserys remembered.
Aegon gave an indefinite harrumph:
"Not that I have extreme need of money. The Citadel provides Uncle with paper, ink, and quills for free, pays the Archmaester's salary, with his demands, allows the three of us to live on it easily. Of course, without all this luxury, but quite decently."
"Actually," Viserys rubbed his chin with pale-gold bristles with a guilty look for some reason, "Father paid extra to Uncle Vaegon so that you would want for nothing."
"Then leave us the same sum," Aegon shrugged. "It is quite enough for us."
Daemon only laughed at these words:
"Forgive me, Aegon, but some burghers dress richer than you. It is a humiliation for us all, as if we cannot provide a Prince a standard of living worthy of his status! You look like a sparrow, not a dragon!"
"A lame sparrow," Aegon drawled. "Charming."
The brothers looked at each other and, unable to restrain themselves, burst out laughing.
"And yet I missed your little words," Viserys delivered, having caught his breath. "Without them, life at court lost its sharpness."
"Indeed, with such a tongue you need fear no mother-in-law," Daemon assured him, chuckling. "But we shall have to spend your money, brother."
"Have to?"
"Yes, and twice over. First," the middle Prince began to bend his fingers, "we shall sew you a worthy wardrobe. Seven Hells, in the Vale village septons wear richer vestments than your doublet, and they are poorer than our rats."
"It is not hard to be poorer than rats in the Red Keep—they feast in the royal larders, after all," Aegon put in, forcing Viserys, who had managed to get drunk, to choke on wine most unroyally.
"So then," Daemon continued, grinning conspiratorially. "First, we shall summon the best tailors. Second, we shall pay a visit to the treasury and pick you a couple of rings."
"You mean to marry me off?"
"Nay, I mean to go to a brothel with you!"
Aegon raised his eyebrows in surprise; to confess, his brother managed to surprise him.
"That you have not been there until now I perceive as my personal and most terrible mistake!" In proof of his repentance, Daemon pressed his hands to his heart, adding comedy to the situation. "It is more terrible and unforgivable than that accident on the stairs. Believe me, my brother, after this you will definitely not want to be a Maester."
Viserys coughed expressively, showing that even despite the wine, he cannot approve of his brother's adventures.
"I shall pretend I heard nothing."
"Be so kind, my brother," Daemon nodded gratefully and, winking at Aegon, deftly shifted the topic to court gossip.
In the morning, after the visit of the tailors who took new measurements from the Prince, Aegon, accompanied by Daemon and Dennis, overcame the rather tiresome descent down the steep stairs to get into the bowels of the Red Keep, where Maegor the Cruel had arranged his infamous dungeons, where one of his wives, Tyanna of the Tower, had frolicked and was later executed, and his treasury. In the middle of a high chamber hewn in the bulk of the hill, surrounded by chests of gold, silver, and other jewels of the crown, stood the black skull of Meraxes, the dragon of Queen Rhaenys, the younger sister-wife of the Conqueror, on a pedestal. The Usurper, who placed it here as if in mockery of his aunt, left in the dragon's eye socket the five-foot bolt launched from a Dornish scorpion that killed both beast and rider.
"Come," Daemon waved his hand decisively and led his brother into the depths of the hall.
"She is smaller than Vhagar," Aegon noted the obvious difference.
"Of course, smaller," his brother nodded. "Vhagar continued to grow even after Meraxes's death. I wonder, would she be the same size now?"
"Likely."
Meanwhile, they approached a table located near the wall, where a pair of servants in loincloths alone, barely covering their shame, were already arranging numerous caskets, cases, and small chests, all matched, of expensive woods. Aegon noticed several cases of white weirwood and thought that any Northman would readily go out with bare hands against Vhagar for them. There was mahogany from Sothoryos here, and filigree caskets of silver wire from the Free Cities of Essos, themselves virtuoso works of art, and cast boxes of pure gold, such as are made in Slaver's Bay. Daemon began to open each of them in turn.
"Grandmother brought me here before marrying me to that dumb sheep," he remarked casually. "Said I could choose anything for myself and my wife. How fortunate that I chose some utter trifle then. And even that is a pity now."
"You want to marry me off after all," Aegon remarked with a slight smile.
"I think not," his brother cut him off.
"Then why..."
"Because we missed four of your namedays, and there is no forgiveness for us. And also because everyone spits on these trinkets, and someone must wear them," here a shadow of sadness ran across the Prince's previously carefree face, and his light smile faded.
He touched the lid of one of the weirwood cases, narrow and long. On dark velvet lay a silver chain with fine links and an intricately cut emerald. The stone, no bigger than a grape, seemed to fascinate Daemon.
"I remember this," he suddenly pronounced in a hollow voice. "Mother wore this. So strange... I remember not the face, but this string... Viserys called it the 'Third Eye of the Dragon' and frightened me with it."
Aegon did not know his mother at all and did not like it when his brothers and father remembered her: the Prince knew that Alyssa Targaryen died soon after giving life to her third son, that is to him, Aegon, and in childhood feared he would be blamed for his mother's death. A completely childish, irrational fear, like fear of the dark or grumkins and snarks under the bed, seemed to have receded completely with the years; however, its seed, it turns out, always hid somewhere inside, in the very depth of his heart. Small, scalding-icy, like a grain of sand in a shell, it was covered with nacre, but went nowhere; and now this protective layer cracked, and Aegon felt so ill at ease that he barely forced himself to remain in place, and not run upstairs, to the light, to the sun and warmth.
Unexpectedly, Daemon chuckled, grabbed the jewelry, and brought it to Aegon's head.
"You know, there is no one to wear it but you," he chuckled. "None of us has green eyes but you. Take it."
"Why?" Aegon was taken aback.
"It is Mother's," Daemon shrugged. "One might think you have much left of her."
"It is a woman's thing!"
"I shall cut out the tongue of him who dares speak of it. You are a Prince. You can take from here whatever you wish."
"What folly..." Aegon muttered, but allowed his brother to fasten it at the back of his head nonetheless.
The brothers spent a whole hour in the catacombs of the Red Keep, just examining family relics, offerings of lords, and gifts of foreign ambassadors. The diadem of the Prince of the Summer Isles, consisting of thin sticks and half-rotted feathers abundantly covered with cobwebs, nearly collapsing on them from the darkness, first frightened the brothers to hiccups, and then made them laugh to tears and cramps in the belly.
When the princes climbed out into the light of day and made their way through the castle corridors to their chambers, on the Grand Staircase they ran into Uncle Vaegon, followed by Lord Treasurer Beesbury and several of his assistants trotting behind. At the sight of his nephews, the Archmaester froze in his tracks, and with a gaze full of bewilderment looked over Aegon, showing off not only the pendant and his father's rings but also a silver comb which Daemon for some reason had stuck right into his hair.
"Who would have thought," the 'almost Hand' pronounced mockingly, pursing his lips. "I lived four years under one roof with a magpie that steals everything that glitters."
Aegon squinted and saw that the involuntary spectators had become much more numerous: on the galleries and flights of the stairs, holding their breath, courtiers, their wives, knights, and servants froze. The Prince decided he could not disappoint them.
"No, Uncle," he answered with a smile. "You lived four years under one roof with a dragon, who has now broken through to his own treasury!"
"I read that Urrax was killed precisely because of his treasures," Vaegon remarked. "Do you intend to drag all this to Oldtown?"
"Actually, I thought to take a bigger treasure to Oldtown... I mean a dragon, naturally," the Prince decided to give his version of why a Targaryen of seventeen years still had never risen into the sky. "But then I thought that for Lord Hightower it would be sheer ruin. Had to limit myself to small things."
"I shall go offer praise to the Gods for this," the Archmaester snorted and continued his way.
"You handled him smartly," Daemon whistled when the Master of Coin's retinue processed past.
"And that is the only way one can speak with him," the amused Aegon grinned. "Well, where are your tailors? Or will I have to go to the brothel in sparrow's clothes?"
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