Face to face—the face cannot be seen. Daemon's face was so close it could well have passed for his own reflection in a mirror, only Aegon peered into it and could not recognize it at all. His brother had aged—nay, grown old even—what was that on his forehead if not wrinkles?—and seemed so weary, as if he had become a thousand-year-old weirwood in the godswood of Harrenhal, having known the sorrow of many centuries. Besides weariness, there was something else... Resentment? Aye, it looked very much like Daemon was resentful and angry. Determination? Also true, he always jutted out his chin like that when he decided to do something he found hard to undertake. Doom? Aye, it was that which burned him from within.
Daemon sat on a stone beneath branches with red five-fingered leaves, bowing low to the unhurriedly running stream, and sharpened Dark Sister. The ringing song of the whetstone, the quiet murmur of water, and the light rustle of foliage—these were all the sounds that rang out in the godswood. Neither birds, nor horses, nor other men. It seemed that in the whole vast castle, there was not a single soul.
"But where is Caraxes?" thought Aegon. "Daemon goes nowhere without him."
As if guessing the train of his thoughts, from behind the stone wall sheltering the godswood from the outside world came a guttural cry, stamping, the clapping of wings, the clattering of crests, and all fell silent again. Evidently, Caraxes was sleeping and settling more comfortably. Well, that means his brother is not entirely alone here. But why is the castle empty?
Daemon, meanwhile, rose from his stone, swung his sword, made several lunges, dodged an imaginary counterattack, leaped back, and moved toward the weirwood. Stopping a couple of steps short, he swung and slashed the blade across the trunk, cutting the white bark to the very wood. Red sap flowed from the fresh wound, surprisingly like blood; it seemed to Aegon that the very face of the divine tree twisted in a grimace of pain, and a couple of moments later a trickle of bloody tears ran from each eye. The Prince approached closer to the tree to examine the face and noticed that above the notch made by Daemon, six more of the same were already visible. Deep, for a Valyrian blade had cut them. Bleeding, like a wound on a living body. Fresh, not yet healed.
"He is waiting for something," Aegon guessed. "This is a count of days. So he has been here already... a week? And still he waits. But for what? Or for whom?"
Only Daemon himself could answer this question, heading toward the exit of the godswood. Aegon already wanted to call out to him, drew air into his lungs, inhaled...
And realized he had no mouth. Where there should have been lips or at least simply a slit through which a man speaks and eats, he had nothing. Fingers darting in confusion to his face felt only smooth skin without any hint of an opening. Aegon tried to press through it, pry it apart with his fingers, pick it open, tear it, but it did not yield. He tried to shout, but nothing came of it. Not a single sound left his throat, now become useless. He inhaled again (this time he realized he had been breathing through his nose the whole time), gathered his strength, and screamed in horror.
With a sharp cry, Aegon sat up in bed. A moment later, kicking the door open, Dennis burst into the Prince's bedchamber, a lamp in one hand and a sword in the other.
"My Prince!" the servant quickly checked the windows and corners of the room. Convincing himself that no one had broken in and no one was hiding, he set aside the sword and approached the bed, speaking more calmly now. "My Prince, what happened?"
"N-n-nothing," stammering, Aegon waved him off and noticed he was covered in gooseflesh, whether from cold or from what he had experienced in the dream. "A bad dream."
"One of... those?" naturally, Dennis was aware that his master often dreamt strange dreams of dragons and music, but of the special dreams, which had not appeared since his illness, he knew only by hearsay. "Of the prophetic ones?"
"Do not call them that," Aegon answered sharply. He did not want to think that these dreams were truly prophetic.
Noise arose in the neighboring room, and on the threshold appeared one of the Kingsguard, Ser Clement Crabb, accompanied by several guards in the black-and-red surcoats of the Targaryens.
"My Prince?" the knight inquired anxiously.
"All is well," Aegon spoke as calmly as possible. "A bad dream, it happens to me."
"But we heard your cry..."
"I tell you, a bad dream. Dennis, bring me tea. Go, Ser Clement, no one intends to kill me."
Still glancing suspiciously into the corners, the guards filed out one by one. Scarce had the door closed behind them when Dennis, clattering the kettle over the fireplace, remarked caustically:
"While they ran to you, you could have been taken hostage or kidnapped already."
"Or killed," Aegon chimed in, still shivering unpleasantly.
"No fewer than three times."
"I shall complain to Grandfather that his guards sleep at their post."
The Prince and the servant laughed quietly. Dennis offered a thick-walled ceramic cup that reluctantly gave off heat. Aegon moved to the headboard, stretching out his legs, and clasped the cup with his palms, imagining he was sucking the warmth from it himself. The dream still refused to let him go; moreover, the most terrible thing seemed not the lack of a mouth—that, of course, was terrible, but at least it could be explained by the dream itself; who knows what one might dream?—worst of all were Daemon's violet eyes, from which, it seemed, life itself had departed.
"Because of Ser Clement, hiding your nightmare will not be easy."
"And no one knows that I dream anything strange save you and my brothers."
"I speak of them."
Aegon sipped the hot tea, smelling tartly of thyme.
"I shall say that I am not ready to speak of it yet."
"Considering that last time you dreamt of your uncle's death..."
"You mean to say they will not believe? Of course they will not believe, and they will be right. But... Truly, this is not a care for tomorrow. I think I have time to solve this riddle."
"I dare remark, my Prince..." Dennis began, but suddenly bit his tongue.
"Speak."
"If you permit, my Lord, you once spoke of the illness of the late Prince Baelon... He too thought he had time."
Dennis was right. Who knows by what paths Daemon will return to Harrenhal again? And in how many years? Aegon could not even guess; he shivered again, sipped tea, and decided to change the subject of conversation.
"That can wait. Tell me rather, what do the servants say of the Council?"
Dennis chuckled and shook his head. Of course, he understood the train of his master's thoughts but preferred to accept the rules of the game.
"And what is there to tell, my Lord? Every servant holds the side of his master. The Driftmark ones look at us like a gull at a fish, picking quarrels, but not bringing it to a fight. They are afraid, but not of us, of the guards. They know that if anything goes wrong—no Lord Corlys will save them."
"And the others? The smaller ones?"
"There is nothing to say there at all. Here, not all lords care which dragon sits on the throne, let alone their servants... The locals from Harrenton are terribly proud that so many folk have piled into their district, but are already grumbling—if we don't eat all their game and fish in the lake, we'll scare it off and trample the fields. And why hide the sin—they've spoiled nearly all the wenches."
"Breeding Riverses, then," Aegon chuckled, slurping tea.
"It is funny to you, my Prince, but growing up a bastard is no sweet matter," Dennis shook his head. "Even for noble seed one suffers enough, and here everyone who feels like it is at it: knights, and squires, and servants, and craftsmen, and grooms, and scullions... Why look far—take me for instance. Why do you think they call me Grey? My grandfather's grandfather was a bastard himself. My father told me that great-great-grandfather's mother served as a maid on Dragonstone under Lord Aelyx. It happened she came at an untimely hour to change the linen, and my Lord, forgive me, my Prince, was glad to try her out right away. In the ninth month, a babe appeared with my Lord's hair. So we wear it: some whiter, some darker."
"And have you suffered much?"
"Little, my Prince," Dennis agreed. "But that is dragon seed and spilled on Dragonstone, and here it is devil knows from whom. Those who have money—they give them moon tea; those who don't—use some local muck and charms themselves, or even beat it out with fists."
"She won't bear after that," Aegon frowned. "No one at all. Neither bastard nor trueborn."
"And that worries no one, my Prince," Dennis explained. "Her own fault. With us on Dragonstone they say: a dragon is lured with brimstone, and a man with a skirt. Here, I listened, the saying is different, but the meaning is the same: if the bitch doesn't want it, the dog won't jump. And so it is everywhere."
Conversation about bastards could not fail to lead to the topic of bastards of royal blood, including those who came to Harrenhal to defend their real or imaginary rights.
"And what do they hope for?" Aegon snorted. "There are so many trueborn heirs here that the King cannot decide, and they..."
"They want to declare themselves," Dennis emphasized the obvious. "To be recognized. What lord does not want to have a royal bastard in his service?"
"I do not think His Grace will give them such pleasure."
"Undoubtedly, the King will be angered."
As if confirming his words, outside the window, somewhere in the yard, the first rooster crowed; Aegon had not noticed how he had talked away the rest of the night with the servant. If now is the hour of the nightingale, the King will rise no earlier than in three hours, and the session of the Council will begin no earlier than noon, but the huge and ugly castle will fill with noise and din long before that. To lie down to finish sleeping was pointless, and the Prince grew angry at himself, his stupid dreams that hindered living, and the foolish lords accustomed to making noise.
"Prepare me a bath and breakfast," Aegon ordered in a tone that had become abruptly grumpy.
Dennis, accustomed to his patron's morning foulness, withdrew with a formal bow. Aegon turned the long-empty and cold cup in his hands. If one tries, he thought, one could attempt to sneak with Daemon to his Caraxes. The Red Wyrm had arranged a lair for himself on the shore of the God's Eye, a mile from Harrenhal, and his sister Meleys, together with Laenor Velaryon's young Seasmoke, preferred to settle on the other side—fully three miles from Harrenton.
Frankly speaking, no one called Caraxes and Meleys brother and sister; nothing united them save the bright red color of their scales; even their body shape was different—Daemon's dragon looked more like a fire wyrm living under the Fourteen Flames than a dragon. However, Aegon was inclined to believe that both dragons hatched from one clutch laid by Dreamfyre. Everything matched: comparable size, identical temper, and age; even saddled they were with a difference of only three years. Of course, a close examination could have given more, but by the King's grace, Aegon was not allowed near dragons, and he had to limit himself to observations from afar.
The door to his chambers creaked; the Prince raised his head to snap at the slow Dennis, but instead met his uncle's gaze.
"You are still in bed?" Vaegon asked acidly instead of a greeting. On the Archmaester's pale face dark circles lay under his eyes; surely he had sat over papers all night again.
"I am finishing lying in what you ran from," Aegon retorted.
Having performed the morning exchange of pleasantries, the Hand-Archmaester looked around the room and, as if finding no better place, threw a heavy leather envelope right onto the bed.
The Prince arched an eyebrow questioningly:
"What is this?"
"Your assignment. Today you speak against the Red Bastard. Here is the statement of his claims, witness testimonies, and clean paper. You will be the royal accuser. I hope you brought books and brains from King's Landing, and not just trinkets?"
"You have half a hundred Maesters and thrice as many clerks," Aegon tried to wriggle out. "Entrust this to one of them. I know not how..."
"I have half a hundred Maesters," Vaegon nodded. "But only one acolyte Targaryen. Against you will be some man-at-arms from the City Watch; he cannot even read the Seven-Pointed Star. This is no harder than an answer at an exam."
"There will be lords there... And, if you remember, I failed an exam!"
"The very first one," Uncle waved him off. "And how many did you pass after it? And as for the lords, they will be on your side. No one wants to see a bastard in line for the throne. And a redhead at that."
"But..."
"This is not up for discussion," the Archmaester cut him off. "Later you will tell me 'Thank you' for this opportunity, and I shall answer: 'And what did I say?' You have until noon, but do not forget you still have to hobble downstairs. In your place, I would have started reading already."
Having said this, Uncle Vaegon left just as he entered: swiftly and without superfluous words. Aegon shifted a confused gaze from the door to the bundle. Pulling the ties, he unrolled the leather and stared at a stack of papers covered in close handwriting.
"Seven Hells," was all the Prince exhaled.
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