The heralds had to blow their trumpets to drown out the din raised by the Westerosi lords after the first vote. To the surprise of many gathered, the first candidate to drop out was Archmaester Vaegon of the Citadel; the Hand of the King appeared before the vast crowd of men invested with power and arms, explaining to them that by virtue of the vows he had taken, he was no longer a member of House Targaryen and thus had no right to the throne. Aye, Uncle said, the High Septon could annul them, but he himself, Archmaester Vaegon, understood that he was unfit for power and asked the noble lords to strike his name from the list of claimants, allowing him to continue impartially conducting the course of the Council. The noble lords, by unanimous decision, struck him out and allowed it.
Now they had to hear the claim of Ser Alfred the Red of King's Landing, asserting that his father was Maegor the Cruel himself. Aegon barely sat still from agitation; his sound leg strove now and then to start dancing from nerves, whilst the maimed one had ached since breakfast, portending problems and inevitable failure; he wanted madly to flee, or shout that he would not speak, or that the red-haired man-at-arms could not be a Targaryen. But every time he made to attempt even the slightest move toward shameful flight, he was immediately met by the cold gaze of Vaegon's pale violet eyes, which time and again nailed the nephew to his spot.
Now the lords quieted, and the Lord Chamberlain's herald summoned the next claimant to the foot of the royal throne. Ser Alfred proved a tall hulk of a man no less than six and a half feet in height; he was outrageously red-haired and had not a single glint of Valyrian silver in his fiery mane; only dark blue eyes could somehow justify his claim. Bowing to the King, the man-at-arms ascended a small dais facing both the royal rows, where the Targaryens, Velaryons, and other court dignitaries sat with Jaehaerys at the head, and the lords of the Seven Kingdoms.
"Your Grace, My Lords," it seemed the man-at-arms, for all his imposing stature, was mercilessly frightened when a thousand pairs of eyes converged on him. "Um..."
"Ser Alfred," the Hand came to his rescue. "You claim that you have kinship with House Targaryen."
"Um, aye, my Lord Hand."
"You also claim that you trace the said kinship to the Usurper and kinslayer Maegor Targaryen."
"Aye, my Lord Hand," the man-at-arms swallowed noisily and, for persuasiveness, tried to give his face the sternest expression possible. Thus, evidently, in his imagination, Maegor the Cruel should have looked; in reality, it looked wretched and even comical—chuckles rang out from the near rows in the Hall.
"With what can you confirm this?"
"Well, it's like this..." the most interesting part began; inside Aegon, fear of the crowd took a tiny step back, colliding with something suspiciously resembling the thrill of the hunt. "My mother served in the kitchens in the Red Keep, well, and carried food to the royal chambers. Dishes of all sorts there: rolls, and game, and fish, and fruit, and fowl, but mostly bread. Well, and one time after the midday meal Maegor... sort of... that very thing. Took her, in short. Well, that's how I appeared."
In confirmation of this obvious fact, the red-haired hulk spread his hands. Squinting at his uncle, Aegon saw him slowly inhale and exhale—the Archmaester always did so when one of the novices spoke nonsense and gibberish. In confirmation of Ser Alfred's words, the herald summoned his aged and half-blind mother. She confusedly repeated her son's version word for word, periodically launching into lengthy descriptions of what viands she carried to the royal chambers.
"Now Prince Aegon of House Targaryen will voice his objections to the claims of Ser Alfred of King's Landing," the herald proclaimed.
Aegon mentally wished his uncle to burn in the hottest of all Seven Hells, rose, and stepped forward, taking a place exactly opposite the man-at-arms and the old woman clinging to him. Bowing to the royal rows, the Prince noticed deep surprise on the faces of Viserys, Aemma, Rhea, and Cousin Rhaenys; Jaehaerys looked on impassively—surely Vaegon had coordinated his démarche with his father; Lord Corlys looked attentively, and Aegon realized he was being assessed as an opponent; on Daemon's face, surprise quickly changed to an interested smirk.
"Your Grace. My Lords," the Prince began timidly and cleared his throat, causing a new wave of chuckles in the Hall.
Waiting for the noise to reach the back rows and subside, Aegon realized with horror that the whole orderly speech born in him that morning had completely evaporated from his head; burned in dragonfire; drowned in the God's Eye. Calling upon at least some gods for help—Old, New, or Valyrian—he began nonetheless:
"My Lords, who can tell me when Maegor, styled the Cruel, ruled?"
Awkward silence hung in the Hall; the lords glanced at one another, trying to understand if an answer was truly expected of them.
"And I shall tell you, My Lords, that the answer to this question is very simple. For this, one need not even know the years of the Usurper's reign. It will be necessary and sufficient to recall that he ruled before our current Sovereign, gods bless him. I wish to ask you a question again, My Lords, and I ask you to answer by raising your hands. Do any of you remember King Jaehaerys as a young man? Or the regency of the Dowager Queen Alyssa? Or the tournament in honor of the first decade of his reign?"
A couple of moments later, several dozen men raised their hands.
"I thank you, My Lords. I shall allow myself to remind you that our King has ruled us for three-and-fifty years already. Three-and-fifty years, My Lords, I ask you to remember this. Consequently, Maegor the Cruel has been dead for the same three-and-fifty years. From this it follows that Maegor could have taken the good woman presented to us by force,"—at these words distinct chuckles rang out,—"no less than three-and-fifty years ago. Consequently, his supposed son cannot be less than three-and-fifty years of age either. And now I would like to ask Ser Alfred: do you know how old you are, Ser?"
"Um... N-n-nay," the man-at-arms was lost. He likely could not count beyond two score, and surely was not trained in logic, but he definitely managed to sense a catch, as well as that his orderly version had begun to burst at the seams.
"And can he prove it somehow?"
"N-nay..."
Aegon, completely forgetting his fears, broke into a treacherous grin; the trap was set, it remained only to spring it.
"Then, My Lords, I wish to ask you: does this Ser look three-and-fifty years of age?"
The red-haired guard looked barely older than thirty; naturally, a bushy spade-shaped beard added to his age, but even by forty years grey begins to break through in the hair, and the hair itself begins to thin. Ser Alfred was still far from that.
Meanwhile, the lords sitting closer peered into his face and delivered in a discordant chorus:
"Nay!" and this "Nay!" was picked up by those sitting behind them. If your neighbor shouts something, why should you not shout the same? Aegon thought that in this Westerosi lords are very like Maesters' ravens.
"Your Grace, My Lords, Ser Alfred is too young to be who he claims to be. Furthermore, it is known to all that Maegor the Cruel had five wives simultaneously and countless mistresses, and by none of them did he have either son or daughter. Numbers cannot lie, My Lords, and numbers are against Ser Alfred's claims to kinship with Maegor."
The lords made approving noises, and Aegon realized it was time to finish. Raising his hand, he waited until they quieted and drove the last nail into the impostor's coffin.
"And even were the numbers on Ser Alfred's side, then gods have mercy on us! Can a Targaryen truly be red-haired?!"
The Hall exploded with approving shouts; Aegon, with a victor's smile, bowed to the King and the lords and limped to his chair. Returning to his place, he caught Uncle Vaegon's gaze from under his golden half-mask—the Archmaester barely perceptibly inclined his head, approving the work.
"I did not know you were an orator, my brother," Daemon chuckled when Aegon stretched out wearily in the chair. "In the Freehold, you would have been priceless."
Nodding weakly, signifying gratitude for the praise, the Prince could only watch exhausted as the lords conferred briefly among themselves, and after voted; Maesters, passing along the rows, lowered their raised hands, recording the number at the end of each row. In this matter, as in the previous one, the lords were unanimous: they recognized the rights of Alfred of King's Landing as unproven, and his words as perjury. After his name was struck from the list, another knight from the Crownlands was summoned, asserting that his father was Jaehaerys himself. But scarce had Ser Jasper Blue-Eye of Brown Hollow managed to outline his claims than the King rose from the throne and declared in an icy, creaking voice:
"This man lies! All our life we have kept faith with our late Queen Alysanne. Neither in the period of regency over us, nor in the period of our rare quarrels did we share a bed with other women. This man is a perjurer. Take him away."
Two Kingsguard, whose faces were hidden by visors, seized the resisting false bastard and dragged him to the exit. Another royal order flew after them:
"Tear out this rogue's tongue. His and that son of Maegor! And send them to the Wall—let them be of use at least there."
The Hall made approving noises; lords loved justice, especially justice with teeth, and if those teeth were bloody—well, so much the better. There was no sense in continuing the session further; the Hand summed up, appointed a new session of the Great Council for noon tomorrow, Jaehaerys graciously dismissed everyone and went out himself.
Scarce had the official part ended than the lords mingled among themselves, boisterously discussing the past events, making the Hall of a Hundred Hearths hum with their voices. To Aegon's considerable surprise, he was not ignored either; Daemon, Viserys, Aemma, and even Rhea expressed due admiration for his speech, which now seemed to the Prince petty and insignificant: to make a speech against an illiterate knight—what a marvel.
"A worthy speech, Prince Aegon," Corlys Velaryon praised the youth, approaching him. Aegon remembered with what attention the man had watched him and realized he had felt his gaze upon him all this time. "You acted nobly and, I fear not the word, bravely, speaking before such a crowd."
"I thank you, Lord Corlys," Aegon inclined his head exactly as much as was necessary.
"After such a brilliant beginning, may we expect that Prince Viserys's rights will also be defended by you?"
"My brother has many defenders," the Prince answered evasively, distinctly sensing the snares set before him.
"True enough," Daemon came to his rescue, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder with a predatory grin. "But who can be a better defender than one's own blood?"
Sensing the unspoken threat, the Sea Snake smiled politely and hastened to take his leave. The Hand-Archmaester slipped out of the crowd of Maesters and officials to replace him; Vaegon's face was half hidden by the golden mask, but Aegon had managed to know his uncle well enough to guess how a thin whitish brow arched beneath it in a mute question.
"Thank you," this word was expected of him, but it was said sincerely. An ironic smirk followed in response:
"And what did I say?"
. . . . .
Big things are seen at a distance. Aegon stood on the shore of the Isle of Faces and only from here could he understand how great Vhagar was, rising like a dark mass above the walls of Harrenhal. He recognized her by the hornless head, the neck without crests, and the sagging gullet, but something still did not add up. How long the Prince stood on the shore before he understood what the matter was, he knew not, and in a dream it matters not; only this was no longer the Vhagar his father flew; she was larger, older, meaner than under Prince Baelon.
The dragon of Queen Visenya, of the Prince of Dragonstone, and gods know who else trampled impatiently on the shore, growling bloodthirstily; periodically clouds of black smoke burst from her maw, and her throat glowed from the fire born within. The spectacle was ghastly. And Aegon stood beneath the thousand-year-old weirwoods and could not take a step aside.
Suddenly Vhagar gathered herself, and the Prince realized someone was climbing into her saddle; the she-dragon spread her wings and with a running start rose into the air, filling the surroundings of the lake with a terrible roar. A birdlike screech answered her; only one dragon cried so—Daemon's Caraxes. Aegon threw back his head and saw the long body of the Red Wyrm slip out of the clouds like a snake from under stones. The two beasts began to circle one another, and the Prince at first decided they intended to mate—on Dragonstone, before leaving for the Citadel, he had seen Dreamfyre dance thus with an ugly spiny wild dragon the locals called Sheepstealer—but now they broke distance and each hid in the clouds. For a minute nothing happened, but then suddenly long streaks of fire painted the grey sky, and a furious roar thundered over the God's Eye.
The dragons did not intend to produce offspring; they intended to kill one another.
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