Echoes of the melody and snatches of words still sounded in Aegon's head when he opened his eyes. Judging by the fact that the noise outside the window was only just beginning to subside, night was only just creeping up on Harrenhal, and the last disputants were returning to their rooms. Fatigue had overcome him while rereading the statement of Laenor Velaryon's rights to the Iron Throne; though the Great Council had rejected his mother and sister, Lord Corlys did not lose hope of pulling the crown at least onto his son.
The Crown... Westeros, naturally, knew dynastic wars for the right to sit on the throne, but it is one thing when they are waged by Andals inhabiting a hundred small kingdoms, and quite another when two branches of a Valyrian dynasty begin it, each having at its disposal dragons capable of delivering the entire continent to the fire. The dreams gave the Prince no peace, forcing him to ponder them again and again. Each time he was left with nothing and promised himself not to engage in such nonsense anymore, but then he remembered his Second Dream and the death of Uncle Aemon, and began to turn and compare what he had seen again.
Thrice he had seen dreams of a future that boded nothing good, but Aegon could do nothing about it. The King's youngest grandson, and without a dragon at that—what did he represent in himself? Nothing. He can do nothing; which means he must stop tormenting himself with empty conjectures about what has not yet happened, and shift the cares of this onto those capable of dealing with them. Aegon, finally, decided to talk.
With a sigh, he climbed out of the armchair, wrapped himself in a cloak (despite the fact that the Kingspyre Tower had been melted by dragonfire, the stone had long since parted with its heat and cooled very quickly at night) and left his rooms.
"My Prince?" Dennis called out to him. "Should I come with you?"
"I am going to my brothers," he declared. "I am capable of climbing the stairs myself."
"I doubt it not, my Prince, but will you be capable of descending them?" the servant decided to be cheeky.
Aegon glared at him balefully and, saying nothing, slammed the door.
Formally, Aegon lived in the chambers of Viserys and Aemma; six-year-old Rhaenyra had been left with nursemaids in the Red Keep, though the Princess had sworn on oath to flee on Syrax to her papa and mama. Daemon was supposed to sleep with his lady wife in the Wailing Tower, where the lords of the Vale stayed, but Daemon would not be Daemon had he spent the night under one roof with his Bronze Bitch of his own free will; in the end, his brother slept now under the warm flank of Caraxes—"A dragon warms the bed better than that block of ice," he grumbled—now in Viserys's chambers in the Kingspyre.
The stairs, disgustingly creaky and exorbitantly large, like everything in Harrenhal, ended, and Aegon caught his breath with relief. It must have been good living in Valyrian towers: sit on a dragon, hop from balcony to balcony, and no stairs. Who else would have taught the Andals to build so...
At the door to Viserys's rooms stood Ser Harrold Westerling, who had received the white cloak while Aegon lived in Oldtown; his carefully shaven head gleamed in the torchlight.
"Ser Harrold," Aegon greeted him.
"My Prince," the Kingsguard bowed briefly.
"Think you it is not yet too late for visits?"
"As far as I know, my Prince, your brother is always glad to see you," Ser Harrold answered tactfully. "He has not yet retired."
Aegon nodded with satisfaction and had already raised a hand to knock when suddenly doubts overcame him. Why disturb Viserys now? Can this truly not wait until morning? One sleepless night will not prevent a war.
Ser Harrold, if he noticed his hesitation, gave no sign. Aegon's hand trembled, and the pommel of the cane, with which he intended to knock, touched the door nonetheless; there was nowhere to retreat, and he struck a couple more times. Aemma's maidservant opened the door; curtsying, she silently let the Prince pass.
Viserys was found in the common room at a table, surrounded by books and some drawings.
"I thought marriage was supposed to make a man out of a bookworm," Aegon noted maliciously.
Viserys laughed quietly, rising to meet him.
"I was evicted from my own bedroom," he complained. "Aemma sleeps too lightly and complains that I snore."
"Oh aye, that I remember perfectly," Aegon grimaced. "In this, you are terribly like Father. How did Mother endure him? How is Aemma?"
Soon after the announcement of the summoning of the Great Council, Viserys's lady wife had lost a child; both spouses took the loss hard, but three months ago the court discussed with enthusiasm the news that Princess Aemma was with child again. Viserys surrounded her with the best Maesters and midwives and categorically objected to her going with him to Harrenhal, however, Aemma reminded him that she was half Arryn and it would not hurt the lords of the Vale to see her and their future son. Nothing remained for Viserys but to admit defeat, and now he blew dust motes off her, suffering himself in the process.
"What is this?" Aegon asked, nodding at the table piled with papers.
"An easy way to brighten up insomnia," Viserys handed his brother a goblet of wine. "While I looked for those scrolls about dragons for you, I found a rather detailed description of the Valyrian City. I began to search for city plans, drawings, sketches of individual buildings... You will not believe how much information has been preserved!"
"Ainar the Exile decided to take everything he could with him."
"Yes. But the trouble is that there is... too much information. I think you understand me," Aegon nodded in agreement. "Everything must be checked and compared, the drawings belong to different periods."
"And you decided to take up Valyrian architecture?"
"Well, you are already dealing with dragons, and Daemon has so kindly taken the war upon himself," Viserys chuckled and, surveying the table with eyes burning with enthusiasm, added seriously: "I want to understand how the City looked on its last morning before the Doom."
"Ambitious," Aegon uttered. "By the by, where is Daemon?"
"I have no idea. And what is the matter?"
"Send someone for him. We need to talk."
If Viserys was surprised, he gave no sign; Ser Harrold was sent for Daemon, and meanwhile, the elder Prince entertained his brother by showing the intermediate stages of his labors.
"I have established absolutely precisely how the Temple Hill looked," Viserys broadcast with enthusiasm, trying to distract Aegon from something gloomy that evidently weighed upon him and was almost visible. "At its very summit stood the Temple of Balerion, it had a pyramidal shape, and at the very top, on the flat roof, stood a huge bowl. At sunset, the temple dragon lit the oil in it, and the flame burned all night, illuminating the whole capital."
"A night sun," Aegon nodded.
"Something of the sort, yes. Sometimes it was lit in the day too—as a rule, to throw traitors, oathbreakers, and especially valuable captives into it."
"Oh aye, our ancestors turned even execution into a fire festival," came from the door.
Daemon, playing the fool, bowed to his brothers from the very threshold, and Aegon realized he was drunk. Not that this was a problem, but he had counted on receiving a sober view of his dreams from his brothers; on the other hand, nothing was required of him—only to recount what he had dreamt, and let the elders deal with it themselves.
"I saw dreams," the Prince cast out briefly, and both brothers froze tensely. "Aye, those ones. Like about Uncle Aemon."
Daemon invoked the Seven Hells and flopped onto the sofa.
"Something specific?" Viserys asked cautiously, sinking into his armchair by the table.
"Could not be more specific. Though... maybe not. I know not. I am confused."
Aegon felt his legs trembling from tension and deemed it good to sit down anywhere at all. Gathering his thoughts, he delivered:
"I think I dreamt of war. A couple of days ago I saw Caraxes and Vhagar fighting in the sky here, over Harrenhal. And today, literally just now, I dreamt of a coronation."
"Whose?" Viserys asked sharply.
"Yours. I saw you in Grandfather's crown on the Iron Throne, with the sword and all scepters."
"So that is good, is it not?" the other drawled mistrustfully.
"I heard the roar of dragons, and it seemed to me they were about to tear at each other... I do not think it is good."
"Vhagar has no rider, and Daemon controls Caraxes," Viserys tried to soothe his brother.
"Rhaenys has a daughter, and she has no dragon," Daemon rubbed his temples wearily. "If Laena saddles Vhagar—and she can do it, by the way, and we cannot stop her—then my Caraxes will not stand against her and Meleys simultaneously."
The brothers fell silent, pondering the chances of victory in an aerial confrontation.
"So you think if I become King, war awaits us?" Viserys asked at last.
"I know not," Aegon cast angrily. "Mayhaps. Or mayhaps not. The fight between Caraxes and Vhagar looks highly symbolic: the children of Aemon and Baelon fighting for the crown on the backs of their fathers' dragons. The gods definitely know a thing or two about irony."
"The Seven do not send visions of dragons," Daemon snorted. "They are too toothless for that."
"Then it is the Valyrian gods. Quite in their spirit."
Viserys rubbed his face with his palms and stared at the flame burning in the fireplace.
"What can we do?" he asked finally.
Daemon reached for the decanter of wine and, not shy in the slightest, drank straight from the neck.
"Well, I have already begun to gather a company," he began.
"A company?" the brothers asked in chorus.
"Aye. About three thousand. Half are sellswords from Essos, but they are skilled lads. I played with a few—worthy opponents. I pay them with my own gold, so we depend not on the treasury in any way. Provisions are supplied to them by my Bronze Bitch's uncle. You know, the lords of the Vale are decent people—one can come to an agreement with them, but with that sheep..."
"You cobbled together a mercenary company behind the King's back?" Viserys was amazed. "And told me not?"
"Lord Corlys has gathered a whole armada at Driftmark to blockade the capital and attack Dragonstone. I do not think he warned our grandfather of this."
"Even so, but you could have at least told me..."
"Forgive me, my brother," Daemon confessed. "I did it in your interests."
"So then," Aegon hastened to draw a line under the budding quarrel. "We have three thousand swords and one dragon."
"The Vale and the Reach are for me too," Viserys reminded. "And half the Crownlands. Lord Otto is persuading the Lannisters to give the votes of the Westerlands to me."
"Lord Otto..." Daemon mocked his brother, disliking Hightower for some reason. "Lord Otto has seated himself on Grandfather's neck and yours, and does nothing but boss you around, while having not a damn thing to his name but a horde of children."
"He is a worthy man and a wise counselor," Viserys objected. "He can ensure my victory."
"Aye, because otherwise the Sea Snake will send him back to Oldtown, where nothing shines for him."
"Enough," Aegon shouted at the disputants. The brothers looked at him in surprise, and Aegon himself was frightened by his tone. "Armies are excellent, but the Gardeners and Lannisters had five-and-fifty thousand on the Field of Fire, yet they all burned in the flames of the Conqueror's three dragons."
"We have Syrax," Viserys pronounced somehow not too confidently.
"Are you ready to send your only daughter into battle?" Daemon was sincerely surprised, and the eldest of the princes fell silent.
"Among the Velaryons, one can count only Meleys," Aegon reminded. "Seasmoke is not much older than Syrax."
"I worry not about the little whiner, but about the dragonless Laena," Daemon cast out, nursing the half-empty decanter in his hands. "They will put her on an adult dragon, that is clear, and it will go hard for us if it be Vhagar."
"It turns out we must forestall them," Viserys summed up, leaning back in his chair.
Aegon did not understand at first what was being said; when it reached him what his brother meant, a hoarse laugh tore from his chest of its own accord.
"Forgive me," he pronounced guiltily when Viserys hissed at him, nodding at the bedroom door; Aegon had already forgotten about Aemma. "You want me to saddle Vhagar?"
"Aye, it is the only way."
"The King forbade me to approach dragons," the Prince reminded.
"We can try to persuade him."
"Do you believe that?" Aegon asked bitterly.
"He has not yet fallen into second childhood," Daemon said. "So it is quite possible to try. You shall saddle Father's dragon, it will be just, and Viserys will be able to rule in peace."
"And we shall sit by the Iron Throne like two side heads," Aegon snorted, still not particularly believing in the success of the scheme.
"Of course," the middle brother smiled unexpectedly warmly. "In the end, Father always said that we are to him like the three heads of the dragon from our sigil. While one rules, thinks, and speaks, you and I shall guard it."
"You can begin doing that right now, outside the door!" Aemma's displeased voice rang out from the bedroom.
Surprise, guilt, and displeasure bordering on anger flashed across Viserys's face one after another; Daemon, rolling off the sofa but never parting with the wine, grabbed Aegon by the elbow and hopped out onto the stairs with him, where both princes burst into laughter under the disapproving gaze of Ser Harrold.
"I think now we can drink," Daemon decided, raising the decanter. "Ser Harrold, are you with us?"
"I am on guard," the guardsman grumbled displeasedly.
"Well, as you wish," the Prince shrugged. "And the Dornish is not bad, by the by, so I shall drink with pleasure to our future King Viserys, First of His Name!"
"Actually the Second," Aegon corrected his brother, drinking from the decanter after him.
"I am too drunk for history lessons, dear Maester," Daemon joked and took back the wine.
That evening the decanter from Viserys's room became not the last for them, and the next day Aegon nearly slept through the next session of the Council. He would not have lost too much, since the arguments of the Velaryons and Viserys's supporters were the same as before, but some lords insisted on considering them anew, as if for the first time.
Again hours of speeches, disputes, proofs, and arguments dragged on, in which it became ever more obvious that the eight-year-old Laenor had little chance against his four-and-twenty-year-old great-uncle. The Sea Snake, however—one must give him his due—fought for his son's rights to the very end, even when the number of Viserys's supporters began to exceed the number of his men first by ten, then by fifteen, and at the end by twenty times.
Late in the evening of the tenth day of the eleventh month of the one hundred and first year, on the thirteenth day after the start of the Great Council at Harrenhal, two Maesters accompanied by six Kingsguard from all seven carried a chest through the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, closed with seven locks and sealed with the seven seals of the Great Lords of Westeros and one large one—the Royal seal. The casket was placed before Jaehaerys in tense silence; he, glancing over it briefly, nodded to his Hand, and Archmaester Vaegon began to remove the seals under the intent gaze of all the lords. Next clicked the locks, opened by seven keys kept by the seven Most Devout. Finally, the Archmaester-Hand lifted the lid and respectfully handed the King a black-and-red case.
Aegon saw that his grandfather's hands shook slightly. Whatever the lords decided, he had promised to accept their choice, which meant spoiling relations with part of his family. Likely, he himself understood how little time he had left, and therefore worried even more. Though, thought Aegon, it might well be simple senile tremors.
The Prince himself did not see what was written on the paper and did not look at his grandfather's flapping lips when the man read the decision to himself in the ringing, cutting, prickly silence. Finally, the King rose and bared Blackfyre.
"The Lords of the Seven Kingdoms have proposed to us to name Prince of Dragonstone and our heir our beloved grandson, Prince Viserys."
The Hall of a Hundred Hearths became the Hall of a Thousand Joyful Cries; when the gathered had shouted and applauded their fill, Viserys knelt before his grandfather under the unceasing approving roar.
"Well," thought Aegon, "I shall be the King's brother. A mere trifle remains: to saddle the largest dragon in the world with the foulest temper of all possible, and to do it contrary to the direct prohibition of the King and prevent a civil war. What could possibly go wrong?"
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