Any attempt by a candidate to forge a link of Valyrian steel from the Archmaester of the Higher Mysteries evoked the most lively response from all inhabitants of the Citadel; unlike all other fields of knowledge, here scholars were given but one attempt to prove if not their mastery, then the truths they had crammed. Only one man in a hundred dared to undergo this trial, but even of a hundred brave souls, only one succeeded. Each time the exam turned into a spectacle which the Conclave used to assert its natural-scientific approach to understanding the world, mocking and debunking any attempt to appeal to something otherworldly. Uncle Vaegon confessed that he had never been able to understand for himself why the selfsame Conclave kept a seat for a man with a mask of Valyrian steel, and called his colleague a "parasite" and "sluggard," fit only for keeping the Valyrian glass candles used in the rite of initiation into Maesters.
"Are you certain you wish to disgrace yourself before the whole Citadel?" Adrian asked Aegon again just in case, when the Prince together with his friends froze before the crowd gathered at the doors of the Hall of Higher Mysteries.
"I shall not disgrace myself," the other cut him off.
"Well, of course," the other nodded. "You may be a Prince, but sorcerers were never found among the Targaryens. Unless Queen Visenya, or Tyanna of the Tower..."
"In fairness," Marlon put in, "Tyanna was not a Targaryen by blood. But in any case, both she and Visenya were women. There were no male sorcerers among the Targaryens either before the Conquest or after."
"Every Valyrian is a bit of a sorcerer," Aegon remarked philosophically.
Strange as it was, for the first time he did not worry about an exam; his mood was not influenced by the number of those who had received the Valyrian link (extremely small), due to which it was no shame to fail, nor by the absence of such a link in the chain of Archmaester Vaegon, who did not wish to waste time on "all manner of superstitious nonsense."
Regardless of the outcome, Aegon decided he would leave the Citadel and Oldtown; the city and the Maesters had given him all he wanted to receive from them: by the fourth month of the year 103, there were already ten links in his chain, three of which sparkled with silver and three more cast copper in the sun. A little more and the chain would begin to close on his neck, and then uncomfortable questions would rain down—saying, when will the Prince take his Maester's vows? Let us suppose he agreed with his uncle, his colleagues, and his friends—an Archmaester of History would truly have made a worthy one of him, and Aegon—with a heap of conventions and an unthinkable number of reservations—was ready to try on a copper mask.
The trouble lay in the fact that Archmaesters, even of the Royal House, were not supposed to have dragons of their own, and this right the youth could not renounce, especially when nearly every night he dreamt of flight on an unknown dragon. All his royal pride, all his Targaryen arrogance, all his Valyrian heritage in his veins rose against rotting in dusty libraries, and his grandmother's words rang in his ears like the bells of the Starry Sept: "He cannot deny your right to a dragon."
As it turned out, what Jaehaerys, his grandfather, could not do, another Jaehaerys, his King, could. Aegon knew that Vhagar, with his father's death, had moved to Dragonstone, and decided he would take what belonged to him by right. In the evening, he and Dennis would leave the city gates, dissolving into the crowd of peasants from the surrounding villages coming for the day's market, and secretly, by a circuitous route through the Westerlands, would set off for the Dragonmont, where Aegon would saddle Vhagar. He, of course, would have to flee across the Narrow Sea—after all, he would violate a direct prohibition of the King—but even those jewels he had taken with him from King's Landing would suffice him for a comfortable life for several years; and there the Old King would finally depart to the gods, and Viserys would surely forgive him.
Convinced of the strength and reliability of his plan, Aegon walked dispassionately through the crowd of scholars whispering in intrigue and betting with might and main; he had broken the coming months of his life into separate stages, segments of the path, and now the simplest of them stood before him. Enter the hall; do what everyone expects to see; leave the hall; leave the Citadel; leave Oldtown. Marlon and Adrian clapped him on the shoulder for the last time, Dennis, tailing him like a silent shadow, simply nodded; Aegon heard Adrian mutter:
"I bet a dragon that nothing will come of it."
"Accepted," Marlon answered. "A dragon—that he comes out with a link."
They struck hands; Aegon smiled at their childishness and knocked on the closed doors of the hall; they opened without a single sound. His steps rang hollowly on the flags of the room plunged in darkness, and the clicks of his cane rang clearly; following him, the hushed scholars entered and flowed like a stream along the walls, but Aegon did not look at them. All his attention was riveted to the little old man bent into a question mark, on whom the Archmaester's robe hung like a sack, and the chain threatened to break his chicken neck. Rumors circulated in the Citadel that Archmaester Owen of the Higher Mysteries did not remove his mask of Valyrian steel even to eat or sleep, so scarce anyone remembered what he looked like. Some said his face was disfigured by alchemical burns, others assured he had sacrificed half his face to some Essosi deity, still others mockingly supposed he simply was not who he claimed to be and thus tried to avoid exposure, while Uncle Vaegon at breakfast supposed his brother of the Conclave was simply shy of his face.
Whatever the reasons for this strange behavior, now Archmaester Owen looked point-blank at Aegon, leaning his hands on a wide stone table that looked more like an altar. The only source of light, besides the open doors, was a mercilessly smoking lamp on this under-altar.
"Let the candidate choose three witnesses for himself, and all others—out the door!" the little old man demanded in a jarring voice. Aegon had been warned that Owen did not like long preambles and went straight to the point.
"Candidates Marlon, Adrian, and Dennis," the Prince answered in an unwavering voice.
"What, will you put your own brother out too?" came a familiar mocking voice from somewhere to the right. Aegon cast a quick glance in that direction. Daemon? Whence? Why?
"I said three witnesses!" Owen began to grow angry.
"And I shall tell you that a dragon waits outside," Daemon chuckled, approaching the trio of witnesses with a relaxed gait. "I do not think an extra pair of eyes will hinder you, Archmaester. I was always interested in what my younger brother occupies himself with here."
Owen puffed like an angry mouse, but evidently, the threat of a dragon invasion of his chambers, so openly thrown by the Prince, had the desired effect.
"Very well," he cast reluctantly. "All others—out!"
The scholars left the hall with a disappointed hum; the doors shuddered and began to close. Aegon noticed neither the gatekeepers nor the scholars who pulled the massive leaves shut behind them; surely a secret mechanism, he thought. The hall plunged into almost total darkness; the weak light of the lamp danced on the Valyrian steel of the Archmaester's mask. The old man himself kept silence, likely to add significance and mystery to his figure.
"We shall not anger the dragon outside," Owen began at last. "And we shall try to finish our business quickly. Do you agree, Candidate Aegon?"
"I agree, Archmaester."
"Then come closer," with these words he reached his hand somewhere under his table-altar, and when Aegon approached, placed something oblong, dark, and gleaming beside the lamp.
Aegon's leg began to ache from suddenly erupting excitement and anticipation.
"Is it known to you what this is?"
"A Valyrian glass candle," Aegon answered hollowly. He, naturally, had read of them, but never seen one; none remained even on Dragonstone, and in the Citadel they were given to candidates only for the night vigil before taking vows.
"Then, I suppose, you know exactly what I shall ask you to do. Light it."
Aegon heard Dennis click his tongue displeasedly, and Marlon and Adrian began to whisper indignantly, but fell silent under the stern gaze of the Archmaester. Owen had set him an impossible task: many Maesters confessed they had tried to light the candles on the night of their vigil, but only cut their fingers. It was considered that the expression "to light a glass candle" bore an allegorical character and implied the light of knowledge which a Maester must bear to the world, remaining honest and impartial as clear glass.
But Owen obviously meant only what he said; he truly wanted the dragon glass candle to emit light. Two solutions came to Aegon's mind at once: the first was simple, elegant, and not devoid of scholarly wit, the second was also comparatively simple, but surely useless. The first solution boiled down to dipping the end of the candle into the oil in which the wick floated in the lamp, and then lighting it from its own flame; the oil should have caught fire, and then the glass candle would truly have lit up and illuminated the room.
However, the Archmaester, by all appearances, followed the train of Aegon's reasoning and moved the lamp further away to a short chuckle from Daemon. Well, thought the Prince, now there is no way out.
With this thought, he took the candle in his hands; it proved black—though the darkness could be to blame for this—and twisted; its edges were sharp, and Aegon held it by his nails. The youth inhaled and exhaled, calming himself, and with a pinch wiped the sharp tip of the candle, leaving deep cuts on his fingers; lightly, almost tenderly, he stroked every rib, watching blood run along the grooves of the twists. Having traced every curve of the candle thus, Aegon licked his fingers and, quite un-Maester-like, wiped them on his scholar's robe; then, under Owen's questioning gaze, placed the candle on the altar and took a step back just in case. Aegon swallowed nervously, driving away the lump in his throat, and snapped his fingers, simultaneously pronouncing clearly:
"Dracarys."
For a couple of moments nothing happened; Owen, looking first at the candle, then at the candidate, gave a harrumph and began to speak:
"Well, that was a rather origin..."
He was interrupted by a tiny, dim, barely noticeable spark that flashed above the table too far from the lamp to be its reflection, but gradually it flared up, increasing in size, and then it became clear that it was the candle burning after all. Both light and gloom emanated from it simultaneously; to look at the flame, wavering neither from breath nor draft, was almost impossible—Adrian, Marlon, and even Dennis averted their gaze, and Owen was likely saved by his mask. Aegon himself looked into the emanating radiance without fear or pain, and it seemed beautiful to him. The Archmaester's light robe became whiter than snow, the copper links of the Prince's own chain burned with fire, and the shadows the candle cast... Those shadows seemed gates to the deepest of hells.
How long this glow lasted, Aegon could not say either then or later: for him, it all happened too quickly and at the same time dragged on extremely slowly. Gradually the light began to dim, thin out, and weaken, until it vanished altogether. Only then, it seemed, did the six people in the hall regain the ability to breathe. Aegon continued to gaze spellbound at the extinguished candle, still gleaming with twists on which there was not a single spot of blood.
"It seems you owe my brother a link, Archmaester," Daemon, as always, despised the sanctity of the moment and vulgarized everything to mundane things. Sacrilegious wretch.
"Of course, of course," Owen began to fuss, absently patting himself on invisible pockets. "Of course, I owe... The Prince deserves it..."
"Perhaps even more than you deserve your mask," Daemon could not restrain himself again.
Aegon blinked, emerging from some stupor, and wanted to crack his brother on the head with his cane. To spoil the moment so!.. Fortunately, the Archmaester finally found a loose link of Valyrian steel—the Prince wondered if he had removed it from his own chain?—and with a trembling hand held it out to the candidate.
"T-t-take it, please," something very like fawning cut through the old Archmaester's voice. This was no longer the mysterious all-knowing sage to whom secret knowledge is open, but an old man scared nearly shitless by what his meager little mind is powerless to comprehend. Aegon felt disgusted by his groveling and a little ashamed that he had treated Owen so—to live so many years in the Citadel and be so humiliated! Taking the cold link from the trembling hand, he shook his chain off his left wrist and joined the dark-smoky Valyrian steel to the copper; will have to reassemble the chain so the links look more interesting together, the youth decided.
Turning to the witnesses, still standing shocked a little to the side, Aegon, unexpectedly to himself, pronounced:
"Swear that you will tell no one of this," he could not demand the same of old Owen, but the man himself would hardly speak of what happened.
"But the link..." Adrian tried to object.
"I received it, and it matters not how," Aegon cut him off. "Swear!"
"I swear by my chain," Marlon exhaled.
"I swear by the chain," repeated Adrian.
"Jemot kīvio ñuhe tepan ondoso perzys se ānogar (I give you my promise by fire and blood)," though Daemon's voice sounded mocking, Aegon felt he would keep the oath.
"Jemot kīvio ñuhe tepan (I give you my promise)," Dennis was no Targaryen, and had no right to swear by fire and blood, but nevertheless diligently repeated the words in the language of his ancestors after the Prince.
"Are you finished?" Daemon inquired in a bored tone. "If so, let us go from here."
Scarce had he said this when the doors began to open; Daemon caught his brother by the elbow and dragged him to the exit through the crowd of excitedly murmuring scholars; when the spectators and gossips saw Valyrian steel in Aegon's chain, surprised exclamations rang out, replaced by applause. Everyone strove to congratulate Aegon personally, but on one side Daemon covered him, heading confidently for the exit, and on the other Dennis grew again. The crowd made to follow them, but, spotting Adrian and Marlon, switched their attention to them, hoping to find out the so-desired details.
"And where is your Caraxes?" inquired Aegon, turning his head in hope of seeing the dragon.
"Had to leave him outside the city," Daemon grumbled and only quickened his pace. "Our My Lord Hand fears very much for the safety of his brother's city."
"So Lord Otto sent you?"
"Why would he do that?"
"Well, you flew here for something."
Daemon finally stopped and, turning Aegon to himself, roughly pulled him close by the collar of his scholar's robe.
"Viserys sent me. Grandfather is dying."
"What?" Aegon exhaled in surprise. Jaehaerys, of course, is old and obviously ill, but sixty-nine years is not the limit.
"Quiet, you," Daemon hissed at him. "Even in the capital not everyone knows of this, so there is no need to bawl so. Get ready. I shall take you and Uncle to King's Landing."
With these words, he pushed the youth toward the Seneschal's Court. Climbing upstairs, he stunned Vaegon with the news from the threshold.
"Dying?" the Archmaester asked again. "Aye, I heard that happens to people."
"We need you in the Red Keep," Daemon pronounced insistently.
"What for? You have long had a new Hand who copes with his duties better than I."
"I do not trust him."
"And I do not believe in what that little shriveled Owen does, but look you, Aegon has a new link. A miracle!" Vaegon continued to ironize. Aegon realized he intended to go nowhere, and it was impossible to dissuade him.
"Uncle, he is your father after all," he undertook an attempt nonetheless. Mostly for the sake of Grandmother, who always cared for all her children.
"Perhaps that is hard to dispute, but I am an Archmaester. I have left the Citadel for too long as it is. If he is truly dying, I can help him in naught—he has Runciter for that. To ride for the sake of a funeral alone? That is impractical—the road one way will take not even two, but three months! Winter, if you have not forgotten, has not ended yet. And if I am needed by the young King for some reason, well... So be it, let him call as a guest on the way to the Starry Sept."
"I wanted to deliver you both on Caraxes," Daemon reminded. "The two of you weigh scarce heavier than me in full armor, so he will bear it. I flew here in three days, with you it will be... well, let it be four or five days."
Vaegon looked at his eldest nephew as if he were proposing he jump into the hottest of the seven hells. Measuring him with a withering glance, the Archmaester pursed his lips and turned away.
"No."
Aegon stopped his brother, who attempted to object, with a gesture. Uncle is a stubborn man and, like any Targaryen, terribly proud; he still considered that Jaehaerys, by sending him away, had renounced his son. Yes, he was given the opportunity to do what he liked, he occupied a prominent position, became respected not only because of his name but also for his merits, but Aegon felt that deep in his soul Vaegon was offended at his father and, unlike Queen Alysanne, did not intend to forgive him. And Aegon for some reason was certain that Uncle was offended at dragons too because of his unhatched egg.
"Well, that simplifies everything," Daemon finally delivered. "I shall take Aegon with Dennis."
"As you please," the Uncle cast out coldly.
"I do not think..." Aegon began and cut himself short. He had not initiated Vaegon into his plan of failed escape. "I do not think I shall return, Uncle."
The other deigned to turn around again; thin lips were compressed so tightly they were almost invisible on the pale thin face; pale lilac eyes looked detachedly, without a shadow of the affection that had formed over the last years.
"Well," the Archmaester finally pronounced. "What a vexation. You are the same as all of them after all."
"Them?"
"Like my brothers. Like your brothers. You look at the world from the height of a saddle on a dragon's back, and are terribly proud of it. You know nothing save your foolish court intrigues, dirty whores, and the bloodbath of war. I hoped that at least from you something decent would come, but, as is seen, I was mistaken."
"I did not wish to take Maester's vows," Aegon tried to defend himself. He did not think his uncle's words would sting him so.
"One need not be a Maester to become a normal human," Vaegon snorted.
"And who is a normal human, Uncle?" Daemon suddenly gave voice. "An Andal? Or a descendant of the First Men?"
The other only snorted irritably.
"If you wish to be in time for the King's funeral pyre, you ought to hurry."
With these words, he disappeared into one of his studies. Dennis, waiting for a nod from Daemon, went to pack, leaving Aegon to regret what had happened. How foolishly it turned out.
"Pay it no mind," his brother advised. "He is just an old grumbler."
"He is forty," Aegon reminded him.
"Aye? And looks all of fifty," Daemon chuckled and decided to switch his younger brother to something more pleasant. "Well then? Ready for flight?"
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