With the death of the Old King, it seemed a curse had been lifted from the Red Keep: the drowsy, hiding, gloomy royal court seemed to sigh with relief, traced the seven-pointed star on its chest, threw off its stupor, and returned to the stormy and seething activity it had conducted before. Officially declared mourning, though burdensome—courtiers had worn it for several months already and were frankly tired of dark and closed clothes—hindered no one from laughing in the corridors, jesting, and speaking loudly. The mood of the citizens of King's Landing rose even further when on the morning after Jaehaerys's death, a white raven flew to the capital, announcing the coming of spring. Having managed to do absolutely nothing, Viserys was immediately nicknamed the Spring King and became as popular as his father once was.
"How strange," Aegon remarked detachedly a day later, climbing out of a cooling bath in the morning. "Everyone seems to have forgotten that a couple of days ago we had another King."
"So it is, My Prince," Dennis confirmed, wiping his master with a soft towel. "The servants and the court buried the Old King long ago and only awaited his last breath."
"I heard they say in the Free Cities: the death of an Archon is always a holiday."
"I do not think that applies to us, My Prince. Archons are tyrants. They know their power is ephemeral, so they hurry to profit from their city and citizens. Mark my words, a couple of years will pass and the people of Westeros will remember your grandfather with gratitude and great reverence. Such is the lot of great kings—they are forgotten scarce have they breathed their last, but they are named great some time after death."
"What profound thoughts for a servant," Aegon chuckled.
"Not only you studied history, My Lord."
The day was extremely important: in the Dragonpit, they were to commit the body of the Old King to the fire and proclaim the beginning of the reign of the Young King. Contrary to general joy and his own views, Aegon preferred to dress as strictly as possible: no jewels, save his father's ruby ring; silver hair woven into a tight braid and caught with a black ribbon; black too was the excessively tight doublet with a minimal amount of embroidery.
An awkward knock sounded on the door, and Viserys entered the room. Also clad in all black, like a brother of the Night's Watch, the Spring King bore on his head a circlet of white gold barely visible in his hair—a substitute for the crown which the High Septon would place upon him in Oldtown.
"We look as if we are gathered for the Wall," Aegon voiced his thoughts. "Why did you knock? You are King now, the whole castle is yours."
"I have not yet forgotten simple rules of courtesy," Viserys answered.
"Oh, you shall see, it will pass soon. So how may I serve the King?"
"Drop it," the young sovereign grimaced. "You are still my brother and always will be."
"Glad to hear it."
"I need your counsel. Or rather, the counsel of your three copper links."
"So you came not to me, but to my unfinished chain? I knew it," Aegon continued to banter and added more seriously: "So what happened?"
"I read chronicles too," his brother began from afar, approaching the table and examining the notes and books lying in organized disorder. "In all that were written after Grandfather's accession to the throne, Maegor is called either the Cruel or the Usurper..."
"More often both together," the Prince put in.
"Yes. More rarely do they remember Aenys's elder sons and Jaehaerys's brothers."
"With such a fate, one does not want to remember them."
"I speak precisely of this," Viserys came to the main point. "Did Maegor have the right to the Iron Throne?"
"Yes, but in order of primogeniture," Aegon answered without thinking. This question had occupied him considerably in his time, and he had managed to form his opinion on events of more than half a century ago. "The Conqueror named Aenys his heir, and the crown should have been inherited in his line. Maegor, after his brother's death, violated the rights of his nephews and usurped the throne."
"That is, his power was unlawful?"
"He had Balerion and Vhagar, Blackfyre and Dark Sister. Here is the law by which he ascended the Iron Throne."
"Which should have passed to Aegon the Uncrowned."
"Yes, and after his death, in the absence of sons, to his brothers—Viserys, and then Jaehaerys."
"So am I the First King of my name or the Second after all?" Viserys smiled timidly. "Grandfather never mentioned his brothers as Kings."
"That they were small or lost the war does not deprive them of the right to the crown," Aegon objected. "Grandfather also had to reign for a year and a half under a regency. As for the number of your predecessors, the choice is yours. Viserys the First sounds not bad, but Viserys the Second implies that the dynasty already has a history, and that alone is a serious argument in itself."
"I shall make you Master of Laws," Viserys laughed. "To think only, five years in the Citadel and my brother has become a pettifogger!"
"A knight of quill and inkpot," Aegon nodded, not missing the chance to ironize over himself. "But save a seat on the Council for some important old man."
They knocked on the door again and on the threshold appeared Ser Ryam Redwyne in an impeccable white cloak, gleaming with polished armor.
"Your Grace, all is ready. It is time."
"Tell me, Ser Ryam, when will I get used to being called 'Your Grace'?" inquired Viserys, leaving the room. The Lord Commander kept silent, correctly recognizing the question as rhetorical.
Aegon involuntarily recalled the events of eleven years ago, when the same mournful procession of Silent Sisters carried the body of Prince Aemon from Maegor's Holdfast; now behind the litter with the body of King Jaehaerys walked King Viserys with Aemma and Rhaenyra, Daemon with his hateful little wife forced to leave the hunt and come to the capital, Aegon and Cousin Rhaenys with her family; behind the members of the royal family marched the Small Council led by Lord Otto and Alicent, and behind them the whole court.
Unlike his uncle and father, Jaehaerys, as a ruling monarch, was to be committed to the fire before a great gathering of people, in the arena of the Dragonpit. In the Western Yard, the King's body was loaded onto a hearse drawn by seven black mares, the Queen and her daughter sat in a closed carriage, and the rest climbed into saddles. Initially, it was assumed that Aegon, in view of his clubfoot, would proceed to the ceremony together with his sister-in-law and niece, but the Lord Chamberlain who barely stammered about it was rudely mocked by the Prince and sent to the Seven Hells.
Having snatched the right to ride horseback, Aegon now observed from above how the procession stretched along the wide Bread Street, and the good citizens stood and saw off the King who had ruled them for more than half a century with sorrowful silence; here and there a sob or moan rang out, or some begging brother began to pray loudly for the soul of the deceased, but all this was done more for order's sake than from a pure heart.
Before turning onto the Street of the Sisters, beneath the slopes of Visenya's Hill, seven of the Most Devout read a litany to the Father in chorus, praying to forgive the sins of the earthly ruler, grant him fair judgment and eternal bliss in his golden halls. Listening to the service sitting on a horse was for some reason considered a sin, so Aegon had to climb down; the grimace he twisted from pain could surely have been placed instead of the Stranger's face. The Maesters, of course, had announced the coming of spring, but the weather remained lousy; the sun warmed not a whit, and a cold wind blew from the Blackwater, from which neither the hill nor the cloak saved, and soon the Prince was noticeably chilled. Finally, they moved on again and barely managed to reach the Dragonpit by noon, as scheduled.
"Did anyone tell these Septons we are in a hurry?" Aegon heard Viserys grumbling.
His brother worried not because of time, but because of the weak health of Aemma and Rhaenyra wrapped up in the carriage, and it remained to hope that the Most Devout had wits enough not to continue the glorious tradition of uprisings against every new dragon king.
Meanwhile, the Silent Sisters took Jaehaerys's body from the hearse and allowed the family and close ones to bid farewell to the King. Viserys, as King, went first; it did not take much time: a few quiet words, immediately carried away by the wind—surely a request to leave as inheritance not only the kingdom but also wisdom—and a kiss on the hand with the signet ring freed from under the shroud. Following him, Aemma, Rhaenyra, and Daemon with Rhea limited themselves only to this expression of respect. When Aegon's turn came, he approached the body without any trepidation; the Prince remembered what Jaehaerys represented in his last days, and precisely this image, and not the image of a just and wise King on the Iron Throne with all regalia stood before his eyes.
"Much will be said of you today, and even more written later," Aegon barely moved his lips, and it seemed to him he spoke not, but only thought loudly. "But all this will be half-truth and half-lie. Therefore I promise you that I shall record only the truth about you and your reign. I do not think you would have liked it, truth is always painful to hear, but to speak it is easy and pleasant. You were kind to us and cared for us in your way when it did not interfere with care for the realm, but... Sometimes you were a rare bastard. Geros ilas, dārys (Goodbye, King)."
Aegon thought that despite everything, Grandfather deserved a farewell in Valyrian; furthermore, in violation of all Westerosi customs, he was to be burned. Even leaving aside dragons and appearance, in birth, marriages, and funerals the Targaryens bore the heavy burden of the last Valyrians.
Despite the fact that Lord Rosby had limited the list of those allowed to pay last respects to the King beforehand, their number proved quite large. While the Septons read their prayers to the flapping of banners in the wind, Aegon watched the Dragonkeepers lead Vermithor out of the depths of the hill onto the arena. When the question arose whose dragon would light the funeral pyre, a dispute flared up immediately: Rhaenys as the eldest granddaughter defended the right of her Meleys, Daemon foaming at the mouth demanded allowing Caraxes to do it in the name of Viserys and the late Balerion. In the end, thanks to the mediation of the Hand, a compromise was reached—for the sake of symbolism, Jaehaerys would be sent on his last journey by his dragon.
Vermithor seemed to the Prince displeased and as if not entirely healthy; if one takes on faith words about a special bond between dragon and rider, then the first must feel that the second is ill. Reasoning like a true Maester, Aegon decided to set aside the hypothesis, the validity of which was easy to question. Another explanation suddenly came to mind, striking the Prince like a cudgel on the head:
"He is tired of sitting locked up!" he exhaled indignantly.
"What, pardon?" Daemon asked again, agreeing to be distracted by anything at all, just not to stand beside Rhea.
"How long is it since Grandfather flew on Vermithor?" asked Aegon.
"Likely never since he returned from Harrenhal," his brother shrugged. "You saw yourself, he barely moved his legs—no time for flights there."
"And did he come to him?"
"Did he visit him? I know not, unlikely. Let your Dennis ask the Dragonwatch."
If Grandfather had not seen Vermithor for almost two years and all this time he was kept on a chain under Rhaenys's Hill, then that explained much: both the nervousness, and the irritation of the dragon, and his faded scales, and sagging crests. They fed him, to be sure, but the rider forgot about him. The Prince wanted to run up to his grandfather, rip the shroud off him, and yell at him before the whole crowd for what was done to the dragon. He, Aegon, a Valyrian by blood on all sides, could not get a dragon because of a foolish prohibition, and the King simply forgot about his own dragon! What folly!
However, rage flared not in Aegon's chest alone. Vermithor, glancing at the litter, evidently understood who lay on it and for whom the pyre in the center of the arena was gathered. The beast shook his head, as if refusing to believe it, threw it back, and roared; in his voice there was nothing that was in the roar of the dying Balerion or the fighting Caraxes; the Bronze Fury was vexed and angry at his rider, but still mourned him who first saddled him when both Jaehaerys and he himself were young. In his unceasing voice, Aegon heard the anguish and pain of loneliness: Silverwing, his faithful companion, side by side with whom he spent almost his whole life, Vermithor had not seen for the third year already; his rider did not visit him, though it was bad for both of them; he was not released into the sky and he feared—yes, the dragon feared!—that he would be left in stone chambers forever.
Falling silent, the Bronze Fury with an effortless movement of mighty shoulders tore the chains from the hands of the Dragonkeepers and, rattling them, rushed straight to the exit from the arena. Unfortunately, the path to the gates was blocked by the litter and the crowd of courtiers led by the King himself. Only now, when the dragon echo still subsided under the vaults of the Pit, desperate screams of women and alarmed shouts of men became audible. To stop a dragon with a spear or sword? What folly, thought Aegon and unexpectedly to himself took a step forward.
"Daor! (No!)" he barked with the full power of his lungs. Vermithor's massive snout froze ten feet from him.
"Daor!" repeated the Prince and felt the dragon's breath on his face, which proved not so foul after all.
Vermithor's jaws opened slightly, and somewhere deep in his throat a threatening rumble was born, as if warning: get out of the way! In the amber eyes of the dragon splashed flame itself, proud, touchy, and rebellious. Vermithor, evidently reckoning to frighten the insolent youth, wanted to roar once more, but Aegon managed to raise a hand:
"Daor!" he repeated and the toothed jaws snapped shut with a click. "Lykirī! Rȳbās! Dohaerās, Vermitor! Dohaerās! (Calm down! Listen! Serve, Vermithor! Serve!)"
And then Aegon felt as if something touched him; not physically; as if someone touched his shoulder, but... mentally. The gaze of the Bronze Fury became attentive and even studying; the dragon looked at the human before him in a new way, and Aegon managed to look at himself through alien eyes. There he stands, pale from night vigils, and only eyes burn like emeralds; tall, thin, right shoulder slightly higher than the left—not much, but the eye notes. The Prince immediately corrected himself, straightening up, and heard a strange sound, something like a broken whistle, and something else lower, almost on the edge of hearing.
"Ao yne ilīritas? (You smiled at me?)" it dawned on him. The dragon inclined his head, as if nodding.
Aegon cautiously stretched a hand forward, took a small step, then another, and froze three feet from the tip of the dragon's snout. The beast thought a little and leaned forward. The youth's palm touched scales, hot, but not burning; the sensations were simultaneously similar and dissimilar to what the Prince experienced touching Caraxes. Then he was simply allowed to touch, but now a feeling of the correctness of what was happening arose; of logical completion; of ideal balance; of union of souls.
Amber eyes looked attentively, penetrating into the very soul, and to hide something from this gaze was impossible, even had Aegon wished it. Suddenly he felt that he himself could look into the dragon's soul. His huge heart blazed like a shard, a reflection of the Fourteen Flames, and in it there was place for the bitterness of loss, and offense, and the desire to return to Dragonstone, and the striving to start everything anew. Evidently, in Aegon Vermithor saw something consonant with this, and the young Prince felt a flame flare in his chest too; his heart beat with such speed that it threatened to break ribs, but instead it burst into fire and gradually calmed.
Vermithor opened his maw and scaled lips spread to the side—the dragon smiled at his new rider. Stepping awkwardly, the dragon bent, falling to the ground, and offered the wrist of his wing, inviting him to climb into the saddle. Aegon did not need to be asked twice: tucking the cane into his belt like a sword, he clumsily hobbled closer, holding onto the warm scaled flank climbed onto a finger, and thence the dragon boosted him to the rope ladder to the saddle. He had to pull himself up on his arms, stepping only with the sound leg, but the Bronze Fury changed pose again, almost flattening on the left side so the rider, gods forbid, would not fall.
The saddle proved large for Aegon—after all, Grandfather was a large man until he withered from old age and diseases; somehow arranging himself on the not-too-comfortable seat, the Prince looked around the arena and his dragon for the first time.
"Jikagon belma pryjagon (Go and remove the chains)," he ordered the Dragonkeepers, and they obeyed with apprehension. Vermithor, demonstrating amazing docility for a huge creature capable of killing hundreds of men in a minute, allowed the Dragonwatch to perform all manipulations, and scarce had the last link fallen to the ground, he shook his head, clattering crests on his neck.
"At your word, My King," shouted Aegon to Viserys.
His brother, still shielding his wife and daughter, managed to master himself and nodded; Aemma looked frightened (still Arryn blood made her fear dragons, thought Aegon with regret), Rhaenyra—delighted. On Daemon's face several emotions succeeded one another with incredible speed, fighting for first place; the Prince noticed satisfaction, joy, pride (he was proud of him!) and something else little understandable. Cousin Rhaenys looked with a connoisseur's squint: the rider of Meleys could not fail to appreciate with what dash Aegon saddled Grandfather's dragon, and nodded barely perceptibly. Whether behind this lay recognition of his merits and right to sit in the saddle, or the Almost Queen nodded to herself, Aegon did not discern and decided to throw it out of his head. Her children's eyes burned with delight and envy, and the lord husband had an aspect utterly mournful—no doubt burying hopes for a coup in favor of his son.
The farewell was completed very hurriedly; the Most Devout began to mumble their prayers again, suddenly seeming inappropriate to Aegon. To bury a Valyrian in Valyrian fashion, but perform funeral rites in Andal fashion—what a farce? Whether the Septons had been hinted at their mistake under Visenya's Hill, or they realized it themselves at the sight of a huge dragon, but the service took barely half the time of the previous one. The Silent Sisters hoisted Jaehaerys's body onto the pyre and stepped aside—their work was not yet finished. Viserys raised a gloved hand and after a short pause lowered it.
"Dracarys," Aegon pronounced in the same instant. Vermithor arched his neck and with a short roar breathed a stream of flame onto the pyre.
Dragonfire easily spread to the dry wood and in the blink of an eye flame shot up almost to the ceiling. A heavy smell of incense spread through the Pit, placed in the pyre to drown out the stifling aroma of burning flesh. Between flashes of flame, Aegon saw that the shroud had already partially burned through and it became visible how Grandfather's beard caught fire.
A few minutes later, which the whole Dragonpit spent in silence broken only by the crackling of burning wood, the pyre collapsed inward, and a sigh rolled through the spectator rows, in which horror and relief mingled. In that same moment, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard stepped forward, carrying on outstretched hands a cushion of black velvet on which lay Jaehaerys's crown. Kneeling, Ser Ryam presented the diadem to Viserys. To his brother's credit, he was not embarrassed, as Aegon supposed, but confidently took the crown and placed it on his head right over the circlet he wore before. Ser Ryam straightened, drew his sword from its scabbard, and raising it high, proclaimed:
"Long live King Viserys of House Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!"
The crowd roared in greeting, no worse than Vermithor himself, knights shook swords, ladies waved handkerchiefs. Thus, in the reflections of the funeral pyre, a new reign began. Jubilation was replaced by the ceremony of swearing fealty: courtiers and all spectators swore loyalty and devotion to the Young King. To take the oath was required kneeling on one knee, but Aegon, not wanting to climb out of the saddle, was saved by Vermithor; the Bronze Fury inclined his head to the very ground and allowed Viserys to ruffle his nose while his brother read the words of the oath together with everyone.
By that time the pyre had already burned down, leaving behind a heap of ash and several smoldering brands. A pair of Silent Sisters approached the ashes and began to rake the dust into an urn. Burial urns of Targaryens were hewn from stone while the person was still alive and had the form of a dragon egg. In the case of the late King, the urn was of red granite with small black speckles.
Having finished the work, the Silent Sister closed the lid of the urn, turning a simple lock, and handed it to Viserys; he silently leaned his forehead against the stone egg, clinking the metal of the crown, and held it out to Aegon.
"Take it to the crypt," the Spring King simultaneously asked and ordered. "You will be there faster than any ship anyway."
Vermithor listed again, and Aegon accepted Grandfather's ashes, arranging them in one of the saddlebags. Was he truly never unsaddled since Harrenhal? the Prince marveled and felt in response an unspoken: "Daor". Vermithor waited for the youth to settle in the saddle and turned impatiently to the gates of the Pit.
"Sōvēs! (Fly!)" the dragon did not need repeating twice and, roaring, he almost immediately broke into a run. Stamping heavily, he rushed through the gates, flapped wings, pushed off and...
Aegon, blinded by the bright spring sun, did not immediately understand that he was flying. When the Prince saw roofs of houses and domes of septs rushing past beneath him, he was involuntarily frightened and almost reflexively pressed himself into the front pommel of the saddle. Overcoming himself and opening his eyes, the youth stumbled upon handles with reins of thin chains wound around them; judging by how they gleamed dully in the sunbeams, Aegon realized they too were made of Valyrian steel. Surely the work of old masters who had not seen the Doom.
Grabbing the handles, he pulled them toward himself, and Vermithor obediently began to gain altitude, banking turn after turn over Rhaenys's Hill. It was indescribable; exactly as in the dreams Aegon had seen for years, but at the same time much better because it was real. The youth felt huge muscles of the beast rolling under the saddle, felt how he himself rejoiced in flight and the sensation of air under wings. Aegon could not restrain himself and laughed at the top of his voice, choking on the headwind; Vermithor did not lag behind him here either, and filled the capital with a triumphant roar.
Laying a circle over the walls of King's Landing, Aegon by tradition thrice circled the city before heading for the expanse of the Blackwater. There the youth released the reins, allowing Vermithor to fly himself where he himself wanted to be. The dragon, rising into the sky for the first time in many months, frolicked like a hatchling: performing somersault after somersault, he descended to the very river, paddling his legs on the water as if running. Several powerful flaps of wings—and here he reached rare clouds again; the capital beneath them turned into a poorly distinguishable cluster of houses, and only the Red Keep stood out against their background; ahead the waters of Blackwater Bay gleamed in the sun. From this view, Aegon's breath was taken away, and he thought with irony that the day of his grandfather's funeral brought him the greatest happiness in all nineteen years of his life.
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