Chapter 24
The Targaryen ancestral tomb was located on the slope of the Dragonmont, almost half a mile from the castle, closer to the summit. The crypt was hewn from dark volcanic stone directly into the rock face; like all Targaryen structures, it resembled a dragon—a palisade of spires soaring upward, connected by lintels, resembling either ribs or wings intertwined and gnawed by time.
Aegon, having circled the island thrice—it was necessary to show off before the inhabitants—landed Vermithor right by the crypt. Arranging the egg with Grandfather's ashes in his bosom, he somehow crawled out of the saddle and slid down the dragon's wing to the ground. To feel something firm and unshakable under his feet again was strange, and Aegon remembered the cane only when pain shot through his leg from a careless step.
No one guarded the family grave—who on this island would dare disturb the peace of dead dragonlords? The crypt was valuable in itself, as a monument to a bygone era, as Dragonstone itself, for that matter. At first glance, all three walls jutting from the rock were absolutely identical; each was covered with skillful carving depicting dragons soaring in the sky and tongues of flame beneath them; each had three high windows, so narrow that even a child could not thrust a hand into them. Aegon approached the southern wall and pressed on one of the curls of flame; a creak rang out, a quiet grinding, and the figures came into motion—the stone fire parted, the dragons tucked their wings, turned their heads away, freeing a bare slab; it, as if cracking along the axis of the central window, parted in equal halves to the sides, drowning in the wall. Another miracle of Valyrian architecture which Viserys tried to comprehend.
The front chamber of the crypt was small, each wall no more than three yards long; in its center rose a small protrusion, seeming out of place in this realm of polished, carved surfaces due to its natural, unworked appearance. At its very summit, three feet from the floor, a small flame danced right on the stone—here, as Maester Gerardys explained to Aegon in childhood, a thin crack coming from the very bowels of the Dragonmont came to the surface and released a combustible air mixture. The chronicles of Dragonstone were silent about who lit it and when, and whether it was lit at all; Grandmother Alysanne believed the crypt was erected simultaneously with the castle around an already existing source of flame, and Aegon was ready to believe this version. His ancestors were always drawn to fire.
From this small natural hearth, the Prince lit one of the torches lying at its base and began to descend a straight staircase hewn into the blind wall and leading deep into the mountain. A thin layer of dark dust covered the dry steps; looking closely, the youth could distinguish boot prints and sweeps of a cloak in it; likely, Grandfather left them when he brought Father's ashes here. The gods definitely know a thing or two about irony, thought Aegon; last time Jaehaerys was here alive and carried his son's remains, and now he himself is being carried to his last resting place.
The steps led the youth into a spacious room with a round well in the center; like everything here, it was hewn from stone, and its rim reached Aegon's knee. Raising the torch over it, the Prince saw only a mass of greyish ash—all that remained of every Targaryen who survived the Doom and was born after it. Here, in one place, rested Ainar the Exile, Daenys the Dreamer, Gaemon the Glorious, all Lords of Dragonstone, their wives, children, brothers, and sisters, as well as all Kings, Queens, Princes, and Princesses of the Seven Kingdoms, beginning with Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives. Here the Good Queen brought the ashes of her daughter Daella, denying her husband an Andal funeral in the Septon crypt of the Eyrie; even Maegor the Cruel sent the ashes of the nephews, lawful kings, killed by him here. Now Jaehaerys, First of His Name, would rest together with them.
Aegon leaned the cane against the rim, laid the torch beside it, and, taking out the stone egg-urn, removed the lid from it. The sharp end of the egg turned on the thread, opening the chamber with ashes.
"Perzys istan, ñuqir issi (I was fire, now I am ash)," Aegon pronounced. He had read these words in "Farewell to Valyria"—Ainar Targaryen, having hidden on Dragonstone from the Doom, learning of the death of his homeland, repeats the first lines of the funeral prayer but interrupts it and falls into deep despondency. The Prince thought they ought to be spoken after all the Andal chants; if the Valyrian gods, Balerion, Vhagar, and the rest, are still alive, then let them take care of the Old King too. It certainly will not be superfluous.
From the overturned urn, the ashes slowly poured into the well; the youth thought what the next generations of his family would have to do when it filled to the brim. Pile it in a mound on top? Tamp it down? Continue emptying urns regardless? Good that it is not his worry. There will definitely be enough room for him, and his brothers, and their children.
Aegon carried the empty stone egg to the wall furthest from the stairs; right in the thickness of the stone, warm from the mountain's internal heat, niches were hewn from floor to ceiling in which used urns were kept. Each niche was signed with Valyrian glyphs; in the fifth row from the top, he found an empty cell with his grandfather's name; placing his urn in it, the Prince noticed a white marble egg with bluish veins nearby—the scratched glyph stated that Queen Alysanne had made her last journey in it.
Looking around the crypt for the last time, Aegon picked up the cane and torch and went upstairs; there he trampled the torch and at the exit by the door touched a stone standing out against the others by its red color with the cane. The stone leaves creaked and began to close; they converged intentionally slowly, but Aegon hurried to jump out anyway so as not to remain walled up in the crypt; it could be locked from inside, but opened—only from outside.
Finding himself free, the Prince sighed with relief. Yes, the design and skill of the unknown architect staggered the imagination, and the thought of the posthumous union of all family members gave some soul-aching peace, but... It was damn pleasant to feel alive again! To breathe, to allow the wind to dishevel hair, to turn one's face to the setting sun—Aegon squeezed his eyes shut from pleasure and knew he was not alone only when he felt with his gut how Vermithor tensed.
Several yards from them, raising a small dust devil, Caraxes landed; scarce had the dragon touched the ground when Daemon jumped from his back and rushed toward Aegon in great bounds.
"What is this?!" he nearly roared, bubbling with anger. Aegon knew his brother had a hot temper, but until now he had seen his brother pour out anger only on his dearest spouse, and for the first time he himself became its object.
"What?" from such pressure the Prince stepped back.
"You ask still?! In the name of all Seven Hells, for what damn reason did you saddle Vermithor?!"
"Grandfather died," Aegon answered with bewilderment. "And Vermithor was free. Anyone could saddle him."
"Yes, but you did it!" it seems such an answer did not suit Daemon, who continued to rage.
"And what of it?" the youth shrugged. "I was within my rights."
"What of it? Do you even understand what you have done? You were supposed to saddle Vhagar! We agreed on this at Harrenhal, remember, you leaky head?!"
"I remember, but..."
"Vhagar will now remain free, and in some five years that Velaryon girl will saddle her! Think you we will have chances together against her and Meleys?!"
Daemon evidently ran out of air, and he stopped to catch his breath; Aegon used the ensuing pause to gather himself, and scarce did his brother open his mouth, rushed to the counterattack:
"Listen to me now, lēkia (brother)," he began, inclining his head to his shoulder. "Remember how I fell on the Long Stair? Of course, you remember. Between when I fell and when I woke on the litter, I dreamt a dream. Yes, exactly the same as about Uncle Aemon and Viserys in a crown. I dreamt of Vermithor then, lēkia. And then, when I began to fly in dreams, I could not understand for a long time on whom I fly? And now, having flown on Vermithor just once, I understand that all this time that unknown dragon whom I did not see and did not recognize was he. Do you understand, lēkia?"
Daemon swallowed and tried to object something, but Aegon left him no opportunity:
"Dragons are not slaves. We do not choose them like horses at a market, but they us. Think you your Caraxes allowed you to sit on him just so? He saw at once that you are worth his dashing nature, that you would suit him. And Meleys accepted Rhaenys when she saw she was smeared with the same ash as our mother—reckless, brave, broken. And Balerion accepted Viserys surely because of his passion for Valyrian antiquities. It is far from so simply arranged, my brother. Do not be an Andal."
Having said this, Aegon walked around his frozen brother, obviously not expecting such pressure, and went to Vermithor. Halfway he turned and added:
"And concerning Vhagar, worry not, I shall devise something. We have time yet. And, in the end, it is not necessary to bring matters to war, right?"
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