Prince Aegon Targaryen
No one dared disturb the silence of the traditional family breakfast. Rhaenyra, wielding her spoon with talent, picked out the crumbled fruit from her porridge; the cooks and septas had lost again to the nine-year-old princess's cunning. Aemma absently glanced now at her daughter's plate, now at her own; she had no appetite of late; Runciter, having explained the Queen's condition as fatigue, recommended the Spring King temporarily abstain from fulfilling his marital duty, and for the second week Viserys came out to breakfast offended, like a sparrow who got no breadcrumbs.
Aegon, as always having his own opinion, supposed that the Grand Maester remained true to himself and said only what they wanted to hear from him. The Prince did not judge his crowned sister-in-law and, chuckling to himself, wondered what would end sooner: Aemma's voluntary fast or Viserys's forced abstinence. By all appearances, the Queen was dangerously close to raising the seven-colored banner of peace.
Daemon became gloomier with each day and snapped more often just so, allegedly without any reason; the family, however, knew there was a reason after all, and her name was Rhea Royce. The Lady of Runestone had not appeared at court once, neither during the late King's illness nor during the seven months of official mourning for him. At first she made excuses of snow-blocked mountain passes, then the need to check how her lands had wintered, then came the grouse hunting season, which she, naturally, could in no way miss. After her elder brother-in-law sent her an official invitation to his own coronation in Oldtown (to ignore which was tantamount to treason not marital, but of the state), Lady Royce was expected in King's Landing any day so that, finally, the royal train could cross the Blackwater and set off along the Roseroad to the south.
From the threshold of the Small Dining Hall, where the Targaryens ate without guests and courtiers, Runciter cleared his throat.
"Your Grace, my Queen, Princes, Princess," the old man greeted everyone in turn with a bow, jingling his dozen assorted chains. "I beg pardon for my intrusion."
"Has something happened?" Viserys inquired somewhat too briskly. Despite the fact that the courtiers did not observe the general mourning for the Old King too zealously, his successor felt obliged to strictly fulfill all traditions and now, overcome by a thirst for activity, strove to cast off restrictions that had become hateful to him too.
"Yes, Your Grace," the Grand Maester held out a sealed case. "A raven has arrived from Runestone."
"For the sake of all gods, tell me I am widowed," Daemon implored.
"The letter is addressed to the Sovereign, my Prince," Runciter objected carefully and added with a shadow of sympathy: "And the seal on the case is not black."
"Bad luck," commented Aegon, hiding from Aemma's reproachful gaze behind an elegant tea cup. Drinking wine in the morning, even light wine, was considered harmful to mental labor in the Citadel, and having conducted a comparative experiment in the capital, the Prince admitted the correctness of his mentors not without regret.
Viserys meanwhile broke the small leather tube, shook out the letter, and, squinting at the incomprehensible handwriting of a strange Maester, chuckled:
"I shall disappoint you, my brother, you are still married."
Daemon swore in a strangled voice but hastened to offer apologies to Aemma and Rhaenyra.
"However," continued the King, "I can gladden you too. Lady Rhea writes that duties force her to delay her departure—the Lord of Gulltown has died leaving no sons, and his kin have begun litigation for the inheritance. The proceedings will take some time, but she assures us she will catch up with the royal train before Highgarden."
"Well, at least something," remarked the middle brother. His brows, previously knit gloomily on the bridge of his nose, smoothed out, and a semblance of good humor returned to his face. Stretching a hand across the table, Daemon pinched Rhaenyra's cheek and threatened: "Ipradās, riña! Iā nyke hembīnna ao rūsīr kepa Aegon se zȳhor tembyri (Eat, girl! Or I will call uncle Aegon and his books.)."
"Think of a better trick, Daemon," Aemma laughed. "She is no longer to be frightened with boring books."
"We are reading Perzino Lilion," Rhaenyra announced. "It is not boring at all!"
It would be strange if a tale were boring where Helysanna Arreos mixed a story of civil war in the Freehold, very generously diluting it with her own fiction and a love line, surprisingly quite chaste from a Valyrian point of view. The sighing of the noble dragonrider Vimar, heir to one of the Forty Great Families, for the beautiful Neleya, daughter of a drinking jeweler, against the background of duels on dragons, burning towers, and intrigues of greedy kin could not leave the princess indifferent.
"Besides, she has already grown out of the age when children can be frightened by three-legged people," Aegon spoke with feigned regret. Rhaenyra, however, smiling at everyone at the table at once, began to struggle more actively with the contents of her plate. "Do not think, riña (girl), that Daemon can save you from lessons."
Soon after Grandfather's death, when Aegon suddenly had more free time, he found an extremely amusing picture in the library: Runciter reading an excerpt from the chronicles of Dragonstone to the princess in Valyrian with an unpleasant accent, swallowing long vowels; the girl, wearied by the Grand Maester's monotonous mumbling, slept with open eyes. When Runciter paused to catch his breath, the Prince intervened and under the plausible pretext of the old tutor's fatigue intercepted the reins of his niece's education.
Now a couple of hours a day went to conversations about history, languages, and literature; the other sciences Aegon magnanimously left to Runciter: partly because he did not favor arithmetic too much, partly because he did not want to deprive the poor fellow of all his duties. Somewhere in a month, when Rhaenyra could already catch the difference between Tyroshi and Braavosi and even learned to grimace disdainfully when her uncle slipped from High Valyrian to the dialects of the Free Cities, Aegon realized that sooner or later he himself would have offered Viserys to teach his daughter. The thought firmly hammered into him in the Citadel about the inadmissibility of one-sided accumulation of knowledge would certainly have spoken in him; a Maester must always learn and teach; many scholars and candidates used the opportunity to earn a couple of silver stars teaching literacy to those willing, continuing to forge their own chains along the way. If it comes to that, Aegon understood more about some things than all Maesters outside Oldtown; sharing the Valyrian heritage of the family was his duty not only as a former scholar of the Citadel but also as a Prince of House Targaryen. The gods see: not so much remained of Old Valyria to allow each new generation to move further away from the roots.
Viserys, meanwhile, set aside the letter, drank from his goblet, and, as if resolving on something, nodded to himself.
"Since we speak of wives," he began. "Aegon, have you not thought of... marriage yourself?"
Well, his brother held out longer than Aegon calculated—seven months is not a bad term; the Prince thought detachedly that he should have bet with Dennis on when the question of his marriage would finally be raised. What a pity the King chose this very moment—the morning, unlike for many, had almost begun to please the Prince. He slowly dabbed his lips with a bright scarlet napkin, then neatly folded it, smoothed it, aligned it with the edge of the table.
"Rhaenyra, if you do not want to eat—do not torment yourself," Aemma allowed her daughter. She, beaming, cast a glance at her father and, waiting for a magnanimous nod, snatched a green apple from the dish and, pecking her mother on the cheek, skipped away. Aegon appreciated the Queen's move: no need for the girl to see this scene.
Aegon, meanwhile, smoothed the napkin again, adjusted the cutlery by the plate, and looking straight into Viserys's lilac eyes, pronounced with all possible firmness:
"No."
"No?" it seemed his brother was surprised not so much by the refusal itself as by Aegon's decisive tone. "Permit me to know why?"
"And to whom do you wish to marry me?" Aegon answered question with question, inclining his head to his shoulder. "We have no sisters. The only cousin has long been married. Who else needs me?"
"Stop it," Viserys grimaced in vexation. "You are a Targaryen, you are the King's brother, you are the rider of Vermithor—any lord will deem it the greatest honor to give you his daughter to wife."
"Oh, no, my crowned brother, you are wrong!" gods, what predictable arguments. "Any lord from such a union will need not honor, but a place at court. He gives not a shit from the wall of his own castle that I am the rider of Vermithor, he needs a dragon not even for free! All he wants is my name and my place by the Iron Throne, to jump from there into the Small Council, the treasury, and the exchequer."
"Listen, Aegon, it is not so..."
"It is precisely so, Viserys. By myself I am needed by no one," heating up, Aegon jumped up from the table and hobbled around it for show. "Think you I do not know how I look? Lame, skinny, pale, one shoulder higher than the other. And they will still drag each other by the braids just to break through to Prince Aegon. They would fight for the right to drag me to the Sept even were I a dwarf four feet tall! That is what the name of Targaryen does!"
"Not all marriages are based on politics and calculation," Aemma reminded gently. "Viserys and I fell in love with each other."
"Yes, but Grandmother brought you together," Aegon objected.
"Our parents loved each other," Viserys put in.
"They were brother and sister," Aegon waved him off again. "And Grandfather with Grandmother likewise."
It became quiet in the dining room. Aegon walked to the window and began to examine the waters of Blackwater Bay with showy indifference; Viserys and Aemma fell silent; Daemon, who had not uttered a word during the whole dispute, clattered his fork on the plate as if it did not concern him. Partly, it was so: his marriage certainly cannot be recognized as exemplary.
"I am a cripple, Viserys," Aegon quietly reminded the obvious truth. "I shall torment her, whoever she be. I lose to any other man, she will cuckold me... And I shall not judge her for it, I understand. But I do not wish to cast a shadow on your throne."
"We can find a clever and pious maid," suggested the Queen; sympathy and understanding showed in her voice—for that alone Aegon was grateful to her. "Well-read, calm, undemanding, faithful. In the Seven Kingdoms, it is not hard to find such brides."
"Surely, at least one of them will not be plain," Daemon put in, but Aemma ignored his lunge. "Do not, my Queen, thus we may get a second Bronze Fool. I fear the court and our family will not survive it."
His brother was right; Good Queen Alysanne had found for her second grandson a seemingly ideal match: a spirited, brave rider wielding sword, spear, and bow, a passionate huntress who did not shun drink and rough manners. But that time the best among the matchmakers of Westeros committed, perhaps, her first mistake, which proved even more fatal since it concerned her own family.
"And what now?" Viserys inquired dryly. "Will you sign up for eternal bachelors, like Uncle Vaegon?"
"No," Aegon shook his head. "I am a Prince, and my marriage is a matter of state importance. It is my duty, my obligation to strengthen your power through marriage. And I swear to you, I shall fulfill it if required, without objections and any doubts, if the need arises. But for now there is none, and until then... let us not return to this conversation, good?"
The King nodded reluctantly, agreeing; yes, this was the King, though Viserys had not put on the crown today, but Aegon clearly saw the precious mask of the sovereign, which grew more and more to his brother's face with every day. Now the Prince managed to drive a small wedge between them and shout to his brother through this crack; he managed to explain to both—the brother and the King—and they agreed with him. Aegon won a victory, but his soul felt vile and dreary. Apologizing to his brothers and Aemma, he pleaded lessons with Rhaenyra and hobbled to his chambers.
Aegon could say quite precisely when he realized that maids look at him. In Oldtown, the world of scholars almost did not touch the outer world, so the Prince noticed the difference in attitude toward himself when he returned with his uncle to court after his father's death. Daemon helped in this, of course, who despite his marriage visited not only whores on the Street of Silk but also winked at court ladies. At first Aegon thought he might truly be interesting to some of them, tried to shine with wit, a beautiful song or a touching melody, courtliness to the extent it was possible for him.
But once he accidentally noticed what glances a flock of noble maids, daughters of Grandfather's courtiers, cast at him a moment before pulling mincing smiles onto their faces and coquettishly lowering their eyes. There was not a hint of interest there, which evidently Aegon had imagined; only overcome slight squeamishness—well, a cripple,—halved with cold determination to please. No, not him, but Prince Aegon Targaryen.
That flock realized at once they were discovered and hastened to retire, hiding in the godswood, and Aegon remained standing on the gallery as if doused with ice water. He began to peer more closely into faces and soon learned to see pity, discomfort, annoyance, awkwardness on faces stretched in smiles—in a word, everything people feel looking at a cripple. It seems he noticed this before too, but convinced himself it was not true. To speak on this topic with either brothers or Dennis was useless—they would not have understood his problem, so he asked Vaegon.
"That is one of the reasons why I did not marry," the Archmaester remarked then. "It is painful to admit, nephew, but one must have the courage to look truth in the eyes. A woman needs only name and position from us. They have read enough tales and romances about beautiful and brave princes, but collided with wretched reality where princes proved not so beautiful. But this myth of a beautiful life in marriage with a Prince is stronger than reality. They seek it, and when expectation does not meet reality, they overcome themselves. All for the sake of becoming a princess. They are indifferent to both you and me. Crooked, lame, squint-eyed, dwarves, giants—so long as they have a title. Love is a fiction, my boy. When people speak of love, they mean comfort, convenience, and a sense of their own dignity. All this can be found outside marriage."
One cannot say Aegon agreed with his uncle in everything—he desperately did not want to live life stewing in offenses at the whole wide world and his own cynicism,—but to ignore the grain of truth in his words was impossible. The Prince did not want to humiliate himself and did not want to humiliate a potential spouse; any lady will be far happier with any lord who can literally carry her in his arms than with a lame Prince.
With such joyless thoughts Aegon reached his rooms. From behind the slightly open door, Rhaenyra's enthusiastic voice was heard:
"...and then Vimar told that treacherous priestess: 'In vain do you work your evil magic, it shall not hold me!', and then jumped onto Valrion and flew to Rios."
"Rios?" a girlish voice asked again enchanted. Aegon recognized Lady Alicent in the listener without surprise; with Jaehaerys's death she too had much extra time, and somehow it happened that she made friends with Rhaenyra. Not that there were few girls of the princess's age at court—many lords sent daughters to court hoping to make them the confidante of the King's only child; however, only Alicent Hightower managed to achieve this.
"Rios is a city," Rhaenyra explained readily. "It is in the northeast of Valyria."
With the very tip of his cane, Aegon pushed the door, and it opened with an unpleasant drawn-out creak; not crossing the threshold, the Prince inclined his head like a bird and, looking point-blank at his niece who started in surprise, asked:
"Is it really?"
"Yes," confirmed Rhaenyra, though not too confidently, but withstood her uncle's gaze.
"And if we look at the map?"
The girl was embarrassed, squinted at her friend, and, evidently encouraged by her presence, dared to suppose:
"In the northwest?"
"Precisely," nodded Aegon and finally entered the room.
Rhaenyra settled masterfully on the edge of the desk given to her: as it turned out, from such a position it is very convenient to broadcast to grateful listeners; the Hand's daughter perched on the nearest chair and hastened to jump off it to greet the Prince.
"Something tells me that today we shall have to occupy ourselves with geography," Aegon announced, putting on the strictest air.
"Well, I already promised Alicent she could listen to how we read..." Rhaenyra was innocence itself by face, and pleading notes appeared in her voice.
"How you read, and I correct you," remarked Aegon, sitting in the armchair at his desk. "I assure you, Lady Alicent, it is not as interesting as it might seem."
When the Prince began to meet the little Lady Hightower by the light of day, and not by the bed of a dying grandfather, his tongue no longer turned to call her simply by name, like any other nurse. Impeccable manners, flawless behavior, ideal appearance—all this involuntarily evoked a corresponding address in return. Aemma was pleased with such friendship; the Hand's daughter became the voice of reason and the gentlest, and therefore the most authoritative, of all possible teachers of good manners for the spirited princess.
"It is nothing, Prince Aegon," Alicent answered readily. "I need to finish the embroidery on the cloak for Gwayne, Septa Beta thinks I work too slowly as it is..."
"Septa Beta is just a fool who only prays and sews," Rhaenyra cut her off and again fixed her lilac eyes, full of hope and naive plea, on her uncle. "Kostilus, kepa... (Please uncle…)"
Had there not been the conversation at breakfast with her father, Aegon might perhaps have agreed, but the morning was already hopelessly spoiled, and the Prince saw no reason why he alone should suffer.
"You will be distracted, riña."
"I won't!"
"No, riña. Lady Alicent does not study Valyrian history, and when two are engaged in different matters, they only hinder and distract each other. Where will you wait for her, Lady Alicent?"
"By the pond in the godswood," the girl answered readily. She understood at once there was nothing to hope for.
"Do not the Septas scold you for going to the godswood?" Aegon feigned surprise.
"No, my Prince," she answered with a sly smile. "Groves are also the fruit of the Seven's creation. Trees are not to blame that pagans worship them."
"Is that so," drawled Aegon and dismissed Alicent with a nod. Turning to the pouting Rhaenyra, he smiled treacherously and pronounced: "Sīr, riña, ivestrās bē Valyriar oktia (Now, girl, tell me about the Valyrian city.)."
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