King Viserys Targaryen, Second of His Name
The great hall of Lord Appleton's castle, in full accordance with Viserys's expectations, smelled of apples; that part of his court which had managed to reach Lord Gerald's demesne was packed into the most capacious room in the whole town to participate in the traditional presentation of his numerous subjects to the King. Lord Gerald graciously ceded to Viserys the largest and most richly decorated chair of all found in his castle, and seated him on the lord's dais.
"Ser Austin Blossom of Blossom Garden, Your Grace," Lord Gerald introduced another of his vassals. "One of the most important bannermen of our house."
Ser Austin turned out to be a not at all blossoming man of some fifty years, heavy, balding, and unpleasant to look upon; a belt with a sword supported a belly of impressive dimensions, and the King wondered what kind of horse could carry such a knight.
"Your Grace," Ser Austin bowed.
"We are glad to make your acquaintance, Ser Austin," Viserys nodded with a standard gracious smile. "Where do your lands lie?"
"Three leagues northwest of Appleton, Your Grace," the knight straightened. "Thanks to the proximity of Blossom Garden to Appleton, we have been the most faithful vassals of Lord Gerald's family for five centuries already. Since the Conquest alone, Blossoms have become seneschals of Appleton five times, and each of us became famous for faithful service to his suzerain and the crown."
"It is gratifying to hear of such achievements. I am sure Lord Gerald appreciates the merits of your house according to their desert."
"Of course," Lord Gerald confirmed readily and inclined his head barely noticeably. Ser Austin bowed understandingly and stepped aside, freeing space for the next bannerman of the Appletons.
From castle to castle, the same thing was repeated: the local lord met the royal train on the threshold of his house with bread and a cup of wine, inviting the royal family to be honored guests. To refuse was impossible—as Lord Otto said, all the nobility of the Reach as one trace their lineage to one of the numerous sons of Garth Greenhand, who, judging by their number, did nothing but fuck; semi-mythical "royal" origin endowed the Reachmen with irrepressible pride and a sense of their own importance—refusal meant a deliberate insult which not only the insulted would remember, but half the Reach, being his kin and friends. In the end, the royal train dragged along the Roseroad endlessly long, reaching only Appleton by the end of the second month.
In every castle, Viserys was seated on a chair on a dais that was too deep, too soft, too low, too high, too hard, introduced to all family members, starting from toothless old cousins of the late lord to nursing infants (so far the personal record belonged to Simon Shermer, born to the mistress of Smithyton on the night before the King's arrival), all vassals and household members.
It was worth admitting that Lord Gerald, a man of thirty years with light brown hair and a neat beard, differed favorably from previous hospitable hosts: he had no brothers, and his young wife, praise the Mother of Mercy, was only carrying their firstborn. The Lord of Appleton dealt with vassals quickly too; after Ser Austin followed Ser Franklin, Ser Alaster, and Ser Renly one after another. To each Viserys smiled, nodded, asked about their lands, received an answer that told him little, and nodded again, allowing them to withdraw. Definitely, Lord Gerald understood the problem of his supreme suzerain and, as befits a faithful vassal, tried to help him to the measure of his strength, observing the necessary proprieties thereby. But finally, they were done with, and the host very politely showed everyone the door. Scarce had the light doors closed, decorated with carving in the form of apple branches hung simultaneously with flowers and fruits (surely, the doors themselves were also of apple wood), when Viserys allowed himself to relax a little; only the closest remained.
"Well, it is worth admitting, that was fast," exhaled Aemma sitting beside him.
"Are you tired, my love?" asked Viserys anxiously. Though what a question? Of course, she is tired; they barely had time to catch their breath when this performance began, and Aemma must not get tired.
"I shall not fall apart, Viserys," the Queen smiled, but, to her husband's eye, somewhat forcedly and weakly. "In any case, it is worth thanking Lord Gerald."
"Your praise is a great honor for me, Your Grace," he bowed politely. "Your chambers are already prepared and if you wish to rest..."
"Mom, let's go to the garden!" Rhaenyra, who had slept with open eyes through the whole reception, also decided to unwind. "Let's pick apples!"
"If Lord Gerald does not mind..." Aemma looked at the host, and he smiled readily.
"Of course, Your Grace. But I fear to disappoint the Princess: the apple trees have only just finished blooming, it is too early for apples."
"But it is summer now," Rhaenyra frowned.
"You understand, dear," Viserys decided to take all his daughter's displeasure upon himself; if anything, he will go to the garden with her too, let Aemma lie down. "Trees cannot bear fruit all season long, they need time to rest and start blooming again."
"Why?"
What to answer to another childish "Why?", Viserys did not know, but a Kingsguard, it seems Ser Lorent, saved the situation and his paternal authority.
"Prince Aegon, Your Grace," the knight announced from the threshold. Viserys once again became convinced of the existence of divine providence; let his brother take the rap—surely they taught such things in the Citadel.
"Your Grace," Aegon nodded and, not even thinking to stop, hobbled across the whole hall.
His brother was dressed for travel: in a black leather doublet he resembled a member of the Night's Watch, but on the other hand, flying on a dragon in his favorite long-skirted gowns is not too convenient; silver hair gathered in a simple bun; contrary to custom, Aegon did without numerous jewels, limiting himself to a silver pin. Sometimes it seemed to Viserys that his younger brother tried to outdo his wife in the quantity of ornaments; if so, he had a worthy rival.
"You have not gone too far, my brother," Aegon mentioned in passing, pressing his lips to the hand extended by Aemma.
"What to do," sighed Viserys. "Everyone wants to look at the King."
"Ready to bet, there are no fewer wishing to look at the Queen," remarked Aegon with an imperturbable face, but literally a moment later his lips twitched and spread into a slight grin, and malicious little devils flashed in his green eyes.
"And at me!" Rhaenyra reminded of herself again.
"Of course, riña (girl), especially at you," her uncle flicked his niece on the nose.
Viserys noticed how uncomfortable Lord Gerald became; the young sovereign had already managed to see enough lords to understand the reason for this awkwardness. The absolute majority of them imagined the royal family strict and prim, bound hand and foot in their behavior by traditions and customs of the court; lords, of course, did not deprive them of the right to human emotions, but for some reason were terribly nervous when they managed to behold such. Viserys hastened to come to the aid of the hospitable host:
"Lord Gerald, I suppose you are not acquainted with my younger brother Aegon?"
"Have not had the pleasure, Sire."
"I assure you, you would have received much more pleasure had we remained strangers," cast Aegon, and Viserys already wanted to pull him up for disgusting manners, when suddenly his brother, who had not deigned Gerald Appleton with a glance before this, looked at him attentively and smiled somewhat absently. As if nothing had happened, he delivered in a surprisingly warm tone: "It seems you were away when I returned from the Citadel last year, and we lost the opportunity to taste your famous cider. In Oldtown, you know, it is hard to find Appleton cider, mostly what the Fossoways supply, but I heard your cider yields to it in naught."
"I am flattered by such generous assessment, my Prince," Lord Gerald bowed, perhaps truly embarrassed. "If it please you, I shall order the very best of our barrels brought for you. Last winter turned out quite warm for us, and Winter Joy managed to yield a small harvest—the cider from it turned out delightful, moderately sweet and spicy..."
"Lord Gerald, confess, you want to make me drunk," Aegon chided the encouraged host. "I am already trembling in anticipation."
For clarity, the Prince put forward his finely twitching right leg. Viserys once again felt simultaneously joyful and ashamed: yes, his brother had long ceased to be shy of joking about his injury, but it went nowhere because of that...
"Then, if the Sovereign permits, I shall order Winter Joy brought," Lord Gerald pronounced quickly. "Accept this as a gift, my Prince, as an apology for the not too cordial reception last time."
"The Sovereign permits," intervened Viserys. "If his own brother does not forget to share with him."
"Of what do you speak, my brother?" Aegon asked mockingly. "My gift will travel in your wagon train. I shall part with it as soon as I leave you alone."
Another of the Prince's barbs was smoothed over by Aemma's melodious laughter.
"Do not worry, I shall watch over it," she said, fighting a smile, though not too diligently.
"Over the wagon train, the cider, or my brother?"
Lord Gerald took advantage of Viserys's nod and slipped out the door, away from the family scene awkward for him. Scarce had the door closed behind him when the King put his hands on his hips and asked menacingly:
"Well, and for what sake do you portray me a drunkard?"
"I know not," admitted Aegon. "I spent the night in the open field under Vermithor's flank, I want hot food and a no less hot bath. And also wanted to make someone run about. Where is Daemon?"
The question was asked with the most innocent expression, and it was impossible to let it pass one's ears; it was worth admitting, his brother knew how to change the subject masterfully.
"Uncle flew to the West, and didn't take me!" Rhaenyra gave Daemon away before Viserys could open his mouth. "I wanted to fly with him on Syrax and look at the ocean, but he flew away at night."
"What a bastard," Aegon sympathized with his niece and immediately wilted before Aemma's formidable gaze. "Forgive me, my Queen, it slipped out."
She flashed her eyes angrily in response and snorted; neither Viserys nor his beloved wife had believed in the sincerity of the repentance of the court's chief wit for a long time.
"Actually, I flew here on business," his brother let drop as if by chance.
"Gods, Aegon!" groaned the King. "The reception just ended, what business?!"
"My own," he answered without batting an eye. "Can the King truly not find a couple of minutes for his own younger brother?"
Hope for escape died scarce born, the opportunity to interrupt Aegon with Rhaenyra's question disappeared now; it remained only to accept battle. Viserys rolled his eyes and sat again in the Appleton chair. This time, however, he allowed himself to sit much lower, stretching out his legs quite unroyally.
"I am listening," he cast.
"If you remember, at the very beginning of my education in the Citadel," Aegon began from very far away, which meant the probability of finishing with his business quickly was negligibly small. "Robbers attacked me and almost took me into slavery."
"I remember. Dennis saved you."
"Precisely. And for that you promised him a white cloak."
Now it is understandable why he remembered Daemon—only the middle brother was witness to that promise.
"Yes, I promised. But now all cloaks are occupied."
"You accepted Lorent Marbrand into the Guard, but could have taken Dennis."
"Your Dennis is not even a knight..."
"The King can knight anyone," arguing with Aegon about rights and duties was useless, he would turn out right in any case.
"Dennis did not put forward his candidacy," reminded Viserys.
"Because he does not expect it. But I expected it of you."
"What do you want now, Aegon?" the King began to lose patience. "That I take the white cloak from Ser Lorent and hang it on Dennis?!"
"I expect that you at least knight him," Aegon cast irritably.
"Good, I shall do it. You see—Aemma and Rhaenyra are witnesses to us. The High Septon himself shall anoint Dennis, and I shall touch him with Blackfyre."
Aegon twisted his lips, as if showing what his brother's promise and his wife's testimony were worth in his eyes.
"Good, but that is not all."
"Not all? What else do you want?"
"Oh, a mere trifle," his brother raised a stubborn gaze of green eyes to Viserys. "Tell me, my crowned brother, how many dragons do you have?"
Viserys's heart skipped a beat and contracted painfully, as it contracted every time he remembered Balerion; since Rhaenyra began to fly on Syrax, and Aegon saddled Vermithor, memories, unbidden, unsparing, merciless came ever more often.
"You know, I had one," having somehow mastered the lump in his throat, Viserys answered in tone to the Prince. "Maybe you heard? In the year 94, they spoke only of him..."
"I speak not of Balerion," Aegon did not support the wit. "How many dragons in total in Westeros?"
"Five. Three with us and two with the Velaryons."
Aegon grimaced in vexation, as if rotten meat had been slipped to him at dinner.
"In total?"
"There is also Vhagar, and Silverwing, and Dreamfyre, and..." there was someone else; the Pit is empty now, but someone else is on Dragonstone.
"And who?" Aegon raised eyebrows in expectation. "Do not trouble yourself, you will not remember. And even if you remember, you still will not name the correct number—no one knows it."
"The Dragonkeepers..."
"Scratch their arses with their staves!" the Prince barked unexpectedly so that everyone in the hall started. "They are unable to count dragons, unable to keep track of the young, unable to look after all the eggs! They do not know half of all caves and lairs of dragons! If they do not know—neither do you!"
When it reached Viserys what his younger brother was saying, a burning wave of shame washed over him. What kind of dragonlord is he if he does not know how many dragons he has?
"And what do you propose?" inquired Viserys. "Disband the Dragonwatch as useless?"
"Did Daemon ask for the Small Council yet?" Viserys nearly ground his teeth when Aegon went aside again.
"He asked," nodded the King. "Wanted to be Hand."
"And?"
"I refused."
"That was in vain," the Prince shook his head, and in his voice Viserys heard... amusement?! "He wants work, real work. To speak frankly, I would not refuse such a thing either. Allow us to fulfill our duty to the crown to the measure of our abilities. Make Daemon Master of Coin."
"What for? Lord Beesbury copes perfectly."
"Then make him Master of Laws. A good man is good in everything, besides so he can keep one eye on Daemon. At least for the first time."
Viserys wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose and quietly rejoiced that Lord Otto did not hear this conversation—the Hand's beard would have turned grey from such speeches.
"My brother," Aegon approached closer, standing some step from Viserys; his voice sounded quiet and confidential. "Dragons are our heritage. It must be watched, else it will be a spit into the pile of ash that remains of our ancestors. Did you know that dragons eat their young? Neither did I, though I thought I knew everything or almost everything about them. The Dragonwatch now is capable only of unsaddling and feeding our dragons, but supervision is needed for all. And if a dragon flies across the Narrow Sea? Or wants to fly around Westeros?"
Every word of his fell like a stone on the scales; on one was the opinion of Aegon, who was achieving something, and on the other... Indeed, what was on the other? Aegon truly wants to help.
"Do you want to become Lord Commander of the Dragonwatch?" clarified Viserys.
"The Lord Commander of any watch must be a knight," his brother snorted. "And I—gods see!—do not look much like one. No, better make me Master of Dragons. Thus I shall watch both dragons, and the Watch, and the Pit, and the caves of the Dragonmont."
In the end, if he refuses now, as he refused Daemon, he will quarrel with both brothers at once, and before his coronation at that; if both are insulted so much that they do not fly to it, then a fine reign awaits him if it begins thus.
"Good," Viserys's hand lay on his younger brother's shoulder; he shuddered perceptibly—did not expect it would be so simple? "I shall make you Master of Dragons. I would have needed you there anyway—a bore younger than Runciter is needed there."
Aegon chuckled crookedly and buried his head in Viserys's shoulder. He smelled sharply of dragon, burning, and a little sweat.
"I shall try to justify Your Grace's expectations in the part of boredom," he spoke hollowly.
The prolonged display of brotherly feelings was interrupted by Aemma:
"This is, of course, very important and touching, but maybe you will take Rhaenyra to the garden already?"
Viserys immediately mentally gave himself a cuff on the back of the head. Behind state affairs and touchy brothers, he completely forgot both that his daughter wanted to go to the garden, and that she was extremely upset by the absence of apples in it. Instead of this empty chatter with Lord Gerald about cider and varieties of winter apples, he should have sent Aemma to rest, and entrusted Rhaenyra with her questions to Aegon...
"By the way, Master of Dragons, maybe you will answer your niece's question?"
The brothers stood close to each other, and Viserys noticed how Aegon rolled his eyes for show, but allowed himself to be used nonetheless.
"And what interests you, riña?"
"Why are there no apples now?" Rhaenyra never forgot her questions, as well as what interested her, until she satisfied her curiosity completely.
Aegon approached her, looked around furtively, and beckoned his niece closer. She stood on tiptoes, and her uncle leaned toward her and in a loud confidential whisper, so that both Viserys and Aemma from her chair heard, answered, managing to keep the most serious face:
"Simply Lord Gerald does not want to share them with the King."
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