Although Aegon had admitted to Dennis how greatly the probability of failing to justify divine trust frightened him, and followed his advice, the feeling that somewhere in unseen worlds a punishing fiery sword was already raised over him, an apostate and deceiver, did not release him. Awkward, stumbling prayers, requests rather than songs of praise, which he whispered in High Valyrian before a lit Valyrian candle before retiring to sleep, brought peace only for a short while, and the confident state of a man knowing his duty evaporated without a trace scarce had he cast a glance at Syrax frolicking in the air above the Eyrie.
The young dragoness was now growing faster than her rider, and was already trying to win Vermithor's attention. However, her flirtations made no impression on him, and he turned away with irritable grumbling. Seeing this, Aegon recalled all threats to the dragon race, starting from the nesting place and ending with Vermithor's unwillingness to choose a new mate, and doubt blossomed in his soul—what if the promise taken, sealed with his own and others' blood, could not be fulfilled?
Due to the nervousness gnawing at him, Aegon could not sit still and proposed Rhaenyra become better acquainted with the Vale and Arryn vassals. In the end, the niece ought to be introduced to the Seven Kingdoms, and the Seven Kingdoms ought to be introduced to her; whatever Viserys said about freedom of choice of a spouse, he still had to be found, and for this, one ought at least to begin looking. The Vale was suited for this like no other: Rhaenyra's mother was an Arryn, and this was not forgotten here. Furthermore, such a step should have finally calmed the local nobility, stirred up by the divorce of Daemon and the Bronze Rhea Royce.
Lords, their sons, grandsons, nephews, cousins, and far more distant relatives invariably and unanimously swore by the Seven Heavens that the Princess was the spitting image of Queen Aemma, that she was more beautiful and innocent than the Maiden herself, that even if she did not give them her consent, to see her in the halls of their castles was a true delight. By the end of the third of their improvised visits, the nickname "The Realm's Delight" was firmly attached to Rhaenyra, which flattered her greatly.
"Not everyone is lucky with the nickname the people give a man," nodded Aegon. "I am called Clubfoot, and this is holy truth, just as the sun rises in the east and dragons fly in the sky. Daemon is called the Rogue Prince and for that, it must be admitted, there are grounds. In how Cousin Rhaenys is called behind her back—The Queen Who Never Was—there is not only truth but also disdain. But everyone is proud of The Realm's Delight."
Ser Dennis and Ser Criston, accompanying them, readily agreed with this. The two knights made a very colorful pair: each had achieved an enviable position for a man of not the most noble origin, but their attitude toward this was different. The young White Cloak, a native of the Dornish Marches, treated his service as a sacred duty, and was even a little jealous of Dennis for the attention the latter received from the Targaryens. The sworn shield from Dragon's Haven himself only laughed at the guardsman's idealism; often Aegon caught them arguing about some knightly abstractions.
"He is very funny," said Dennis to his liege behind closed doors. "A mere boy."
"An Andal boy," corrected Aegon, who was Cole's age.
"Exactly. Imagine, today he asked me: wherein, he says, did I, Dennis Greyhead that is, err so greatly that I was not made a Kingsguard?"
"And what did you answer?"
"Well, I say: I, says I, am too grey to wear white. And believe it or not, My Prince, but such a thoughtful expression on a face I have not met even in the Citadel."
When the question arose that the Princess required an escort, the Kingsguard fought tooth and nail for his right and duty to go with her, evidently hoping to convince the Targaryens to go by land, but they would hear nothing of it.
"Do you order me to follow you?" he sighed resignedly.
"Do you order us to wait for you at every village?" Aegon answered in tone.
"Do not be a fool, Criston," advised Dennis. "Climb into Syrax's saddle. It is not as scary as it seems."
"But Syrax is quite young..."
"Nothing terrible," the Prince cut off all paths to retreat. "She needs to grow, and an extra rider is excellent training."
"Just take off the plate," put in the sworn shield.
So Ser Criston traveled with them: sitting behind Rhaenyra in a white gambeson, convulsively clutching the rear pommel of the saddle. The Princess herself was sincerely amused by the situation where he who was called to protect her found himself completely in her power. The yellow dragoness tired at first, but soon adapted; the guardsman seemed funny and absurd to her, and every time he nearly fell out of the saddle upon landing, she clucked with mirth.
They visited Heart's Home, Snakewood, and Coldwater Burn, and after turned south, and through the lands of the Hunters, Melcolms, Templetons, and Waynwoods found themselves again in the foothills surrounding the Giant's Lance. Arguing a little (Rhaenyra wanted to visit Gulltown, but it was too close to Royce lands, and Aegon did not want to renew acquaintance with them), they continued on their way. Having received another portion of praises for the Princess's mind, beauty, and grace in Redfort, they flew over the southern spurs of the Mountains of the Moon and found themselves in the lands of Waxley.
Already on the outer side of the mountains, they stopped in a small valley squeezed between two ridges so that Syrax could rest a little, and the travelers stretch their legs and replenish water supplies. The dragons landed on a field overgrown with heather and low shrubs on the bank of a swift stream; Ser Criston dismounted first and headed for the water, vainly hoping not to betray his "delight" from another flight. The Prince meanwhile had already turned to his niece to joke about her protector's endurance, when suddenly he cried out.
"Ser?" Rhaenyra leaned forward anxiously.
"All... all is well, my Princess," he responded, stepping back from the water. "Just the water is hot."
"You were frightened by hot water?" chuckled Dennis.
"I was surprised," continued Cole to justify himself. "Usually in such streams it is icy, and here it is nearly boiling."
Aegon frowned; he, naturally, had read treatises on geography and was familiar with the phenomenon of internal heat emanating from the bowels of the earth, but in Westeros it was practically unknown. Considering that House Waxley subjugated the surrounding lands even before the arrival of the Andals, records of such valleys should have been preserved, but the Prince had not encountered them.
Stepping carefully on wet stones, he approached the edge; steam truly rose above the surface of the stream. Aegon squatted over a small pool and cautiously touched the water.
"Careful, My Prince!" warned the White Cloak belatedly. "The water is truly... hot..."
The Prince, who had managed to scoop water in his palm, turned bewilderedly and announced to the amazed guardsman:
"Lukewarm, no more."
Rising, he wiped his hand on the hem of his black leather traveling doublet and swept his gaze over the valley. The stream snaked lower down the slope, flowing if not directly into the Bay of Crabs, then into the Trident or one of its tributaries also flowing from the mountains. Looking back in the opposite direction, Aegon saw that the swift stream took its source somewhere on the northern slopes. Suddenly something pricked him, an indistinct whisper rang out, resembling more the rustle of dragon wings, the scraping of scales on stones, than a voice speaking in any known language. A familiar premonition of something important pulled the Prince to the source.
"Ser Criston, remain here," he ordered. "Rhaenyra, without him—not a step from Syrax. Wait all three here so I do not have to search for you. Dennis, follow me."
With these words, Aegon clambered onto Vermithor's back again, who seemed to have sensed something too and now excitedly moved his head from side to side. Scarce having waited for his sworn shield, the Prince moved the saddle handles, and the dragon rose into the air. He flew low so as not to miss the place where the stream waters come to the surface, almost grazing the low green growth with his paws, but the closer they got to the mountains, the more the landscape changed: heather gave way to grass, but soon it too receded, and the stream, steaming more and more, ran and ran among the stones.
"Here!" shouted Dennis from over his shoulder and pointed somewhere to the side.
Following his hand with his gaze, Aegon saw the water flow expand and turn into a small lake. Vermithor, anticipating the rider's intentions, obediently sat on its shore. Descending from the saddle, the Prince touched the nearest boulder; it was warm, but hardly were sunbeams the cause. Led by the same unknown feeling that led him along the temple hill on the abandoned outskirts of Mantarys, he moved on, skirting piles of stones on the shore. Gradually the relief forced him and Dennis following on his heels to take more and more to the left, away from the reservoir and closer to the mountain slope. Aegon, remembering that there is nothing more treacherous than stones, stepped slowly, looking under his feet and carefully choosing a new support for cane and legs.
But then a warm wind coming from nowhere blew straight into his face, scattering silver strands escaped from the bun at the back of his head; his heart skipped a beat, and then raced in joyful premonition, and the Prince raised his gaze.
Right before them gaped the black maw of a cave. Wide and high, at first glance it yielded nothing to the caves on Dragonstone. Scarce had Aegon wondered if a dragon would fit into it, when stones crunched and hummed under Vermithor's paws. Warily drawing in air through a half-open maw, the Bronze Fury lingered, but then moved inside quite confidently.
"And what the Hell did he need in there?" inquired Dennis bewilderedly.
"Precisely Hell he needed," answered Aegon, looking after his dragon almost with loving tenderness.
"I beg pardon?"
"It is the spitting image of Dragonstone!"
"I do not see smoking mountains or lava fields."
"You are looking for the wrong thing!" waved the Prince off annoyedly. "The most important thing—it is here, before us."
"A cave?"
"A hot cave! If Vermithor liked it, then it means it is good enough for other dragons too."
Understanding of the scale of their accidental discovery gradually began to emerge on the sworn shield's face. Were there a floor under his feet, not motley stones, and were both his legs of equal length, Aegon would have started dancing for joy. Such an event could not be an accident. That means prayers were not in vain, and the gods truly led him here.
Aegon leaned his shoulder against the nearest boulder, and did not notice himself how his lips stretched into a smile. Well, of course, the growth of the number of dragons was restrained by the fact that they had only one place for nesting; here the internal heat of the earth, creeping to the very surface, should become a decent substitute for the fire of the Dragonmont. In the end, one can try: transfer a couple of eggs here and watch over them; even if there are mountain clansmen here, they are not scary with a dragon.
From the realization that here it is—the way out, the solution, and the answer, a wave of relief covered Aegon. The hand with the sword raised over him, the embodied irrational feeling of guilt for inaction and helplessness, dissipated without a trace, as befitted a delusion, giving way to confidence, calmness and... The Prince did not immediately manage to find the right word for the strangely pleasant feeling of lightness and inspiration that gave wings and from which one wanted to sing. To his own surprise, he discovered that the most suitable word would be "grace."
Definitely, it was worth composing a psalm in honor of this.
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