Prince Aegon Targaryen
The night was well past the hour of the bat, yet the King's chambers were as bright as day from dozens of candles and as hot as the Dornish desert from the roaring fireplace. Bright flames danced in its portal—a wide-open dragon's maw—and it felt as though Maegor's builders had truly imprisoned a flying giant within the Holdfast's walls, leaving only its head free.
"A bastard!" Viserys drawled in shock for the umpteenth time that evening, setting aside his empty goblet.
"You lament like a septa over lost virtue," Daemon snorted.
"If only it were still there," Aegon remarked.
"I had a suspicion that Daemon might pull something of this sort..." the eldest brother said.
"Am I truly so predictable? That stings."
"Of course you are predictable," the Prince swirled the dregs of wine in his cup and drained it in one gulp. "The prediction has already come to pass, has it not, my brother?"
Daemon grunted and shrugged indifferently. Cora Sand, the bastard sister of the Prince of Dorne, who had become something between a concubine, a hostage, and simply an expensive whore for the middle brother during the months of war on the Stepstones, had given birth to a little girl a month ago. For a time, the story was the main topic of court gossip, as everyone knew exactly for whom and why the Dornishwoman warmed her bed. After his betrothal to Rhaenyra, Daemon had lost interest in his mistress, and she, along with her charges and growing belly, had been left to her own devices in remote chambers of the Red Keep, forgotten by all save the guards assigned to the Martells.
The child was born a little early; the girl proved small and black-haired, like her mother. Daemon surely knew of his paternity, but it was said he did not visit the mother. Lady Cora named her daughter Clarissa, but her charges quickly nicknamed their little cousin Nettle—because of the red patches on her skin, the infant seemed to them as if whipped by stinging weeds. In the end, the Martells, legitimate and otherwise, were taken under the wing of the Queen herself: by her order, they were moved to more spacious rooms with south-facing windows, though still under guard. The courtiers considered this mercy and care, the Prince Hand saw it as dangerous folly, and Aegon himself deemed it the whim and emotion of a pregnant woman.
Despite the autumn and the winter stepping on its heels, House Targaryen was experiencing a new bloom under the Spring King. Alicent, who had only recently borne Viserys a son, now proudly carried their second child beneath her heart. Rhaenyra, determined to bear Daemon a son, was only a couple of months behind her former friend. Shortly before their flight to King's Landing, Maester Norbert, thoughtfully tugging at his gudgeon whiskers, had informed Aegon that Laena was also pregnant. But evidently, it was not enough for the gods to bless the Targaryens with legitimate children; they decided to unleash a torrent of bastards upon them...
"It has come to pass," Daemon agreed easily. "Only you beat me to it anyway."
"The gods themselves know not how many women you have already sampled. If even half of them conceived..."
"Quantity does not always equal quality, my brother. Even if I had a dozen bastards, they would not compare to yours."
"If he is truly mine," Aegon made a caveat.
"In any case, we shall know tomorrow," Viserys drew a line, gently cutting off the dispute. "If the weather permits, the ship will enter the Blackwater by supper tomorrow."
"Today already, my brother. And I would not count too much on the weather: dragons have to climb above the clouds to avoid flying through the storm, but ships have no such possibility."
"Now I begin to understand why Cousin Viserra refused to go with you," Daemon smirked. "If one knows you poorly, one might think you a bore."
"And if one knows you better, one can be convinced of it," the King chimed in.
The brothers laughed; Aegon smirked himself, giving due credit to the jest, but hastened to hide behind his cup, forgetting it was already empty. Filling the goblets for himself and Viserys again, the Prince leaned back in his chair and did not let the strained smile slip from his face.
"If I were truly a bore, we would not be sitting here now discussing the problem of a highborn bastard."
Viserys scratched his perpetually unshaven chin and pronounced profoundly:
"Well, it is in everyone's nature to do things they will later regret."
"I am ready to wager my crown—Uncle Vaegon had something like this too. Unrequited love, a bastard, or something of that sort."
"Say farewell to your crown," Aegon chuckled. "Uncle is convinced that one night with a woman is worth several unwritten pages of another scholarly tome. Indeed, that is why I am completely written off."
This time everyone laughed. It was impossible to imagine the Archmaester going to bed with anyone other than a dusty tome.
"By the by, what did the Sea Snake say to you?" Daemon inquired, having stifled his laughter.
"He balanced on the edge of offended honor and understanding," the Prince shrugged. "But one had only to remind him of port wives and the number of silver-haired cabin boys on Velaryon ships, and all questions fell away."
"Laenor once told that his father bedded the Empress of Leng. Who knows, perhaps a slant-eyed and white-haired child runs about her palace now?"
"Laenor himself is in no hurry to bed anyone," Aegon remarked. "Corlys has now set himself the goal of marrying him off before spring comes."
"With our winters, he need not hurry overly much," Viserys shook his head. "House Velaryon is numerous, of course, and extinction does not threaten them, but only Laenor has Rhaenys Targaryen for a mother. Do they have anyone in mind?"
"They are only looking so far, no one specific."
"I suppose they should look for someone from the maritime houses," the King began to reason. "The Arryns of Gulltown, the Manderlys, the Celtigars..."
"The Celtigars have only a couple of daughters of marriageable age, and both are ugly," Daemon objected. "One is bug-eyed as a cod, the other stocky as a crab. The Arryns are neither seagulls nor sheep, the Seven Hells (Peklo) know what they are."
"Actually, they are our kin," Viserys reminded him, stung. "Relatives of my wife, and yours, by the way."
"That is why I have the right to speak the truth about them."
"Corlys dislikes the Manderlys," the Prince added. "They do not let him expand freely in the ports of the Shivering Sea."
"Alicent could invite someone from the Hightowers or Redwynes to court," the King suggested, ignoring the grimacing Daemon. "In any case, there remain the Tarths and Estermonts; they are relatives after all."
"The gods know whom Corlys seeks," Aegon grimaced, taking another sip. "Let him choose whom he needs himself."
"Him? Or perhaps Laenor?"
"I fear Laenor's opinion is not considered in this matter. He himself would prefer not to marry at all."
"Is there truly no woman who would suit him?"
"There may be no woman, but Corlys will not wed his son to a man."
Viserys pursed his lips and peered into his goblet.
"I can understand Corlys," he said after a short pause. "Every father wants his son to grow up a worthy man, a brave knight, for his son to meet his expectations... You will understand this when you become fathers yourselves."
"We are already fathers, if you have forgotten, lekia," Daemon snorted. "Another matter that our children are bastards."
"Already a cause for disappointment," Aegon sighed.
The Prince drained the remaining wine in his cup in one gulp and, setting it aside near the nearly empty flagon, rose. His head buzzed from the drink, and lethargy and languor settled in his body. It seemed they had drunk more that evening than Aegon had imagined.
"Hurrying to your faithful wife's side?" the middle brother smirked.
"It would not hurt you to do the same."
"Pregnant women are capricious; I like not to fuss with them."
It did not escape Aegon how Viserys frowned at these words. Gods witness, his brother had doubts about this marriage, but he had twisted his own arm, giving them both a promise he could not fail to keep—he was not that sort of man. The words slipped from the Prince's tongue before the King could open his mouth:
"Rhaenyra is not Calla Karlaris, lekia. She is no fool, believe me; I took care that she did not grow up to be one. She will not tolerate from you the same neglect with which you rewarded both Rhea and Calla."
The smirk on Daemon's face grew wider and more vicious with every word.
"Before teaching me, deal with your own wife, valonqar. It is not I who must meet an old mistress with my own bastard in her arms tomorrow."
"You have already settled yours, have you not? Lest Vhagar repay you for all the numerous skirts you have lifted."
" The Lady of Retribution has too many cares to hold a candle for me."
Instead of answering, Aegon turned and walked out. He wanted to spit either at his feet or into the fireplace, but the Prince suppressed his irritation, and only when the door slammed behind him did he allow himself to curse.
"My Prince?"
Dennis, who had undoubtedly managed to doze off leaning against the wall, appeared beside him and offered a flask without a word. Aegon drank without looking; the water was very welcome. Nodding to the faceless Kingsguard, the Prince wandered down the corridor toward his chambers. A slight draft roamed the corridor—despite the weather, the semi-open galleries were in no hurry to be covered with carpets and tapestries—pleasantly chilling his skin, and the flames of the candles and lamps lighting the way danced their own dance, quite unlike the dance of the fire in the royal fireplace.
"Dragon's Heart is at least falling apart, but why do they tolerate drafts here?" Dennis grumbled. The sworn shield was surely chilled while waiting for his liege.
"So that the likes of me sober up faster," Aegon chuckled.
"As long as a man walks on his own two feet, he is, one might say, sober."
Instead of answering, the Prince struck his cane harder than usual on the stone flags, and the click flew down the empty corridor, while the Prince, miscalculating his step and twisting his crippled foot, nearly flew to the floor. The knight, barely managing to catch his liege, hastened to correct himself:
"Well, an extra prop sometimes does no harm."
For a time, they dragged along in silence, and thoughts in the Prince's head kept circling around two women. It was useless to think of preventing their meeting, but its possible consequences could not fail to trouble Aegon. Stopping on one of the landings to catch his breath, he uttered a drunken banality worthy of the late Runciter:
"Uncle Vaegon was right. All troubles come from women."
"There is a way to save oneself from them," Dennis reminded him. "Even several. The Citadel, a septry, the Night's Watch..."
"No, no vows!"
"Then there remains the method Ser Laenor uses."
"No, that is even worse," Aegon grimaced. His twisted ankle throbbed with pain; accursed heel, how had he managed... "And Laenor will not be able to run for long."
"You have not run particularly far either," the sworn shield chuckled.
He leaned against the wall, waiting for the Prince, and pursed his lips. Noticing this unspoken sign of a desire to say something, Aegon waved his hand impatiently, permitting him to begin.
"I know what they say of bastards, my Prince, that they are children of treachery and vice, that they themselves are traitors and base people. But... permit me to remind you, my Prince, that my grandfather's grandfather was also a bastard of dragon blood. And it was nothing, he grew up somehow and raised progeny who were not traitors."
"Your grandfather's grandfather was born of a chambermaid," Aegon reminded him scathingly. "Like all other bastards of dragon blood. But Viserra is no commoner."
"Merely a Volantene."
"Merely the daughter of her bitch mother and the granddaughter of her stubborn grandfather, which is worst of all."
"You confuse the mother and the child, my Prince. A worthy man may grow from him."
"Who would raise him, I wonder," the Prince grumbled and, not waiting for an answer, walked on, again leaning heavily on his cane as he had many years ago.
They made the rest of the way to Aegon's chambers in silence. The sworn shield led him deep into the rooms, saw to it that the servants took the luxurious gown of white brocade (Valyrian tunics were not very suitable for Westerosi autumns and winters, and the Prince was forced to return to Andal fashion), and put away the numerous rings, bracelets, and chains in their caskets, after which he briefly wished him a good night and returned to the antechamber. Throwing a patterned Pentoshi robe over his shoulders, Aegon, stepping barely audibly with bare feet on the thick carpet, entered the bedchamber. To his surprise, a light still burned there, and Laena was half-sitting in bed, propped up by pillows. Maester Gudgeon, having barely announced his wife's pregnancy, had suggested she move to separate chambers, saying it would be simpler, more convenient, and generally customary, for which he was sent to the Seven Hells (Peklo).
Aegon did not speak of it, but the resolve with which his spouse rejected this option warmed his soul: she would hardly have insisted had she truly been angry with him. After all, he was lucky with his wife: Laena did not throw tantrums or make a scandal for all of Dragon's Heart to hear, and they had discussed much that day. And yet the Prince felt that something had subtly changed, the charm and passion of the first weeks of marriage had gone somewhere. His spouse, though outwardly calm, was tense and collected, as if preparing for battle, and this could hardly be justified by the coming birth alone.
"Did I wake you?" he asked.
"No," Laena shook her head wearily. "I simply cannot sleep."
"Nor can we."
"I am sure your brothers have other reasons. What do they say?"
"They laugh," the Prince shrugged, approaching the bed. "Though they understand the problem perfectly well."
"I never thought a person could truly cause problems by their mere existence. They arrive only tomorrow, yet I have already said everything in my mind. Now I think, perhaps because of this I shall lack words at the meeting? Will the fire be gone?"
"Do not invent things," Aegon touched her cheek soothingly with his fingers, and a moment later she rubbed against his palm. "You will not have to say anything. I shall do everything myself. They will get nothing from me that is due to our children. Neither dragons, nor lands, nor titles."
"Do you think Viserra will yield so easily?" Laena drawled with mistrust.
"She will yield. They have nowhere to go; they hold only one lever of influence over me."
I wonder what their faces will be like when they realize it has broken?
"You are cruel, Prince. You destroy others' dreams."
"Several years ago, my dreams were destroyed too. As it turned out, it was simpler to build castles of sea foam, simpler and more reliable. In the end, it became the black stone of giant towers, and..."
"Aegon?"
"Yes?"
"You are drunk."
"Possibly," he answered evasively. "Not very much. My wicked brothers plied me with drink. If you wish, I shall go look for a spare bedchamber."
"That is, the remaining half of the bed does not suit you?" Laena asked mockingly.
"Well, since you insist..."
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