Prince Aegon Targaryen
The windows in the Crimson Hall, where kings were wont to grant private audiences to petitioners and guests, were ajar, but the autumn wind from the Blackwater could not dispel the oppressive heat that reigned in the chambers. Aegon rejoiced that he had decided to return to Valyrian tunics for the family council. Several layers of cotton shirts in the heated room yielded nearly the same result as a woolen gown, but in them, the Prince did not feel like a drowned rat, unlike Viserys. The King, by virtue of his station, was forced to sit with his back to the hearth, and all the heat went straight into his back, covered as it was by a mantle and velvet doublet. His brother diligently feigned that nothing troubled him, but now and then he pulled at his collar, vainly believing he did so unobserved. They dared not admit more air into the room—the numerous pregnant women feared to take a chill.
Surveying the hall, hung with scarlet draperies, Aegon thought with grim satisfaction that he had managed to gather the entire House Targaryen together once more. Aside from the royal couple and Daemon with Rhaenyra, Cousin Rhaenys with her husband and son had also been invited to this symbolic reunion of the family—after all, this touched upon their interests as well. Uncle Vaegon had resisted at first, but unconvincingly so, and quickly allowed himself to be persuaded. Now the Archmaester, in his grey robes and with a golden chain about his neck, sat in one of the armchairs by the window, surrounded by pillows like a piece of Yi Ti porcelain.
"Are you anxious?" Aegon asked him.
"On what grounds?" he retorted indignantly.
"I know not. I should be anxious before meeting a sister I had not seen for nigh on thirty years."
"I would have happily gone as long again without seeing her. Saera was ever a capricious manipulator."
"Did she manipulate you as well?" Laena inquired with a smile; she was nervous, to be sure, but hid it skillfully.
"Naturally. Once she snatched a book from me and vowed to return it for a kiss, and she was but eleven. I sent her to the Seven Hells (Peklo), of course, but the bitch took offense and cast the book into the fire! In the end, she made me out to be the guilty one, claiming I insulted her for naught."
Rhaenyra, standing beside the Archmaester, could not suppress a laugh, for which she earned a condemning glare from Alicent, though it went to waste.
"Impressive," the Princess admitted. "But why then did you come?"
"I could not deny myself the pleasure of looking upon her wrinkled face," Vaegon confessed with a penitent sigh.
"She is younger than you, Uncle," Aegon reminded him.
"Do not think to remind her of that."
In the interim, the door flew open, admitting Ser Harrold Westerling.
"Jaegaer Ilyleon, Lord of the Verge and Viceroy of Tyrosh, his mother, Princess Saera of House Targaryen, and his sister, Lady Viserra..."
Here the Lord Commander's courtly experience failed him—evidently, he did not understand to which house to attribute Viserra. It was hard not to notice the hesitation, but it was quickly lost against the background of those entering.
Jaegaer, in a white-and-gold doublet with a massive chain about his neck, looked like a born lord; his whitish brows, knit at the bridge of his nose, betrayed his anxiety. Surely the Lord of the Verge had already inwardly said farewell to friendship, position at court, office, and title. One could understand him: before this, he had enjoyed the patronage of all three cousins, and now, against his will, he had become black wings bearing black tidings, presenting his disgraced mother to the King.
His aunt, on the contrary, seemed a true queen of House Targaryen: she held her head, crowned with a pearl tiara, high; long strings of pearls hung from her neck, and her wrists were adorned with elegant bracelets woven as if from gold lace. Her black-and-red gown—neither Andal nor Volantene, designed to remind all of her origins—left open exactly as much as was necessary to emphasize the merits of a mature woman. The only change Aegon noticed was the barely perceptible web of wrinkles at her eyes, almost indistinguishable; others surely did not notice even that.
Unlike her mother, Viserra did without a coronet, but she had no need of one. The Prince frankly hoped that childbirth would have made her plain, as often happened to women, but he had to admit the obvious: his cousin was still devilishly comely. This realization was an unpleasant surprise and burned Aegon with a new wave of irritation and bile, mixed with a certain measure of shame. There was nothing reprehensible in acknowledging a strange woman's beauty, but to see such in a former mistress... This only picked at old scabs. Her violet dress, the color of her eyes, emphasized a figure that many noble maidens would envy. She had arranged her white-gold braids around her head; an elegant pendant with an amethyst hung on her neck, and in her arms...
In her arms, she held the boy who had become the cause of disputes, problems, and sleepless nights. Aegon did not know whom he expected to see: a small copy of himself? Someone resembling his brothers? Alicent's firstborn? It seemed to him that if this was his son—if this was truly his son—he should recognize him immediately, feel his own blood, hear the whisper of the gods, as had happened before. But nothing of the sort occurred.
A boy of about four years looked at the Prince with bright green eyes; like all children, he was chubby-cheeked and a little pale, but the latter could be attributed to excitement and the difficult journey that had ended only the day before. Who knows, mayhaps he is always like that? The child pressed fearfully against his mother, clutching the silver chain of her pendant with one hand.
"My Sovereign, I am happy to present to you my mother, Princess Saera of House Targaryen, my sister Viserra, and her son Aerion," Jaegaer pronounced with a bow; his voice rang in the silence of the chambers, shattering the illusion of frozen time.
The fugitive princess took several steps forward and sank slowly before the seated royal couple in a deep curtsy, her back perfectly straight. Behind her, Viserra attempted to perform something similar, but with a child in her arms, it came out far less elegantly than her mother's.
"It is a great honor and joy for us to welcome the King of the Seven Kingdoms," his aunt said, not raising her eyes from the floor.
"We are always glad to see our kin," Viserys spoke with his accustomed benevolent mask of a smile. "Rise, I pray you."
There followed a wary ceremony of greetings and introductions, the burden of which Jaegaer stoically took upon himself. The newcomers were unacquainted with Daemon and Rhaenyra; his aunt smiled at Aegon affectionately and somewhat maternally, which made the Prince shudder, while he barely nodded to his cousin, trying not to look at the child. A chill of dislike radiated from the Velaryons for a league around, but Saera seemed not to care. At the sight of Vaegon, Saera smiled as broadly as possible, feigning sincere joy so skillfully that one might have believed her, and, stretching out her hands to her brother, stepped toward his chair:
"Vaegon, my old bookish brother!"
"Saera, my old whore of a sister!" the Archmaester replied in the same tone. The former Triarch was not embarrassed by such a greeting, but the Queen nearly choked with indignation—she had never grown accustomed to the company of her husband's uncle.
"You have not changed a whit, Vaegon. Still foul-mouthed as ever."
"But you have changed greatly. Are those wrinkles?"
"You have gone quite blind from your books; let your brethren give you a Myrish lens," Saera snorted.
"Enough!" Viserys raised his voice. "Gods, it is simply astounding... To not see each other for so many years and start a quarrel at once! It is no wonder one fled to the Citadel and the other across the Narrow Sea."
"I fled nowhere," the uncle mumbled under his breath, not daring, however, to repeat it louder.
"To what do we owe such... unexpected visit?" inquired Alicent, having managed to master her emotions.
"To rather tragic circumstances, Your Grace," Saera said sadly. "Not to burden you with the long history of my life in the Free Cities, I can say that in Volantis I was betrayed by those I deemed allies; all the Old Blood turned against my family, and we were forced to flee first to the Orange Shore, then to Lys, and thence to Tyrosh."
"We know a slightly different tale," Daemon remarked. "First, you, Aunt, threw your own son out of your house."
"Everything I did, my Lord Hand, I did to save my children. So do all mothers, if there is but a drop of love for their children in them. Perchance from the outside it looks cruel, but in that moment, it was the only way to protect Jaegaer."
The cousin remained silent at this explanation and even remained outwardly calm, save for a nervous twitch of his cheek at the mention of "love for children." Aegon remembered his aunt's words, when she had not been ashamed to declare to her eldest son that she loved poor Maerys more. It was surprising that Jaegaer had let his mother across his threshold at all after that; the Prince himself would not have humiliated himself so. On the other hand, it was unlikely Princess Alyssa would have brought matters to such a pass; if his brothers were to be believed, she was a far better mother than her sister.
"A most worthy deed," Alicent nodded, a shadow of if not affection, then understanding appearing in her voice. "That does you honor."
At that moment, Uncle Vaegon choked and broke into a coughing fit, and all eyes converged on the grey figure of the Archmaester. Having cleared his throat somehow, he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief fished from his sleeve and announced in the most venomous tone:
"Fear the Seven, Your Grace, what honor? My sister lost hers at seventeen and has not seen it since!"
Ignoring his barb, Saera answered the Queen as if nothing had happened:
"Any woman in my place would have done the same, Your Grace. In a certain sense, for this same reason, Viserra and I stand before you now."
There was no need to explain what she meant, but Aegon, out of abstract maesterly interest, was curious what expressions his aunt would choose. It was one thing to call oneself a whore, and quite another to speak thus of one's own daughter. However, instead of explaining everything herself, Saera chose to step aside, allowing Viserra forward, who for the first time stepped out from behind her mother's back and shadow.
"Your Grace, this is Aerion, my son," she announced with pride, displaying the child like a banner. "Mine and Prince Aegon's."
How simple it all turned out to be. The words sounded neither like the funeral toll of the Royal Sept nor like a sentence. Aegon looked again at the boy, who frowned anxiously under the gazes of the royal couple. Did he understand what sort of people sat before him? He probably should; Saera would have taken care to explain to the child, upon whom their future depended, how to behave. At least he threw no tantrums.
For the last few weeks, since the day the raven brought that ill-fated letter, the Prince, at Laena's prompting, had assumed the worst, but now he saw no confirmation of it. Could it be that this was truly his son?
Aegon shifted his gaze to Viserra. His cousin looked straight at him with defiance, stubbornness, and dragon resolve. She must have understood that nothing shone for her now—neither marriage nor the status of a favorite—but Viserra pushed forward so blatantly that it was infuriating.
"What makes you think this is my son?" he said coldly, and his own voice seemed alien to him. The image of his grandfather at the table in the Small Council chamber floated in his memory; he had no wish to compare himself to the stubborn Old King.
"In those days, there was only one man in my bed, and that was you," the mask of the offended woman suited Viserra, of course, but she was far from her mother's mastery.
"Yes," Aegon did not deny. "But we shared a bed for more than a month, and I noticed no signs of my impending fatherhood."
"It could have happened in the last times!"
"Or it could have happened after. How am I to know in whose arms you sought solace when your mother showed me the door? Are there few eyks (lords) in Volantis who resemble me? Offhand I can recall the heir of the Lentarises. Gods, you had no need even to seek anyone! How many bed slaves do you have, Aunt?"
"What a low opinion you have of yourself, Aegon, if you think a bed slave can replace you," his cousin hissed.
"It speaks volumes about you as well, sweet cousin. The gods alone know how many men were in your bed before me and how many after. How am I to know that you conceived by me? Does your son have white hair? So do you; in Volantis, that surprises no one. Eyes? Mayhaps after me you desired only green-eyed men. Of course, it is unlikely they were lame; such are not favored in brothels, are they? At least, not in yours."
Dragon fire flared in Viserra's violet eyes, and she opened her mouth to object, to take offense, to heap curses upon him, when suddenly the King spoke:
"So what is it you want?"
Everyone knew the answer to this question, but it was necessary for Viserra to say it herself. Adjusting Aerion, who had slipped down and tried to slip out of his mother's tenacious hands during the argument, she declared:
"I want my son recognized. Yes, let him be born out of wedlock, but he is of the blood of the Dragon, as you love to say."
"Recognized or legitimized?" the uncle clarified in a businesslike manner. "These are different things."
"Recognized and legitimized. Aerion is the firstborn son, and he has the right..."
"He has no right to anything," Aegon cut her off, raising his voice. "He is no son of mine and never shall be."
Viserys shifted in his chair and frowned in displeasure. Yes, before this they had not spoken of whether the youngest brother would acknowledge his bastard or not—the very fact of his existence overshadowed everything; however, now the King had to make some decision when both sides insisted on their own. Saera noticed the indecision on his face and rushed to her crowned nephew:
"My Sovereign, you are our only hope. More than twenty years ago I left my native home behind; now my daughter has had to endure the same. In memory of your grandfather and my father, I beg you: do not remain indifferent to the fate of his great-grandson."
Alicent cast a glance at her husband, who was still hesitating, and touching his hand, asked:
"We shall not turn them out, shall we? Where will they go with a child in arms?"
"To the Street of Silk, naturally," Daemon shrugged.
"Is that what the Faith teaches?" the Queen continued to persuade her husband. "It is said in the Seven-Pointed Star: be merciful, as the Father Above is merciful. A king who denies mercy rules unjustly."
"I do not intend to drive them into Flea Bottom," Viserys threw out with slight irritation and, freeing his hand from his wife's soft grip, rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. "I am trying to settle the matter with justice. Aegon, do you admit that this is your son?"
"No. I do not know that this is my son, and I cannot know it."
The words flew easily from his tongue. One way or another, he had been leaning toward such an answer in recent days: the bastard, regardless of whether he was his or not, was a threat to his family, his current, real family, a threat to his future children, in whose origin there was no doubt. finding himself face to face with Viserra again, Aegon saw not the lost opportunities he had feared, but only a trap into which his greedy, self-absorbed cousin was trying to catch him, but which, by the grace of Meraxes, he had managed to avoid. The legend invented by the former gela proved so poorly tailored that none of those present fell for it.
"Sire, Aerion is in any case a great-grandson of King Jaehaerys," the aunt grasped at her father's name as a drowning man grasps at any straw that might keep him afloat.
"Aerion is in any case born out of wedlock," Alicent reminded them, either catching how Viserys's mood had changed or continuing to bend some separate line of her own.
"Lord Jaegaer is too, but that did not prevent him from becoming our faithful friend and comrade-in-arms," Daemon stood up for his cousin.
"We always have need of such men," the King nodded.
"What will our court turn into if we welcome and nurture every bastard?" the Queen said, and Aegon barely suppressed a smirk. Look at that, she knows such a word after all, though she tried so deftly to avoid it at first. "Such children are witnesses to their mother's dishonor and their father's vice. If they think not of their souls, let him pray away their sins."
"You propose to give him to the Faith?" Viserys's eyebrows shot up, and his surprise was shared to one degree or another by everyone. Even the Velaryons seemed puzzled, and judging by the expression on Laenor's face, his brother-in-law was pondering his own sins perhaps for the first time in his life.
"Yes," Alicent nodded. "On the Roseroad there is a septry; the Brown Brothers of the Smith will be happy to accept another ward and novice."
"Are those the ones who beg along the roads?" the Archmaester clarified. "I never liked beggars."
"No, it is a good house; its Elder Brother is a cousin of Lord Tyrell..."
"Oh, the Queen's magnanimity knows no bounds," Saera allowed herself a faint smile. "We shall accept this offer with gratitude. Moreover, I myself shall carry Aerion to these... Brown Brothers, if Your Grace does the same with your own son."
Aegon, familiar with his aunt's methods, did not buy the feigned submissiveness with which she began to speak, and her counter-offer—a veiled suggestion to go to the Seven Hells—did not surprise him, but as for the others... For a few moments, silence reigned in the solar, and then Alicent, from whose face the blood had drained, hissed no worse than a Dornish viper:
"How dare..."
However, Viserys did not let her finish the phrase; chuckling, he said:
"Well, a septry is too much. Our grandfather, of course, gave children to the Faith, but he did not always act wisely, is that not so, Aegon?"
"True," the Prince nodded.
Not all the Old King's decisions could be called wise, and the tonsuring of Aunt Maegelle for the sake of mere symbolism was no better than the principled prohibition on having a dragon with which Jaehaerys "shielded" Aegon from danger. Meanwhile, Viserys returned to the pressing question:
"Well, since neither the septry nor recognition threatens us now, there remains one way out. Jaegaer, is this child truly your nephew?"
"Whoever his father may be, he is still my sister's son, Sire," the Lord of the Verge replied.
"In that case, we recognize Aerion Waters as the nephew of Lord Jaegaer Ilyleon, with all rights flowing from blood kinship, including inheritance. The boy, along with his mother, shall receive the right to this surname. To Lord Jaegaer we also grant the right to be styled a Lord of Dragon Blood, as a sign of his descent from the blood of Old Valyria."
"Rather as compensation for a couple of extra mouths," Uncle Vaegon mumbled.
"And what of me, Sire?"
Naturally, Aunt Saera could not stand aside and remain silent when rights and titles were being distributed all around.
"King Jaehaerys did not strip you of the title of Princess, did he?" Aegon and his uncle shook their heads almost in unison. "I have even less reason to take it from you. You may remain at court; I think you will be interested to see how King's Landing has changed over these years, or you may go with the children to Tyrosh... In any case, the Queen and I shall be glad to have you."
It did not escape Aegon how Viserys cut himself off at the mention of Tyrosh. Surely he wanted to offer Dragonstone as well, but realized himself what that threatened. However much he prattled about family feelings, offering his aunt a visit to the hatchery was fraught with danger—she was capable of spitting on her father's ashes and finding a dragon if not for herself, then for her daughter or grandson. No, no, that could not be allowed. Now the offer to remain at court looked like a masked order, and Saera, naturally, understood what answer was expected of her.
"Your Grace's generosity is like the light of the summer sun illuminating us in the morning, and your mercy is akin to the warmth of its rays," the former Old Blood either consciously chose not to shed her Volantene poetic allusions or could not root out the ingrained habit of flattering epithets. Viserys beamed in a satisfied smile—his brother always loved when people spoke well of him, especially if he was praised for a cause.
"I thank you, Your Grace," Viserra, purse-lipped, was clearly disappointed with the outcome, but forced herself to sound sincere and performed an awkward curtsy again.
"We would like to hear an account of the state of affairs in Volantis after the war, Aunt," the King added. "I am sure the Small Council will be interested in the details of how our ally lives."
"That would be most opportune," Daemon nodded. "We shall send for you. And for now, since Jaegaer is here, and Aegon, and Lord Corlys, we might discuss the situation of the Essosi lands of Tyrosh. You do not object, my brother?"
"Would it not be better to leave this until the Council session? I am sure Lord Tyland will have something to say."
"I doubt it not in the slightest, but I would like to discuss a few matters of principle first."
"Well, since you insist... Pray excuse us, my ladies; affairs of state refuse to wait."
Saera and Viserra were the first to leave the Crimson Hall; passing Ser Harrold, the cousin turned and cast a look full of malice at Aegon. Obviously, she had counted on a different outcome to the sweet family reunion, but perhaps this was the only one she deserved. The Prince withstood her gaze calmly, and then turned to his wife.
Laena, who had not uttered a word throughout the entire meeting, relaxed noticeably as soon as her rival left the room; the tension and paralyzing nervousness that had not let her go in recent days receded. She raised her lilac eyes to him, and the Prince knew he had done everything right. He had experienced no particular torment over his decision before, and now he understood that he would have done even more, just to see his wife happy and confident in the morrow again.
Laena touched her lips to his cheek, and then whispered in his ear:
"Thank you," and added a little louder. "I am weary, I shall go and lie down."
"Of course."
She walked out arm in arm with Rhaenyra, following her mother, who smiled approvingly at her son-in-law, and Alicent, who supported her protruding belly with her hands.
"Did you truly wish to discuss business, or did you want to drink again?" Aegon inquired of his brother when the Commander of the Kingsguard closed the door behind them.
"Both."
. . . . . .
In the evening, returning to his chambers, the Prince found his wife sitting before a Myrish mirror. Alys, that same illegitimate daughter of Lord Lyonel, raised from maid to the high station of chambermaid at Laena's wish, was methodically combing her mistress's damp silver curls, deftly wielding a tortoise-shell comb. Curtsying to her liege lord, she exchanged a strange glance with the sworn shield and returned to her task.
"Did nothing seem strange to you today?" Laena asked while Dennis stripped one tunic after another from his liege. "The child did not cry once, nor did he say a word."
"He seems old enough not to cry with or without cause," Aegon shrugged.
"Yes, but still... Children of four years do not behave so. Laenor, for instance, was terribly chatty—we knew not where to hide. Father and I would flee, while Mother and Grandmother listened, though they understood scarcely half."
"If I may, my lady..." Alys interjected and, receiving an approving nod, continued: "It is different with all children. Some begin to run sooner but stay silent; others crawl but prattle so you cannot stop them. Of course, the child could have been given something to drink, so he would not interfere..."
"No, that would have been visible," Aegon shook his head. "Uncle and I would have noticed."
"Perchance he simply has nothing to say. It means the time has not yet come."
The Prince frowned and, allowing Dennis to throw a robe over his shoulders, began to unbraid his own hair. Aerion's silence was indeed strange, but it could be explained by stress and nervous strain. Some were lost among unfamiliar adults, some began to sob, but he turned out to be a silent one. One could only hope this silence would not come back to haunt them later.
Lost in his own thoughts, Aegon missed Laena's question, something about Dragon's Heart when it was still called Harrenhal, but fortunately, he was not the one being asked.
"...too much, my lady," Alys answered. "A castle like any other, only very large. I was with Lady Bethany at Whitewalls—it is the same there. Walls, towers, a godswood..."
"Is it true that ghosts haunted Harrenhal?"
"I do not know, my lady; I have not seen them. Though in the kitchens they said that every lord who died within these walls knows no peace after death, and at night they walk the towers, especially often on the bridge between the Widow's Tower and the Kingspyre. Though the Strongs were not seen: Lord Bywin died as a guest, Lord Brynden on a hunt, and Lord Lyonel here. But Mia, that is a washerwoman, my lady, swears she once saw Lord Maegor Towers on the stairs of the Widow's Tower."
"And they believe her?" the knight chuckled. Dennis was putting away the Prince's rings and pins in caskets, but now and then he glanced at the chambermaid, listening to her almost more attentively than to his masters.
"Some believe, ser, but I do not."
"So what, this washerwoman lies?"
"Of course, ser. Everyone knows that Lord Maegor went to the Widow's Tower not by the stairs, but by that bridge."
"Why did he go there at all?" the sworn shield was surprised. " The master's chambers are in the Kingspyre."
"Queen Rhaena lived in the Widow's Tower," Aegon explained. "Fitting dwelling for a woman who outlived three husbands."
"Yes, my Prince," Alys responded. "Only, they say, she behaved not like a widow. Ser Simon's old batman, Chett, the dead man, loved to tell how the Queen took him into service as a boy, and his mother, as he said, changed sheets in the Widow's Tower. And she told him that Lord Maegor himself lay on those sheets and pleasured the Queen."
"How little I know of my own family," Aegon chuckled.
"They say the last Lord Towers died when returning to the Kingspyre—fell from the bridge."
"Maester Gudgeon says he fell from the stairs."
"Our Gudgeon was maester even in those days—you will not get the truth from him, my Prince," Alys explained. "He will cover for the late lord, though everyone knows how he groveled before the Queen."
"Why is nothing known of this?" Laena wondered.
"While the Queen was alive, everyone kept silent: who bites the hand that feeds? And then... Her Grace was kind to servants, and the gods love not when the memory of benefactors is blackened. So, they gossiped among themselves, of course, but kept silent before strangers."
"But Queen Rhaena had a court, small, but still such things could not go unnoticed..."
The chambermaid merely shrugged in response, either not knowing the answer to this question or not wishing to answer. Finishing with her mistress's hair, she critically examined the result of her labors and nodded satisfied to herself.
"Anything else, my lady?"
"No, thank you, Alys, you may go."
"Good night, my lady, my Prince."
Lord Strong's bastard curtsied and slipped past the sworn shield frozen at the exit, as if accidentally brushing him with the sleeve of her dress. The knight followed her with a hungry gaze.
"You are free too, Dennis."
"If you hurry, you might catch her by the godswood," Laena added with a smirk.
To the sworn shield's credit, it must be said that if his mistress's barb embarrassed him, he gave no sign.
"Good night, my Prince, my lady."
As soon as the door closed behind the knight, Aegon stretched his legs in the armchair with a relieved exhale and rubbed his face vigorously, trying to chase away the accustomed masks he had been forced to keep until the very evening. Today had been too much. Even when the small family council came to an end, the five of them did not immediately move on to Tyroshi affairs, discussing the audacity of the aunt and her daughter.
"Is this mad day truly over?" he muttered wearily.
"Not yet, my husband."
The Prince opened one eye and stared at his wife in bewilderment. Looking at him through the mirror, she smiled slyly and inquired:
"Confess: did you defend the rights of our children so zealously today out of love for me or out of your grudges against your cousin?"
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