- 25 AC -
The 'stable' in which Smaug was kept had once been a storehouse beneath the eastern wall of Aegonfort. Most of its roof had been removed so the dragon could see the sky, while the remaining few walls protected him from the wind coming off Blackwater Bay. Black sand covered the floor, warmed from beneath by channels carrying heat from several coal fires.
Compared with Balerion, Vhagar and Quicksilver, Smaug was still small. He was barely larger than a big bull, though his long neck and heavier tail made him appear larger when fully stretched out.
The dragonkeepers considered Smaug stunted, and if there were more Targaryens and dragons around, some might make fun of Smaug's stature.
Some believed the strange arrangement of four legs and a separate pair of wings had placed too great a burden upon his body. Others whispered that he had been born malformed and would eventually die from whatever mistake in blood or sorcery had created him.
Arlen had heard all of those rumours.
He had fed these creatures for nearly three years and had never seen anything to disprove them. Smaug ate, slept, scratched furrows into the stone and occasionally burned whatever came too close. He seemed more lazy than the other dragons, perhaps, and while Maegor said he was smart, Smaug had never grown large enough to inspire the same terror as Vhagar or the Black Dread, or even Quicksilver.
That was what Arlen told himself as he entered the chamber, pushing a wooden cart loaded with big pieces of meat.
"Meal for you, little dragon," he called in Valyrian.
The words came out more weakly than he intended today.
Smaug lay curled near the far wall with his head resting between his forelegs. His wings were folded tightly against his back, and his tail curved around his body. Dark red scales covered him, growing almost black along his spine.
His eyes were closed, but Arlen could hear the deep breaths the creature took every once in a while. He stopped several paces inside the entrance.
He had brought four heavy pieces of mutton: two legs, half a shoulder and a thick section cut from the belly. Without the cart, the meat would have been difficult for an ordinary man to carry.
"There now," Arlen continued. "Fresh from the butcher. Better eating than most men in Flea Bottom will have this moon."
Smaug did not move.
Arlen looked over his shoulder. The iron-banded door remained open behind him. Two guards waited beyond the outer passage, but neither could see into the chamber from where they stood.
He swallowed and moved forward, slowly so as not to surprise the dragon and get killed.
One of Smaug's eyes opened.
The pupil narrowed into a vertical black slit surrounded by bright yellow. It fixed upon Arlen without blinking.
Arlen failed to notice at first. He pushed the cart deeper into the chamber, keeping his movements slow and predictable. Sudden movements around dragons were dangerous, even with one as small as Smaug.
The wheel caught in the black sand.
Arlen cursed beneath his breath and pushed harder until it rolled free. He stopped several paces from the dragon and lifted the first leg of mutton from the cart with both hands.
The yellow eye followed him.
Arlen dropped the meat onto the sand. The second leg followed, then the shoulder and the thick cut from the belly. Blood darkened the ground beneath them.
The dragon raised his head from between his forelegs. His neck uncurled slowly, allowing him to look down at the meat and then at the man who had brought it.
Arlen stepped away from the cart, sweating.
Something about Smaug's gaze made him uncomfortable. The dragon was not looking at the food with the usual hunger Arlen had seen in the other beasts. His yellow eyes moved from one piece to the next, lingering upon each before returning to Arlen.
It looked almost as though he were thinking, making Arlen even more nervous.
Arlen reminded himself that Smaug was only a dragon, and a stunted one at that. Prince Maegor claimed otherwise, but every dragonrider believed his dragon more intelligent than the rest.
Arlen bowed as deeply as he could, trying to show the dragon that he wasn't any danger.
Smaug rose onto all four legs. He stretched his wings once, the leathery appendages briefly filling the remaining space. Then he approached the meat.
Arlen withdrew another step, slowly moving towards the exit, while watching Smaug.
The dragon lowered his head and smelled the first leg of mutton. His nostrils widened. A faint growl vibrated through his chest, so low that Arlen felt it through the soles of his boots.
For a moment, Smaug looked directly at him again.
Arlen's heart beat faster.
Then the dragon turned back to the meat. His chest expanded, and a narrow stream of orange fire erupted from his jaw.
The flames washed across the four pieces of mutton. Fat hissed and caught fire, while skin blackened and split beneath the heat. The smell of cooked flesh filled the area, overpowering the blood, coal and sulphur.
Arlen raised an arm to shield his face and took another step back.
Smaug's flames were still far weaker than those of the grown dragons, in Arlen's opinion. He wondered what might have become of him in the future.
Finally, the fire stopped. Smoke drifted from the meat, revealing an overcooked set.
The dragon approached the largest leg.
The outside had been charred, but the meat in the middle remained relatively intact. Hidden deeply inside the flesh, protected from the worst of the dragonfire by layers of muscle, several dark purple crystals had melted into the blood.
After what felt like ages, Smaug finally bit into the first piece of meat. He tore away half the leg and swallowed it almost whole. The remaining piece disappeared in a second bite. He moved to the shoulder next, pinning it beneath one claw while ripping strips of flesh free.
Arlen released a breath he had not realised he was holding. Finally, he thought to himself, the dragon was eating. If he weren't, he'd most definitely lose his job. He took another step backwards.
Smaug swallowed another mouthful. Then... he suddenly stopped.
...
His jaws remained partly open. A piece of blackened flesh fell from between his teeth and landed upon the sand. The dragon's throat moved.
Once... and then twice.
Smaug lowered his head as if trying to force down something caught inside him. His claws pressed into the ground, gouging deep cuts into the stone beneath.
Smaug tried to breathe, but only a strained rasp escaped him.
His throat contracted again, the red-black scales along his neck pulling tightly against the muscle beneath. His eyes widened, and his pupils narrowed until they were little more than black lines.
Arlen had reached the entrance finally.
Smaug opened his jaws, but no flames came out; no roar could be heard. A horrible choking sound echoed through the place. Smoke leaked weakly from the corners of the dragon's mouth, but he could draw no air into his lungs.
The dragon staggered.
His shoulder struck the wooden cart and shattered one of its wheels. Meat and splintered wood scattered across the sand.
Arlen backed away.
Smaug's tail lashed behind him, striking the stone wall hard enough to crack it. His four legs buckled, and his body hit the ground with enough force to shake dust from the remaining roof.
The dragon's yellow eyes found Arlen. For the first time, the nervous feeder saw something within them that finally calmed him down. He was about to die...
"A lesson... for the cunt prince."
Arlen turned around.
.
The wedding feast began shortly after midday and grew louder with every opened wine cask.
Long tables filled Aegonfort's great hall. Swans roasted in their plumage occupied places of honour beside boars glazed in honey, lamprey pies, buttered turnips, black bread, soft cheeses and bowls of summer fruit. Minstrels from Oldtown competed with singers from Driftmark, while fools tumbled between tables and somehow avoided the dogs fighting over bones beneath them.
The seating had been arranged carefully.
King Aegon sat in the centre of the high table. Visenya occupied the place at his right, with Maegor and his bride beside her. Prince Aenys sat to Aegon's left with Alyssa Velaryon, followed by Lord Martyn, Morgan and the High Septon. The rest of the nobles sat around the large hall.
Aegon drank little. He had learned during the negotiations that every cup made Morgan Hightower braver and Maegor less content with the situation. He intended to let nothing happen today.
For the first hour, the peace held.
Ceryse played her role as bride of the dragon flawlessly. She thanked those who offered congratulations, accepted gifts, and listened to tasteless jokes about men and battle without showing discomfort. If she hated the man beside her, she concealed it beneath twenty-three years of courtly education and pride.
Maegor made less effort. He didn't need to.
Unlike what was rumoured, Maegor wasn't antisocial. On the contrary, he was quite amicable to those whom he liked. The problem was, he liked almost no one. The reason for this was quite simple.
He knew he had always been different, but he didn't realise why. All he knew was that as time passed and he trained and grew stronger, he seemed to change more.
At first it was the increased bloodlust and battlelust. Then it was the fact that he could see blue ghosts or images of the people he looked at. It took him a while to realise those were predictions of the movements the person would make.
But that wasn't the end of it. Quite recently, his senses or vision or whatever improved yet again and he managed to see through skin. He could see the musculature of every human around.
Maegor could quite literally see or hear lies as they were told to him. Lies and plots were omnipresent. There were very few people Maegor truly enjoyed or even tolerated spending time with.
He ate and drank, and was ignored by most of those who attended the wedding feast. His attention constantly wandered across the hall, studying doors, servants, nobles, cups, hands, and faces.
Visenya noticed.
"What do you see?" she asked in High Valyrian.
"Everything," he answered.
Visenya rolled her eyes at his dramatic answer. Ceryse glanced toward them and smiled, which didn't reach her eyes.
"Is it customary for a husband to speak in a tongue his wife does not understand?"
"It is customary for a Targaryen's wife to learn High Valyrian," Visenya said.
"Then I shall."
The answer was sensible, proud and exactly what Ceryse Hightower would have said. Visenya liked her more for it. One could say a few things of the Reach and the Hightowers, but not that Ceryse wasn't a strong woman, and that was a woman after her heart.
At the lower tables, the court watched Maegor whenever its members thought he would not see. Ceryse noticed that as well. A flash of irritation passed across her face.
Maegor caught a young lord staring and held his gaze until the man looked down.
"Must you?" Ceryse asked.
"I did nothing."
"Yet that was already sufficient to worsen the rumours."
For the first time, Maegor laughed.
It was a low, brief sound, but it loosened some of the tension around the hall. Men took it as proof that the Prince had accepted the marriage. Women took it as proof that he could be charming when he wished, because no matter what was said about him, he was unbelievable eye candy.
Aegon took it as a hopeful sign. Only Visenya didn't seem to like it.
The final course arrived after hours had passed: lemon cakes, honeyed peaches, little pastries filled with cream and a great seven-layered confection from Oldtown shaped like the Hightower itself.
Servants began refilling cups for the toasts.
Aegon rose to give a short speech as was required of him. The hall quieted and looked at the King.
"Two moons ago, blood divided the houses gathered here," he said. "Today, blood joins them. Let no man mistake peace for forgotten grief, nor grief for permission to shatter the King's Peace. House Targaryen and House Hightower leave this hall as kin. May what we build together outlive all those who sought to divide us."
He raised his cup.
"To Maegor and Ceryse Targaryen."
Hundreds of voices answered him.
"To Maegor and Ceryse Targaryen!"
The bride reached for the silver flagon before the servant behind her could move. She shooed the servant away with a wave of her hand.
"Allow me," she said. "A wife should pour her husband's first wedding cup. Not that this was the first, of course."
It was a small gesture, graceful and planned. The High Septon smiled. Martyn looked relieved, and Aegon nodded his approval. Maegor looked amused for some reason, while Ceryse poured.
Dark red wine streamed into Maegor's goblet. He lifted the cup, thanked his lady-wife and drank the wine.
"To my wife," he said.
She refilled it, and he drank deeply.
...
For two heartbeats, nothing happened. On the third, Maegor stopped drinking.
His throat started to close, and the muscles felt like ropes beneath his skin. The silver goblet fell from his hand and struck the table, spilling purple-dark wine across the black cloth.
Maegor staggered to his feet, holding his throat. The bench crashed backwards.
Aegon turned at the sound. He saw his son's eyes widen in surprise, saw one massive hand close around his own throat and watched colour leave his face slowly.
"Maegor?" Visenya asked.
Maegor tried to draw breath. Nothing passed through his clenched windpipe. The pressure in his neck increased as his body fought the poison, every muscle pulling against each other.
"Poison!!"
Men shouted, women started to scream. Somewhere, something broke.
Maegor struck the table with one hand, which, as people assumed, was fear, but was actually annoyance. He tensed all the muscles in his neck, making them look like steel cables and pressing the blood vessels out.
Plates shattered, and the silver goblet rolled off the cloth and onto the floor.
His other arm rose.
For an instant, Visenya thought he meant to point at Ceryse. Instead, Maegor's trembling finger followed the goblet as it rolled beneath the table.
The cup.
His eyes fixed upon it as he fell.
The edge of the table split beneath his strike earlier, sending dishes, food and wine exploding across the floor. Visenya was moving before anyone else. She vaulted over the broken table, landed beside him and rolled him onto his back.
"Maegor!"
His lips and throat had begun to turn purple, and it looked like a strange, eerie net of poison was spreading across his skin.
Grand Maester Gawen hurried from the lower table, scattering servants. He dropped to his knees, touched Maegor's throat and recoiled from the hardness of the contracted muscles.
"His windpipe is shut. Hold him!"
"Do something," Visenya snarled.
"I need my chest. Reeds, a Valyrian knife and vinegar. Now!"
One of his assistants ran.
Visenya looked back toward the fallen goblet. Purple wine spread across the rushes around it, darker than the red that remained within the flagon.
"The cup," she said.
Gawen did not look away from Maegor.
"What?"
"He pointed at the cup."
Aegon stepped down from the high table and stared at the spilt wine.
Visenya followed the line from the goblet to the silver flagon still resting upon the table.
Then she looked toward the woman who had poured it.
Ceryse's chair stood empty, she realised. Visenya's expression changed as an idea settled in her mind.
"Where is she?"
No one answered, confused about what she was talking about.
The hall had become a mass of overturned benches, frightened servants and nobles struggling to move away from the dying Prince.
Men pushed toward the doors while guards forced them back. The minstrels had abandoned their instruments. One of the fools hid beneath a table.
Ceryse was nowhere among them.
Visenya rose halfway from Maegor's side, searching the confusion.
"Where is Ceryse?"
Martyn Hightower turned toward his sister's abandoned chair.
Morgan looked behind him, then toward the nearest doorway.
"She was here," Martyn said.
"She poured his wine," Visenya replied.
Her angry voice rose above the panic.
"WHERE IS SHE?"
Aegon's gaze was fixed upon the empty chair. Ceryse's napkin lay upon the table beside her unfinished cup. The Targaryen cloak Maegor had placed around her shoulders earlier that day was still there.
"She cannot have gone far," the High Septon said. "The girl is frightened. She has witnessed her husband--"
"Her husband whom she just poisoned!" Visenya shouted.
"You have no proof of that!" Martyn shouted in desperation and anger.
Visenya pointed toward the purple wine spreading around the fallen goblet.
"She poured the cup, and now she has disappeared."
The High Septon opened his mouth but found no answer. This was bad. They had to find her immediately, or things would get very ugly indeed.
"Bar the doors," Aegon commanded.
The Kingsguard obeyed immediately. The Heavy doors slammed shut at both ends of the hall. Guards lowered their spears and drove back everyone attempting to leave, more vigorously than before.
"No one leaves Aegonfort," Aegon continued. "Close the city gates and send men to the harbour. Search every chamber, cellar, kitchen and passage. Find Lady Ceryse."
Lord Morgan stood up quickly from his seat.
"I will find my sister."
Ser Corlys Velaryon, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, struck him across the chest with the haft of his spear and drove him back.
"You will remain where the King can see you."
"You dare lay hands upon me?"
"I dare obey my King."
Morgan reached for his sword.
Half a dozen Kingsguard blades turned toward him.
"Brother," Martyn warned.
Martyn was distressed to the max. This was truly bad, but not yet unsalvageable. He knew his sister; she would never do this. If they found her, she could explain. Maybe she went to the privy, just after pouring the wine...
Morgan's hand remained on the hilt, but he did not draw his steel.
Visenya returned her attention to Maegor. His entire body had begun to shut down and turn as stiff as steel. She tried to force one hand between his teeth while Grand Maester Gawen attempted to straighten his neck.
Gawen's assistant returned with the maester's chest. Gawen tore it open and pulled out a narrow silver knife, several hollow reeds and a small glass bottle.
"What is happening to him?" Aegon demanded.
"The muscles of his throat have clenched shut."
"From what?"
Gawen looked toward the purple wine. After taking a small whiff of the fluid, he nodded. His face drained of colour.
"The Strangler."
The name spread through those nearest the King. Aegon stared at the abandoned place beside his son.
Only moments earlier, Ceryse Hightower had sat there as Maegor's wife, wrapped in the colours of House Targaryen.
Now she had vanished. It didn't take a fool to put one and one together. And yet, it looked like he had been the fool.
...
Visenya held Maegor down as Gawen raised the silver knife toward his throat.
"Find her," she said.
Her voice no longer held panic.
Only the promise of murder.
"Find Ceryse Hightower."
Yes, Aegon realised. He had indeed been a fool.