Prince Aegon Targaryen
Had any man sought to ask Prince Aegon which hour of the day he deemed the finest, he would have answered without hesitation—the morn, and the earlier the better.
The Prince adored watching the sunrise: how the sun lazily crept from behind the Narrow Sea; how a path, so bright it seared the eye to look upon it, raced from the solar disk across the waters of Blackwater Bay; how the first rays—so soft, timid, and caressing—touched the high towers of the Red Keep, warming the stone of the White Sword Tower. It was there, facing the sea, that the Prince loved to greet the dawn; a thin and gangly lad of eight years made little noise and did not disturb the white-cloaked knights of his royal grandfather from their rest.
When the sun at last tore itself free of the sea, Aegon would turn his back to it and cast his gaze upon the goings-on in the inner ward, where the servants were already preparing for the new day with might and main: grooms mucked out the stables and fed the horses, the finest provender was borne to the kitchens for the royal table, and chambermaids carried out soiled linens or brought fresh ones into the Holdfast. If one walked a little further north along the ramparts, one could watch the sleepy city watchmen crawling from their barracks in the East Barracks to stand for their daily morning muster. Viserys always spoke of the City Watch with the disdain of a squire who is on the verge of knighthood:
"A watchman is no knight, nor even a soldier," he would explain to his younger brothers with an air of importance. "He obeys not the call of honor, but orders, which he executes not out of a sense of duty, but from fear of punishment and for his pitiful wages. Promise a Gold Cloak a pair of golden dragons, and he shall forget his officer's command, and mayhaps even lead his own wife to your bed."
"Seven Hells, why would I want his crone?" Daemon had sworn then. "I shall find a strumpet somewhat younger!"
"If Grandmother Alysanne hears you, the only woman you shall know before your wedding day will be an old septa," Aegon put in. The middle son of Prince Baelon, naturally, had not yet known a woman, but before his brothers, he bragged desperately and played the part of a frequenter of Flea Bottom, though he had scarce seen the place with his own eyes. Viserys laughed loudly; Aegon liked to think his brother laughed not at Daemon's foolish prattle, but at his own jest.
Having worked up an appetite upon the castle walls, Aegon would descend to Maegor's Holdfast to break his fast with his father and brothers. Prince Baelon, having taught his sons never to be late to the table, always emerged for the meal last, allowing the restless Aegon time to run in from his morning walk, and the sluggard Viserys time to rise from his bed. Approaching his seat, Baelon would ruffle the silver hair of his two youngest sons, and clap the eldest on the shoulder. Ever since Viserys had become a squire to his uncle, Prince Aemon, he took terrible offense at this gesture, deeming it "too childish." Every conversation at breakfast began the same. After a short prayer, the father and sons would set to their food, and Prince Baelon would ask Aegon:
"Well now, scout? Are there no enemy ships to be seen on the horizon? Is the Cannibal flying to pay us a visit?"
In answer, Aegon would recount in detail all that he had managed to espy upon the glass of Blackwater Bay and in the castle yard, whereupon Daemon or Viserys—or both at once—would interject a wry remark, and the conversation would veer aside, shifting to more adult matters. Their father would inquire of Viserys regarding his progress in the knightly arts, give counsel to Daemon on the handling of arms, or simply retell news or amusing incidents from court life, which the young princes could not learn themselves by virtue of their tender age.
After breakfast began the most tedious part of the day. Father would depart to the grandfather to attend to affairs of state, or fly upon Vhagar on his errands to various lords of the Seven Kingdoms. Viserys ran off to Uncle Aemon, whilst Grand Maester Elysar came to Daemon and Aegon, teaching them first reading, writing, and sums, and now High Valyrian, history, geography, and the laws and customs of the Seven Kingdoms.
The difference of three years between the younger brothers had long ceased to matter in the study of the schoolman's arts. Four hours before the midday meal, Daemon would leave to train in swordplay and other weaponry or horsemanship, whilst Aegon remained with Elysar and continued to stain his nose with ink. Illnesses had dogged Aegon from his very birth and so weakened his constitution that his father, having conferred with the King, the Grandmother, and Prince Aemon, decided to shield his youngest son from excessive exertions, which might not strengthen him, but only enfeeble him further and provoke a new succession of maladies. Having more time for books than his brother, Aegon soon caught up with Daemon, and in matters of law and history, left him far behind.
Of course, he deemed his lot unfair. Of course, he desired more; he desired to be equal to his brothers in all things, yet the Maesters remained adamant and stuffed him with strengthening draughts. However, by eight years of age, Aegon had learned a thing or two regardless: to flee from Elysar during the dullest lessons, to carefully pour out the bitter and sour potions he did not need at the first opportunity, and to spy on his brothers and the guards during their training, that he might practice the strikes he had seen in the empty Godswood at sunset.
If the Maesters did not complain of the Prince's health for two or three weeks, his father allowed the youngest son to exercise in the yard alongside Daemon. Then, there was no limit to the princes' joy, and it was not the tutors nor the Master-at-Arms who had to chase them from the yard, but Prince Baelon himself. Aegon would return to his bedchamber utterly drained, covered in scrapes and bruises from head to toe—to defeat Daemon with a blunted sword rather than a book or map was always far harder—yet he was as happy as a cat that had filched a fine piece of meat from the kitchen. The good days rarely lasted more than a week and ended always the same: the Maesters threatened his father, or went straight to his grandfather the King, warning that the next day Prince Aegon would surely stumble from weakness, and Prince Daemon, through carelessness or inexperience, would undoubtedly break his thin bones. Then the princes' swords were locked in the farthest chest of the armory under the personal supervision of the Master-at-Arms, and the boys, having played too hard, languished for several days in their chambers without the right to go out into the yard.
When the King and Queen were away, and his uncle and father were buried up to their necks in state affairs, the two younger princes managed to play a prank on all their tutors at once. They fled their lessons and, having begged Viserys to give them training swords, sparred with him until someone missed them. All three, of course, received a sound drubbing afterwards, but it scarce deterred them.
The morning of the fourth day of the third month of the ninety-second year After the Conquest began simply perfectly. Waking before dawn as always, Aegon hastily pulled on fresh breeches and a tunic, brought the evening prior by foresightful servants, and slipped out of his room. Creeping quieter than a castle mouse past the bedchambers of Viserys and his father, from which a bass snoring emanated, and the suspiciously quiet bedchamber of Daemon, the little Prince darted through the castle corridors like a light-footed doe, nearly knocking a serving wench with a basket of linen off her feet, and five minutes later was admiring the calm waters of Blackwater Bay.
. . . . .
Having saluted the rising orb in his customary fashion, Aegon glanced back at the inner ward and, to his own surprise, saw Daemon holding a pair of training swords. His brother spotted him as well, raised a sword, and leveled the point directly at Aegon. At first, he thought he was merely being greeted and even waved in return, but Daemon had no thought of lowering the blade.
"Bastard," Aegon whispered in admiration, guessing that his elder brother was challenging him to a duel. Unlike Daemon, the Spring Prince's youngest son knew to curb his tongue in time and did not permit himself the strong expressions his brother had learned; "bastard," alongside "traitor" and "Hell," was the most terrible curse in his arsenal.
Descending from the White Sword Tower agile as a cat, the Prince nearly took a tumble on the stairs and almost certainly woke one of the White Cloaks. When at last he emerged into the yard, Daemon tossed him one of the swords.
"Shall we train before breakfast?" he flashed a smile.
"Let us," Aegon agreed readily. The last time they had arranged a sparring match was a week and a half ago, but the duel had been cut short when Aegon once again sprawled upon the ground. All would have been well, but it had happened before the eyes of Grandmother Alysanne, who had raised a fuss out of nowhere. Yet one circumstance gave him pause. "How did you get the swords?"
Daemon smiled even wider:
"They stopped locking the chest."
"Father will notice we are sweaty and dirty," Aegon showed a caution unexpected for himself.
"We shall wash it off," Daemon waved him away. "I hid a couple of towels in the Godswood; we shall scrub ourselves clean in that pond."
"With water from the pond in the Godswood?"
"Of course. 'Tis only water. Or do you believe in those wooden idols?" Daemon goaded him. "Or mayhaps you simply fear that I shall beat you again? That we shall have to show the Maesters your frail little white bones?"
"No! I do not believe, and I do not fear!" Aegon shook his head vehemently.
"Then defend yourself!"
With these words, Daemon rushed to the attack. Aegon threw up his sword and managed to parry the blow, knocking his brother's blade aside. The shock of steel on steel resonated in his bones with an unpleasant sensation. Meanwhile, his opponent made a feint and tried to strike from the flank, but Aegon leaped back in time and broke the distance, immediately regretting it. Daemon began to circle him, and the younger prince was forced to turn with him. Again a few blows, and again a retreat. The princes circled the yard, peering tensely at one another, paying heed to nothing else. Daemon went on the attack again and achieved his aim; retreating under his onslaught, Aegon stepped out of the shadow of the outer curtain wall and now stood against the rising sun.
"Hell," he hissed through his teeth, dodging a new attack. He was forced to squint heavily, struggling not to lose sight of Daemon.
"What, in the name of the Seven, is happening here?!" came someone's loud and very thunderous bellow.
"Eh?" Aegon glanced back in search of the source of the sound and only out of the corner of his eye did he catch the flash of Daemon's blade coming too close. Barely managing to parry the blow, the Prince lost his balance, took a couple of steps back, and stumbled.
Falling, Aegon managed to glance over his shoulder and was utterly astonished: "Can we truly have come so close to the Long Stair? It cannot be!" In the next instant, something knocked the air from his chest, and he could not draw a breath; he heard a startled cry from Daemon, then his right leg burned with dragon fire, and then something exploded in his head, and darkness fell.
. . . . .
In the darkness, there was a corridor. Lamps burned in the walls, hewn directly into the solid rock. Somehow, Aegon understood that he was in a cave and must go forward. Aegon could not hear his own footsteps, as if his boots were wrapped in rags; only the quiet whistling of the wind was audible, making the flames in the lamps tremble under its gusts. Attempting to touch the walls, the Prince felt the heat radiating from the bowels of the mountain beneath which he stood.
Suddenly the walls parted, forming a wide hall, in the gloom of which one could scarce discern the high ceiling. The path that ran through the corridor led Aegon to a small dais, which, like everything here, was carved right on the spot from dark stone. Climbing seven steps and finding himself atop the dais, the Targaryen Prince began to peer into the obsidian darkness of the cavern.
At first, nothing happened, but then Aegon heard a deep, low rumble, which gradually grew and grew, becoming louder and more distinct, as if approaching. Suddenly the Prince noticed something stir and gleam in the darkness ahead. Then, sensing rather than hearing heavy footsteps, Aegon realized that something massive and terrible was moving toward him, yet he could not move from his spot to hide in the corridor.
From the darkness, the enormous head of a dragon emerged. In the trembling light of the lamps behind him, Aegon saw scales that seemed cast of bronze, and the beast's horns and spines, glistening oilily like obsidian.
"Vermithor," Aegon recognized King Jaehaerys's dragon at once. When Aegon had turned three, his grandfather had first taken him to the Dragonpit and shown him all the dragons living there.
Suddenly, Vermithor roared, so loudly that it seemed to the Prince the mountain would collapse upon him that very instant, and loosed flame from his maw. Fire flooded the floor, licked the walls, its tongues leaping to the ceiling, and only then did Aegon see how truly vast the beast was. Deciding he had sufficiently frightened the pitiful human, the dragon snapped his jaws shut with a click and fixed his gaze upon the boy standing before him. Aegon, whose egg had never hatched, had not been this close to a dragon even on that day in the Dragonpit with his grandfather.
The hot breath of the huge beast brushed his cheeks and stirred the strands of hair hanging to his shoulders. Aegon cautiously stretched his hand forward. A guttural sound was born in Vermithor's throat, but the dragon leaned forward. When scarce a pair of palms separated Aegon's hand and the dragon's snout, the cave was illuminated by a blinding white flash that consumed both the dragon and Aegon himself.
. . . . .
"Have a care, damn you!"
"Seven Hells..."
"How could this come to pass?! How, I ask you?!"
"Are you prepared? Then as one, gently, with care... At my command... Heave!"
Aegon felt himself truly lifted and borne away. Through the light that flooded all, the shapes of the White Cloaks and the Master-at-Arms slowly emerged; somewhere behind them flickered his father and a Daemon pale with mortal terror. Aegon sought to say that all was well, that his head had merely spun and there was no need to carry him anywhere, ere the pain overtook him and, instead of words, a ghastly scream tore from the Prince's throat. For a heartbeat, all stood frozen, yet the pain did not abate, but only gathered strength.
"Why do you stand there?! Bear him hence!"
"F-Father, I..." — somewhere in the hindmost recesses of his consciousness, where the seven-times-damned pain had not yet reached, a thought flashed: "Did Daemon just start to stutter?"
"I shall speak with you later!" Baelon's shout rang out. "Why are you still here? Remove him!"
"Aegon, my little boy!" Grandmother Alysanne gasped from somewhere ahead and to the side.
"Give way, Mother!" Baelon put her aside, but she trailed after him, continuing to lament and, by all seemings, to weep.
How he came to be in his own bed, Aegon never understood, though he heard the muttering of Maester Elysar, who stood with his back to him, tinkering with something on his table. A maidservant bore in a basin of warm water, from which faint steam rose. Casting a chance glance at the Prince, she gave a loud gasp and nigh dropped her burden. Aegon, following her gaze, looked where she had looked. A shard of something yellowish protruded from his bleeding leg.
"Aegon, my son, do not look," his father beseeched and commanded in one breath. The Prince obediently turned his gaze to him. Baelon took a cup from Elysar's hands and, sitting on the edge of the bed, raised it to his son's lips. "Quaff this, 'tis milk of the poppy; you shall feel easier. Aegon, you fell from the stairs and broke your leg. Maester Elysar shall set all to rights, you shall walk again..."
Aegon closed his lids, which grew ever heavier, for a moment. He broke his leg. "So that yellow thing sticking out of my leg is truly a bone? And it is not white at all, as Daemon avowed." Remembering his brother, Aegon hurriedly threw open his eyes and began to prattle:
"Father, Daemon is not to blame, I fell of my own accord, truly, myself! He had no hand in it!"
"Of course, of course, yourself," his father nodded.
"Do not punish him, Father! Daemon is not to blame!"
"We shall see," Baelon attempted to evade.
"Nay, you must promise that you shall not punish him! And that Grandfather shall not punish him!"
"Very well, I pledge that I shall not punish your brother," his father yielded, and at once corrected himself: "But he must speak with His Grace himself."
"It is well that I had time to speak of Daemon," Aegon thought. The pain seemed to have subsided, his eyes were closing, yet the Prince had not said all:
"And tell him also... that he is a liar..."
"Why?" his father frowned. "What has he told you?"
"The bones... They are not white... But yellowish. Not white..."
And with that, Aegon plunged once more into darkness.