Prince Aegon Targaryen
Aegon did not immediately realize that the flight was but a dream. He soared high in the heavens, leaving the clouds far below, and it seemed he was nearer to the first stars in the evening sky than to the earth. He thought that at such a height it must be very cold and windy, yet the wind that caressed him proved warm and gentle. To his right, the sun was drowning beneath the horizon, sinking behind coastal hills and cliffs; to his left, from beyond the sea, night approached like a blue-black shroud.
Beneath him, the outline of an island emerged from the waters. Somehow, intuitively, Aegon knew this was not Dragonstone: "Not home." Suddenly he began to descend from the heavens, and soon he was flying over the island itself, covered with hills and low mountains overgrown with dense forest. With his wings, he nearly brushed the treetops, and only when the tip of a particularly tall spruce, struck by him, tumbled to the earth, did so curious a circumstance compel the Prince to turn his attention to his own form, which he had not marked before. Craning his neck, which proved unexpectedly supple, Aegon saw vast red wings, spanned by membranes; the hind part of his serpentine body was supported in the air by long spurs—auxiliary wings.
"Am I... a dragon?" Aegon thought with amazement.
A whip cracked overhead.
"Naejot, Caraxes!" came a commanding shout.
"Caraxes? Have I become Caraxes? That means Uncle Aemon is in my saddle?" Aegon understood less and less, while the Red Wyrm (or was it truly Aegon himself?) began to descend over a small clearing amidst the mountain forest. Landing there after a fashion, Caraxes-Aegon folded his wings and aided his rider in dismounting from his back. Around the dragon, armed men had already gathered under blue-and-red banners bearing moons and suns—Aegon recognized the sigil of Lord Tarth without much labor. "So, Uncle has flown to Tarth? Curious, to what end?"
Meanwhile, a broad-shouldered man with a neat straw-colored beard, clad in mail with a surcoat in his house colors over it, came forth to meet Prince Aemon. It seemed this was Lord Tarth himself. Bowing to the Prince, the lord spoke to him of something, but Aegon could not make out a word.
"What gibberish is this?" Aegon grimaced in annoyance and tried to shift closer to hear better of what they spoke. Those around him, however, took the dragon's movement amiss and recoiled with anxious cries.
"Daor, Caraxes, daor!" Uncle threw his hand forward, halting the beast. "Lykirī!"
Caraxes-Aegon grumbled in displeasure but remained in place. Meanwhile, Aemon and Lord Tarth withdrew to the forest's edge and sat by a fire, speaking again of some matter. However hard Aegon listened to their discourse, he could catch only the general intonation, but the substance of their talk remained obscure.
After conversing for a time, Aemon and Tarth rose and disappeared into the woods. Caraxes-Aegon coiled his long body, covered himself with his wings, and set to waiting. Glancing at the sky, Aegon realized the sunset still burned with pinkish-yellow flashes. Time seemed to have frozen, and the Prince calmed himself somewhat. "Such things do not happen in nature. The sun does not freeze in the sky as if nailed there. A man cannot turn into a dragon, even if he bears one upon his sigil."
Caraxes-Aegon, from beneath half-closed lids, watched Tarth's warriors bustling about. It seemed they had a war camp here: practically all wore some armor, from boiled leather to mail and knightly plate; archers, hedge knights, and even simple peasants armed with cudgels could be seen. The faces of the warriors were sullen; neither laughter nor the groans of the wounded could be heard.
"Whence comes so much weaponry on Tarth? A rebellion? Or has war come to the Seven Kingdoms again? But with whom? The Dornish?" Aegon pelted himself with questions, but neither the dragon nor he himself could know the answer. The waiting was interrupted by the approach of a pair of spearmen driving five sheep; stopping at a respectful distance from the Red Wyrm, they prodded the livestock toward him with pokes and signaled that the dragon might eat.
"Well, what fools," flashed through Aegon's mind, and he cut himself short at once. To whom did that thought belong—to him or to Caraxes? The Prince was not certain that he, personally, felt slight disdain for these men. Caraxes, meanwhile, arched his neck and spewed a jet of flame, roasting all five sheep at once. They had time only to bleat in fright before they were charred. The air filled with the smells of burnt wool and roasted meat. The dragon fell upon the food, tearing the still-smoldering carcasses with his black fangs, which resembled daggers of Valyrian steel. The fire, having charred the meat black on the outside, left it barely pink within, and soon juice and grease dripped from the spikes on his chin.
Aegon watched his repast with detachment, with a strange mixture of squeamishness and admiration. It seemed he even managed to taste the dragon's supper: the meat was exceedingly bitter and smelled of smoke. While Caraxes-Aegon feasted, Uncle Aemon returned with Lord Tarth and, settling once more by the fire, began to draw something on the ground with a stick.
Suddenly something drew the dragon's attention. He shifted his gaze from the remains of the uneaten fifth sheep to the thicket of the forest, where something metallic seemed to glint. The dragon blinked a couple of times, and in the next instant, a crossbow bolt, flying from behind some tree, pierced Uncle Aemon's neck through and through. The King's eldest son, in bewilderment, tried to grasp at the foreign object that had suddenly appeared in his neck; blood spurted from his mouth, and he slowly—too slowly for it to be happening in waking life—toppled onto his side. Caraxes roared in fury, wrath, and horror; Aegon screamed with him, and then woke.
. . . . .
...and then woke, only to scream again. Pain twisted his body like taut ropes from the crown of his head to his toes. A fog swam in his head, his face burned, breathing through his nose was impossible, but every snatched breath resonated with pain in his chest; worst of all, however, was his leg. It felt as if it burned with dragonfire from within, and to move it was decidedly impossible.
"What has happened?" rang the stern voice of Elysar. "What have you done?"
"Nothing, Grand Maester," came someone's shamed stammering. Calming slightly, the Prince squinted and saw a young acolyte frozen at the head of his bed with some bowl and a rag in his hands. "I only dabbed the abrasions on his face, as you bade, and then my Lord Prince screamed..."
"Dullard," Elysar, with a grunt, took the cloth and the dish from the assistant. "Dullard and bungler. Surely you pressed too hard... Indeed, look, you have torn the scab! Get you hence from my sight, useless lout!.."
The assistant withdrew with a bow. Elysar bent down and peered anxiously into Aegon's face.
"Bungler," he repeated, clicking his tongue. "Forgive us for this pain, my Prince. I promise, henceforth only I shall tend your wounds."
With these words, he lightly pressed the cloth to Aegon's cheekbone. It stung fiercely, and the Prince hissed through his teeth.
"Aye, my Lord, 'tis rather unpleasant, but your face must be tended. Do you remember what came to pass? You need not answer, only blink."
Aegon remembered. He had greeted the dawn, then he and Daemon had had an unplanned practice, and then a yellowish shard of bone had been sticking from his shin. Aegon obediently blinked.
"F-Father?.." a true desert spread in his mouth, and his throat was painfully raw.
"Prince Baelon visits you several times a day, as does Prince Viserys,"—and, anticipating the next question, Elysar continued: "You have slept for nigh on a week. Several times you came to yourself for a short while, then we gave you broth and milk of the poppy, and you slept again. Do you remember this?"
"Nay,"—he truly did not remember it. Unless... "And the broth?.."
Elysar blinked in bewilderment.
"And what of the broth? Chicken broth is the very thing for a prolonged illness; it sustains strength and fills the belly. Yesterday, truth be told, a slattern of a maid broke the pot in the oven, so we were forced to give you broth of mutton bone. But that is even better..."
The Maester, stepping away to the table, continued to pontificate, whilst rearranging vials of medicines, and Aegon recalled the details of his dream.
"So that is whence the sheep came," he thought.
"And Daemon?" Aegon suddenly remembered his brother. It seemed he had managed to ask his father that he not be punished. Or had he dreamt that too?
Elysar gave some brief order through the slightly open door and returned to the bed.
"As far as is known to me, Prince Daemon had a very grave conversation with your father and His Grace the King. Your elder brother scarce leaves his chambers, though, as far as I know, he received no command not to leave them."
Here the door flew open, and a boy in a kitchen apron, scarce older than Aegon himself, handed the Grand Maester a tray with a steaming bowl. The aroma of the broth mingled with the acrid smell of medicines, and the Prince's stomach rumbled loudly and most unnobly.
"Most timely," Elysar stated, tasting the broth first. Smacking his lips, he delivered his verdict: "Acceptable. I shall take it from here."
Stirring the broth, the Maester blew on the spoon and brought it to Aegon.
"You must eat, my Prince. I bade them leave some vegetables; we must compel your stomach to work normally again."
Aegon obediently swallowed the pale, almost transparent liquid and tried to sit more comfortably, but his body was again twisted by such a spasm of pain that what he had swallowed instantly ended up on the blanket.
"Forgive me..."
"No need for apologies, my Lord; I should have warned that you must be more careful," Elysar set aside the bowl with a sigh, wiped the Prince's face with a napkin, and called for the servants.
While they, with practiced movements, removed the linen and pulled the sheets from under the invalid, Aegon managed to spot what his right leg had become. Resting in a massive splint, it was swollen and yellowed. About a palm's breadth below the knee, a long, reddened suture could be seen. It looked ghastly.
"What is with my leg?" Aegon squeezed out.
"You broke it," the Grand Maester reminded him. "And quite foully at that. Aye, very foully, unluckily. The bone pierced the skin, but you likely do not remember that?"
"I remember," Aegon nodded, wincing. "It was yellowish."
"Aye, bones truly have such a color, as you very rightly noted. Yours proved somewhat thinner than ought be in... other boys of your age. Several shards formed; I was obliged to piece your leg together anew. If the Gods are merciful, my Prince, you shall walk. Run as before, alas, no, but walk you shall, I promise."
The servants finally finished and departed. Elysar, having rejected all Aegon's attempts to eat on his own as inappropriate recklessness, fed him the entire bowl of broth from the spoon. When the Maester wiped his face with the napkin again, just like a babe, Aegon said:
"Maester, I saw a dream..."
"Is that so? Good or bad?" the other responded not too interestedly.
"Bad. I saw..."
"Nightmares and delirium are common occurrences after such upheavals. Perchance we administered too much milk of the poppy; it too can summon various... visions. Today I shall give you dreamwine with honey. It dulls the pain less, to be sure, but your sleep shall be more restful and certainly more wholesome."
Aegon deemed it best to hold his peace and not waste strength on disputes. He truly wished to sleep—never before would he have thought that taking a meal could be so wearying—and dreamwine would be most welcome. As for himself-as-dragon, he would speak of it later, with his father and brothers. Taking the draught and sinking into slumber, Aegon almost managed to convince himself that it had been merely a nightmare.
This time he slept lightly—the splint on his leg was a hindrance, and the Prince could not find a comfortable position. He heard the exhausted old man Elysar snoring in the armchair by his bed, heard him conversing with Father, heard Father saying something to him, to Aegon, and heard a Daemon who had appeared from somewhere asking his forgiveness in faltering tones. To the latter, Aegon had even intended to reply, but lacked the strength to open his eyes.
Thus, in a light delirium, he languished until morning, when gradually, reclaiming inch by inch, the pain returned. Aegon tried at first not to mark it, but that brought no relief. In the end, he could bear it no longer and groaned.
"Aegon?" a vaguely familiar voice sounded nearby. "What is amiss? Are you in pain?"
When the canopy above the bed ceased to spin in circles and his gaze focused somewhat, the Prince saw an anxious Viserys bending over him. In response, Aegon mumbled something unintelligible and shook his head, which set the room dancing once more. Viserys vanished somewhere and returned at once with a small silver cup in his hands:
"Here, drink. Elysar bade me give you this should you wake."
Obediently swallowing the sweet-tart liquid, Aegon sank back onto the pillows. The windows were tightly draped, leaving the room drowning in twilight. Viserys, setting the cup on the table, pulled back one of the crimson curtains ever so slightly. Beyond the window, by all appearances, it was late morning. The elder Prince returned to his place, stirring up a mad dance of weightless motes in the sunbeam, and asked with the same anxiety:
"How fare you?"
"Alive," Aegon squeezed out and licked his cracked lips.
"Tis hard to believe," Viserys chuckled humorlessly and, after a silence, added earnestly: "Father is beside himself with worry. Yet now all the Red Keep knows you are his favorite."
"I?!"
"You. I find it hard to believe Baelon the Brave would fret so if something of this like befell me or Daemon. He would say: 'Tis nothing, it will pass, but you shall be wiser now,' yet he comes to you well-nigh seven times a day."
Aegon seized upon the mention of his absent brother.
"Has Father punished Daemon?"
"Daemon was saved only by your pleas," Viserys chuckled again. "Ah, 'tis a pity you did not see their faces! Father was the very image of Balerion! I thought he would feed Daemon to Vhagar for breakfast."
"But he did not?" Aegon tried to smile, but the scab from the abrasion on his cheek made it crooked.
"Nay, of course not. While the Maesters were deciding what to do with you, Father and Grandfather were deciding how to deal with him. Father even threatened to send him to the Night's Watch, but Grandfather stayed him. Can you imagine a Targaryen on the Wall? Neither can I."
The door opened soundlessly, and Daemon's head appeared in the opening. His whole demeanor expressed guilt and contrition.
"I heard voices, or rather, that you were speaking, and thought..."
"That you should come visit our little brother?" Viserys smiled. "You thought rightly. Do not fret, he seems not particularly violent, but should anything happen, I shall hold him, and you run!"
Baelon's eldest son managed to wink his violet eyes at each of his younger brothers almost simultaneously, drawing cautious chuckles. Daemon finally crossed the threshold of the bedchamber and, taking a few steps, halted at the foot of the bed. Hesitating a little, he blurted out:
"Aegon, if you can, forgive me, pray. I truly..."
"Did not mean to," Aegon smiled encouragingly. "I know. All is well, I am not wroth with you."
Daemon exhaled in relief.
"Truly?" he clarified just in case and, awaiting an affirmative nod, continued a speech that was clearly rehearsed: "Also, I wished to thank you for what you said of me to Father. That you asked him not to punish me."
"Not that you were spared punishment entirely," Viserys drawled.
"Grandfather and Father forced me to watch as they set your bones," Daemon shivered. "Then Grandfather said I had punished myself for my whole life, for I shall know that even years hence you will suffer because of me."
"I shall not suffer," Aegon tried to wave away the nonsense his brother was spouting, but his hand, as if tiring halfway, fell powerlessly onto the bed. "All will be well, I shall mend and train with you again."
His elder brothers exchanged a strange glance, and Viserys hastened to change the subject:
"Well, that is a matter for the future. First you must rise from your bed, sleepyhead! One moment you are up before anyone in the castle, the next you sleep for days on end. Confess, how many dreams did you manage to see?"
Aegon was cut again by the memory of the warm breeze beneath his wings, the sharp crack of the whip, the taste of burnt mutton, and the crossbow bolt sticking from his uncle's neck. He shivered against his will.
"But one," he answered.
Suddenly he doubted: to tell or not? Before, they had had no secrets from one another. Mayhaps his brothers, like Maester Elysar, would wave a hand and dismiss it all as milk of the poppy? Mayhaps it truly was only the milk of the poppy? The Grand Maester said it summons visions, but can a vision be at once so realistic and so fantastical?
"I know not if I truly dreamt this or if 'tis from the poppy milk..." he began nevertheless. "I dreamt that I was a dragon."
Whereupon Aegon recounted to his brothers the whole dream, from its enchanting beginning to its terrible end. He finished in a voice hoarse from disuse, and scarce had he done speaking than he fell to coughing. Daemon darted to the table at once and gave him water. Yet the anxious look his brothers exchanged did not escape Aegon.
"So where, say you, did Uncle Aemon fly?" Viserys clarified.
"To Tarth. I recognized the banners—Maester Elysar and I were reviewing the lords of the Stormlands of late," trying to shift in bed, Aegon grimaced, but looked into Viserys's face nonetheless. "But surely 'tis just a dream, is it not? All is quiet on Tarth, yes?"
Viserys rubbed his upper lip with its whitish, sprouting mustache. He always did so before he wished to lie to someone.
"I see you wish to lie, Viserys," Aegon warned just in case.
"Seven Hells," the other swore. "Aye, Tarth is not quiet. Some Myrish pirates have landed on the island, and Lord Cameron requested aid. Uncle Aemon flew out a few days past, whilst you... were ill. The Velaryon fleet put to sea before him, and Boremund Baratheon marched from Storm's End to aid."
"Is that so," Aegon breathed.
"Hey, do not think on it, do you hear?" called Daemon. "'Tis just a dream, you say yourself it was too unreal. If I had struck my head on the steps, I would be flying with Balerion over the towers of Old Valyria!"
"Aye, 'tis only a dream," Viserys hastened to soothe his brother. "Would you have me send a raven to Tarth, that Uncle might write you himself? You shall see, all will be well. He will return and come to you first thing... Well, not first, of course, but we shall surely bring him to you on the very first day!"
Scarce had Viserys finished speaking when the bell of the castle sept began to toll. The room grew at once both cold and stifling. For some reason, Aegon understood that they did not toll so for a victory. After a few strokes, the bells of King's Landing's septs began to take up its voice one by one, merging into a single mournful chorus.
The door flew open again, and one of the Maesters entered the room with a quick stride—the one Elysar had called a dullard and bungler.
"Prince Viserys, the King and Prince Baelon desire to see you in the Throne Room."
"Has something happened?" Viserys asked, springing up. "Of course something happened," Aegon thought to himself. They would not toll the bells for naught.
"I fear so, my Lord," the Maester blurted out and winced at once, evidently chiding himself for his loquacity. "A raven has arrived from Tarth. Prince Aemon is dead."