By the time they managed to turn Balerion in the proper manner, Septon Barth, sent by Grandfather, came rushing from the Red Keep. Outside the Citadel and Dragonstone, he was reputed the man most learned in the nature of the dragonkind and, naturally, could not let such an opportunity slip. The old Septon's eyes shone, and such enthusiasm and genuine interest were reflected on his face that it seemed to Aegon the Hand had grown ten years younger, and that he himself, likely, looked just as mad. He and Barth quickly found common ground, and soon the wretched guard was measuring out in steps the length of the dragon's torso from the tip of the nose to the tip of the tail, and the span of his wings. A couple of hours later, Barth and Aegon came to the comfortless conclusion that an old man with aching joints and a lame boy could not manage without aid, and sent for the Maesters.
Until very late in the evening, the Hand, the Prince, and half a dozen Maesters, with the aid of the Dragonkeepers, sketched and measured Balerion wholly and in parts, picked off separate scales and spines, made notes, and argued to hoarseness and mutual insults. Barth decided to test his hypothesis regarding the ability of dragons to change their sex during life and tried to find a cloaca or other orifice that might aid in this, yet he did not succeed.
"Perchance you simply did not notice it," Aegon tried to console the disappointed Septon. "It must be very well hidden beneath the scales, such that it cannot be found."
"Aye, else Serwyn of the Mirror Shield would have driven his spear into Urrax not in the eye at all," the guard-step-counter chuckled.
Aegon measured him with a contemptuous glance. First, his opinion had not been asked; second, the jest came out disgustingly vulgar. Had one of his brothers jested so, the Prince would have laughed, but to laugh at the jests of a Dragonkeeper? In the end, he had his own dignity! Aegon snorted and, turning away, yawned demonstratively. Nearby, Barth sighed:
"It seems, my Prince, we have done all that is possible today,"—it did not escape Aegon how the King's Hand emphasized 'today'. He clearly intended not to retreat so early. "In such light, the work becomes meaningless, and your father must be worried—the hour is late."
Aegon had not noticed that it had long since grown dark outside, and great lamps had been lit on the walls and beneath the dome of the Pit. Nor had he noticed his own fatigue, and now he yawned without any pretense, risking dislocation of his jaw. The Septon looked weary as well.
"My son, could you find horses for the Prince and me?" Barth asked the selfsame guard. The man looked with skepticism upon both charges, his whole demeanor expressing doubt in their ability to keep their seats in a saddle.
"I know how to ride," Aegon cut him off. Aye, after the injury he had been forced to learn it anew, and it was even more painful than learning to walk, but with due knack, he could sit in an ordinary saddle well enough. Of course, provided a calm horse was beneath him.
"As you command, my Lord," the guard sighed and departed.
Aegon and Barth hobbled to the seats and sank onto them with groans, stretching out their legs. Exchanging glances, they laughed quietly: the difference in age proved powerless before their common infirmity and common interest.
"Tell me, Septon," asked Aegon, suppressing a new yawn. "Do you truly believe Balerion could lay eggs?"
"I think so," the other nodded. "Judge for yourself, my Prince. Dragons are fire made flesh. Does fire have a gender?"
"Well, we speak of fire as 'he'."
"That is no more than a play of words and concepts, a simplification of a complex and inexplicable reality created by the Gods, whose design the limited human mind is unable to perceive in full."
"There is some contradiction there," Aegon remarked and yawned again nonetheless. His eyes were sticking together. "But we were speaking of Balerion."
"Aye, my Prince. Flame exists outside the concept of male and female, as do dragons. I believe that each of them can be both male and female, depending on the situation. Truth be told, I doubt they need a partner to lay eggs—Maesters write that certain lizards from Sothoryos do so if they cannot find a male. That which we can sometimes observe on Dragonstone and here, between Vermithor and Silverwing, may well prove to be play, and not a mating dance at all."
"If that is so, why do we not know of Balerion's clutches?" Aegon asked, fighting desperately against sleep.
"I know not, my Prince. I admit, herein lies the weak place of my theory, yet I am inclined to deem it true. Mayhaps we took Balerion's eggs for the eggs of other dragons, for instance, Meraxes or Vhagar. Mayhaps he ate them—as far as is known to me, there is a specimen on Dragonstone not alien to cannibalism. I think, if we managed to open Balerion's body or at least find the cloaca, it would give the answer to very many questions..."
Aegon heard Barth reasoning on and on, proving and convincing, but all this reached him somehow from afar, as if through a fog or a thick quilt with which he was covered in childhood if the winter nights were especially cold. Aegon felt through his sleep that he was carried somewhere and was surprised that he did not wish to wake from it. When he was left in peace, he buried his face in someone's back and fell asleep.
He woke from a sharp shout:
"Halt! Who goes there?"
Unsticking his eyes, he saw nothing but coarsely woven cloth, in which he did not immediately recognize a Septon's robe. The two of them were sitting on a single horse and, evidently, the Prince had been snuffling into his back the whole way.
"I am Dennis the Grey of the Dragonkeepers," came the voice of the guard-step-counter from somewhere to the side and front. Aegon realized that until this moment he had not known his name, though the man had executed his commands, one stranger than the other, all day long. "And on the horse sit Septon Barth, the King's Hand, and Prince Aegon, son of Prince Baelon and grandson of the King. They were delayed in the Dragonpit, and I was charged to deliver them to the castle."
"Aha, surely," the guard at the gate of the Red Keep guffawed. "Like that, any old geezer in a frock can be passed off as the King's Hand!"
"And any boy—as a Prince!" his invisible comrade chimed in. "Are there few boys and old drunkards in Flea Bottom?"
"So get you gone, Dennis the Grey of the Dragonkeepers, while the going is good, before we call our sergeant."
"Aye, he will not listen to you—he'll order you thrown in a cell at once."
"He has no right, I am a Dragonkeeper! And in general, I speak the truth!.."
The answer was cackling and abuse.
"The hair," Barth said. "Show them the Prince's hair!"
But before Dennis the Grey could react, a new voice rang out:
"What is this mummer's farce you have here? Did the circus decide to arrive at night?"
"Well, Master Sergeant, some fool stands at the gate," one of the guards began to justify himself. "Says he brought to the castle my Lord Hand and Prince Aegon, Seven bless them."
"But we are no fools," the second chimed in. "We did not believe and bade them be gone."
It became lighter—the mentioned sergeant stepped out the wicket gate of the castle and raised a torch above his head.
"Good night, my son," Barth pronounced softly, and, even without seeing his face, Aegon felt him smile.
Not losing his head, he wound a long lock of his silver hair, that of a true son of Old Valyria, around his finger and pulled it to the side, that the dullard in plate might comprehend faster. Whether the sergeant drew the right conclusions, or whether he had been warned of the delay of the Hand and the Prince, a choice tirade rang out, from which flowers would have withered.
"Idiots! You did not know the Hand by sight? Pig-headed lackwits! Is our castle chock-full of lame princes? Damned dullards! Or maybe one cannot breathe for Septons? I shall rot you myself! You shall see!.. To not let the King's grandson into the Red Keep!"
The Septon-Hand cleared his throat, drawing attention to himself.
"Forgive me, my Lord Hand, it shall not happen again," the sergeant began to prattle. "I offer deepest apologies, my Lord Prince, my deepest apologies for this vexing incident. Please, pass through, please."
At night the gates of the Red Keep were closed, but one could pass through the wicket gate on horseback. Barth did not even have to duck. At the Tower of the Hand, Barth, with a grunt, slid from the horse.
"Good night, my Prince. I hope you and I shall be able to finish today's discussion."
"And today's research," Aegon answered in kind and smiled contentedly. "Good night, Septon Barth."
Dennis the Grey led the horse by the bridle further, into the inner ward. There, by the Holdfast itself, under the vigilant gaze of one of the Kingsguard, he helped the Prince dismount.
"Not from that leg, my Lord," the Dragonkeeper prompted. "Place your foot right here, and I shall support you."
Aegon snorted, but accepted the help. Surprisingly, it turned out faster than he was accustomed to, and even not too painful. However, it was not only Aegon who noticed this.
"How do you know how it is best?" came his father's voice. Doubtless, he had already been informed of the hitch at the gates, and he had come out to meet them.
"My Lord," Dennis drew himself up to attention and continued only after a nod: "My father was a smith on Dragonstone. When I was quite small, he was asked to shoe a horse, and while he approached it, it kicked him. He broke his leg then, and so was lame for all his life. My brother and I helped him everywhere: in the smithy, and about the house, and if there was need to go somewhere, so he always said how it was best for him, and how it was more painful. So I have, reckon, looked after the lame all my life."
"Is that so," Baelon drawled thoughtfully. "Well, I thank you. Take this for your labors, and you may go."
Aegon noticed the flash of a pair of golden dragons. "One per head," a wry thought flashed. Dennis from Dragonstone bowed and both princes returned to their chambers. Exhausted by the eventful day, Aegon fell into bed almost like one dead, finding not even the strength to pull off his clothes.
The morning, as always, turned out simply disgusting. To sleep in clothes and, especially, in boots, was a great error, of which the leg did not fail to inform its master. To pull the boot from it, he had to call the Maester to cut it off. The general lousy mood was spoiled by Viserys, who burst into his brother's bedchamber like a whirlwind. Shy of neither servants nor Maester, he began to yell:
"How dared you! How dared you touch him?! He is my dragon! I am his rider! What right had you to do that to him?!"
"Do what?" Aegon clarified dully. "And to whom?"
"You ask still?! You and Barth spent all yesterday twirling Balerion like some doll! As if he is a dead dog, and not the Conqueror's dragon! As if he were not the last who saw Valyria! How did you have the wits, how did you only dare!.."
"Do not shout," Aegon asked. "I feel ill, and your shouting makes it no better. If I had my own dragon, I would order him twirled like a doll. And Balerion cares not. He has already died."
Choking with indignation, Viserys clicked his jaw and stared dully at his brother.
"You know, Aegon," he finally delivered. "Sometimes I think you struck your head on the steps harder than Elysar deems."
Having said this, he almost ran from the bedroom. Aegon collapsed onto the pillows powerlessly and groaned. The day was only beginning.
By midday, Viserys returned with Father and Grandfather, again accusing his younger brother of trampling on the memory of the great Black Dread. Father frowned, Grandfather shook his head in displeasure, and in the end delivered:
"I understand that you and Barth were moved by curiosity, but still, to perform such manipulations with a dragon without the permission of his rider is wrong."
"You sent Barth yourself," Aegon reminded him.
"That he might honor Balerion's memory, not search for his arse," Jaehaerys grimaced. "Be that as it may, your investigations are ended. You shall go nowhere today, and I shall speak with Barth myself."
"That is not all," Baelon reminded. Aegon tensed internally. Father rarely punished him heavily, preferring serious instructive conversations, but this time he might not get off lightly. "Your condition today is the result of your own oversight. Look at yourself. You forgot to remove your boots, and in the morning they had to be cut from you. You forgot the evening salves, and in the morning you cannot rise from bed. What conclusion follows from this?"
Aegon shrugged as carelessly as possible, leaving it to his father to answer his own question.
"You are unable to see to your own health. Were it Viserys, Daemon, or anyone else, I would not have said a word. But this is not your case. Forget to do even one thing—you pay. Hurry, tarry, do something wrong—you pay. This is a question of your health, Aegon. I do not wish you to suffer."
"We all know that is not in our power," Aegon snapped and immediately regretted it. Father always cared for him, devoted more attention than to his other sons, and did not deserve such treatment.
"Aye," Baelon agreed. "However, it is in my power to take all possible measures to ease your pain. Dennis, enter!"
To Aegon's mute amazement, the selfsame Dragonkeeper appeared on the threshold. He was rather tall, of a height with Father, though younger than him; by looks, he was some twenty years. For every black hair on his head, there was one silver one—evidently, that was why he was nicknamed the Grey. His eyes were of a deep ultramarine color and, together with the hair, betrayed in him a descendant of Valyrians. Not surprising, if one recalled that he was from Dragonstone. Unlike yesterday, he was clad not in the black armor of the Dragonwatch, but in the court livery of a servant in the black-and-red colors of the Targaryens. The realization of trouble washed over Aegon like ice water.
"I need no nursemaid," he hissed through his teeth.
"As it turns out, you do," Father cut him off. "I, to confess, have long thought that you need a personal servant who would look after you. Judge for yourself: I am eternally occupied, and your brothers are growing up; they have no time for you. Who else will care for you? You yourself, as I understood, are unable even to pull off boots. And yesterday I found the ideal candidate. Dennis is young, strong, he hails from Dragonstone, he too is of the blood of Old Valyria and knows how to tend to such as you. I spoke with your grandfather, and he agreed that the treasury will not grow poor if we pay wages to one more servant."
In confirmation of his words, Jaehaerys nodded significantly. On Viserys's face was reflected some semblance of triumph over a vanquished foe.
"Well, you have already been introduced to one another, so there is no sense in ceremonies. Begin, Dennis," Baelon nodded and walked out, following Grandfather and Viserys.
Aegon looked silently at the new servant, and the other looked just as silently at him.
"I need no nursemaid," the Prince repeated with emphasis.
"Of course, my Lord," Dennis agreed. "And I need no lame prince. I suffered enough with a lame father; that is why I fled to the Dragonkeepers."
"Then the Father Above punished you for disrespect to parents," Aegon chuckled grimly.
"Possibly," the servant agreed with a sigh. "But He punished you then too."
To this Aegon found no answer, and therefore decided to speak no more with Dennis, and thereby force him to ask Father to release him.
Naturally, Dennis the Grey remained with him.
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