Dragonstone always seemed the perfect refuge to Aegon. Seemingly close to the capital—a few hours of flight, a little more than a day by ship—yet at the same time harsh cliffs, not too hospitable waters, and a castle that seemed a monument to dead Valyria were so far from the petty, money-and-influence-greedy royal court that it was always easier for Aegon to believe he was on the last known island in the Sunset Sea. Only one thing grieved him—in this place he would always be a temporary lodger; an honored and welcome guest, but no more. Dragonstone had already waited for its new owner, the future heir to the throne, for the second year. Nevertheless, in the ancient library, in the gloomy Garden, and on the slopes of the Dragonmont swept by all sea winds, the Prince felt a deep sense of peace, felt almost at home; but only almost—this did not belong to him.
To think less about abstract matters like inheritance and ownership rights to ancestral lands, Aegon plunged headlong into work. Unlike Runciter, fit only for banalities and acquiescence, Maester Gerardys proved quite useful to the Master of Dragons; with a firm hand, he drew a dozen and a half maps of Dragonstone in different scales, and separate sections like the lava field in the east and the Dragonmont. Based on them, Dragonkeepers dressed in black-and-red leather armor, led by Baelor, who became the new Lord Commander, climbed all over the island, carefully marking all lairs and nests of dragons. Then came the turn of the caves under the Mountain; in one of the most remote of them, the guards, to Aegon's considerable surprise, found a clutch of still-living eggs, around which the blackened skeleton of their mother curled into a ball. By the size of the remains and the spines along the neck, Aegon, not without Gerardys's help, identified Numiax—the pearly-white she-dragon of Daenys the Dreamer; after her rider's death, Numiax broke the chains holding her and fled—it was believed she returned to Valyria, where she perished. But, as it turned out, she found her last refuge in the depths beneath the Dragonmont.
After some thought, the Prince ordered the clutch moved closer to the surface exit, into one of the halls which the Dragonwatch was remodeling specifically for storing eggs.
"To dragons, in essence, it matters not where their offspring lie," Aegon explained the necessity of the alteration to Daemon, who dropped in for a visit. "But this way all clutches will be accounted for and at hand."
However, such an approach meant that old nests had to be checked periodically, looking for new eggs, and Dragonkeepers began to go on patrols all over the island, sometimes dragging on for a day or two; sometimes Aegon and Dennis kept them company. Viserys kept his promise after all and during his coronation festivities knighted his brother's faithful servant, and after anointing by the High Septon, Ser Dennis Greyhead of Dragonport, sworn shield of Prince Aegon Targaryen, rose from his knees. This hardly had a serious impact on relations between Aegon and Dennis, except perhaps the first received a new reason for jokes, and the second grumbled for another week that the Prince could have warned him of such an honor, and not presented him with a fait accompli in the sept itself.
On one of the days of the third month of the year 105, it came into Aegon's head at midday to join another small expedition of Dragonkeepers along the southeastern part of Dragonstone. A detachment of guards had left at dawn and now there was no thought of catching them on foot; taking Vermithor for such a short trip seemed a waste of time and energy to the Prince, and therefore, feeling some guilt, he ordered Dennis to saddle horses.
Very soon Aegon regretted his decision: finding guards among coastal ledges, cliffs, and small caves would be difficult even on foot, not to speak of riders; returning to the castle, however, the Prince did not want, wishing not to expose himself as a fool. Instead, he bit his cheek in anger at himself and sent his gelding forward.
The south of Dragonstone represented stony mountain slopes overgrown with grass, heather, and low shrubs, on which peasants grazed cattle. For centuries lava had not flowed here and even ash from volcanic eruptions fell rarely here (usually the wind carried it east, toward Essos), which made the region one of the greenest and most populated on the island: precisely here were located Great and Little Pasture, as well as Fishbone—the three largest villages together had about one and a half thousand people, a little less than half the population of Dragonport.
If dragons flew here, they preferred to keep to the coast; there, on sheer cliffs and ledges, they could bask in the sun or climb into one of the crevices or caves. The behavior of the lizards could hardly be called logical—flocks of sheep seemed to invite themselves to be eaten, and peasants could have done nothing to oppose this. However, the winged beasts seemed to understand that one must not soil near home and therefore patiently waited until the same peasants led the same sheep to the castellan of Dragonstone as tribute, and the Watch led the unfortunate cattle to the Mountain.
Aegon and Dennis now went deeper into the island's territory, now rode up to the very edge of the cliff in hope of discerning the elusive detachment of Dragonkeepers between rocks, but all was vain. Out of his own stubbornness, Aegon refused to admit defeat and return to the castle and time after time sent Dennis with such suggestions to the Seven Hells. Meanwhile, evening approached, and it was already too late to return home—the return journey along the slippery stone road over the cliff at night threatened broken horse legs, or even death.
"My Prince, we must stop for the night," Dennis reminded.
"Do you propose sleeping in the open field?" snapped Aegon. Even after a night under Vermithor's warm flank, the morning was lousy, and here they have only a pair of horses.
"I propose finding a better house," the sworn shield answered in tone to his master. "If we hurry, before dark we can reach Little Pasture. Could go down to Fishbone, but it stinks of fish there, and the road there is not for our horses."
Aegon wanted either to heap abuse on Dennis for his words and tone, or thank him for his care—the Prince did not favor fish in any form, and especially raw. Instead, he bit his tongue and, shaking his head, ordered him to show the way. If he has to sleep in a peasant hovel, then let it at least not be damp, and let something without fish be served for supper.
By a cruel joke of the gods, they met the Dragonkeepers after all; they too reasoned it was better to spend the night on this side of the island than return in the dark, and collided with the Master of Dragons a couple of miles before the village.
"Evidently, I am not the only one who dislikes fish," grumbled Aegon under his nose, riding past respectfully bowing guards.
"Dārilaros ñuhys (my Prince)..." the senior of them began, but the Prince ordered him to shut up with an irritable gesture. He was too angry at them and himself to listen to reports now. Dennis said that in the morning Aegon most resembled an old dragon: displeased, angry at the whole wide world, hissing and spitting poison—and all because of leg pains. Well, the guards deserved a dressing down.
Little Pasture turned out to be a hamlet of half a hundred houses scattered on the shore of a hot spring without any visible order. Between low houses built of black volcanic stone and covered with greening turf to keep heat, five or six kids of varying degrees of filthiness ran about, chasing chickens, none looking older than five years; on some roofs, lazily chewing grass, goats lay with a regal air. Vegetable patches were laid out near the houses, on which something grew—of all greenery, the Prince recognized only cabbage, and that only because he had seen its heads in castle kitchens.
When Aegon and his people (the Prince thought with pride that now he had full right to speak so) passed the first house, peasants began to come out onto the street; they were dressed simply, though they did not look like destitute ragamuffins: shirts, breeches, and dresses of undyed wool looked poor, especially against the background of Aegon's own red-and-black doublet, but sturdy. The Prince noticed that more than half the peasants preserved Valyrian heritage in themselves: white gold and silver hair, blue and violet eyes clearly dominated over Andal blood. The villagers, seeing Aegon on a horse, bowed from the waist, immediately recognizing a Targaryen in him.
Reaching a place that could be considered the center of the Pasture, Aegon stopped, not quite understanding what to do next? Ask for lodging? But one does not ask a bent peasant back, one orders it. And whom to ask? The youth cast a glance at Dennis, calling him for help, and the faithful servant did not fail this time either:
"Who is the elder? Qilōni uēpys iksos? (Who is the elder?)" he asked simultaneously in Common and Valyrian.
Scarce had Aegon time to be surprised at this when the gathered crowd parted, letting through a golden-haired man of some forty years. He, as it turned out, cleared the way for an old man who could well have remembered Maegor the Cruel, or even King Aenys. A sparse wreath of white hair surrounded his bald head strewn with senile spots; sagging cheeks drowned in a long white beard. The old man, as it turned out, was the only one in the whole village wearing something colored—a black surcoat with a red dragon was pulled over a brown shirt; the fabric, of course, was faded and worn, but three heads and wings were clearly visible.
"Valar morghūlis, dārilaros ñuhys! Jiōrna! (All men must die, my Prince! Welcome!)" the elder spoke in a jarring voice, bending together with everyone in a bow.
"Valar dohaeris (All men must serve)," answered Aegon.
Suddenly he thought such an exchange of greetings here and now was ironic to the extreme: a peasant reminds a Prince that the Prince too will not be master forever, that he too is mortal, like the last of commoners, and in response the Prince reminds of the duty of a serf and service. All this was very Valyrian.
"Gīmīlen daor dohaeriror ȳdras Valyrio (I did not know peasants spoke Valyrian)," he noted with a chuckle. "Otāpilen Valyrio āeksȳno ēngos issa (I thought Valyrian was the language of masters)."
The old man hesitated and began to choose words:
"Nyke jollōragon... jollōrtan... Nyke dohaertan... Zaldrīzdōron... (I study... studied... I served... At Dragonstone...)"
Aegon wondered if the elder understood him at all; he seemed to know Valyrian, but either in snatches, or had managed to forget thoroughly, since he began to confuse tenses, prepositions, and declensions. Taking pity on the old man, he switched to Common:
"What is your name, good man?"
The old man exhaled with relief:
"Darion, my Lord Prince."
"Are you the elder?"
"Yes, my Lord Prince."
"We need lodging. Do you have room for me and my people?"
"Little Pasture will be glad to provide shelter to a Prince of House Targaryen," Elder Darion answered with dignity and bowed. With these words he accepted a cup from some girl, dully gleaming in the sun either silver or steel, took a sip from it, and held it out to Aegon who had climbed out of the saddle. "I ask you to be my guest, dārilaros ñuhys (my Prince)."
Dārilaros accepted the cup with a chuckle and turned it in his hands. Old, almost certainly silver, though considerably darkened by time. Several years ago, as it seemed now, in another life, Aegon saw Grandmother Alysanne give especially faithful servants forced to leave service due to age small gifts as a reward for labor for the good of the suzerain—goblets, bowls, plates, daggers, rings. These trinkets cost the Targaryens nothing, even if precious, but every such gift caused a whole storm of loyal emotions; in the end, the beneficiary left to live out his days cradling the royal gift in his hands, which then passed from generation to generation along with stories of service at the court of dragon kings. So, Darion also served their family, and here, on Dragonstone—servants from King's Landing were not given such gifts.
Aegon squinted at Dennis and saw him nod barely perceptibly; receiving the sign, he emptied the cup. In it turned out to be wine—red and, by all appearances, from the Reach. Not too pretentious, like Dornish, it was cheap and did not enjoy the love of most nobility; this, however, was simple, but unexpectedly tasty, sweet, with some fruity notes.
The elder accepted the cup and invited the Prince to follow him with a gesture. His house turned out newer, higher, and larger than most neighboring ones—in this, presumably, his status and position in the village manifested. The windows in the house were small and instead of glass, to which Aegon was accustomed in castles and the Citadel, were covered with mica; though outside it was only beginning to get dark, inside it was already gloomy. The single floor in the house was divided into two unequal parts by a wooden partition abutting one side against the stove; in one corner stood several rough tables with bowls and cauldrons and benches—evidently, this was the kitchen,—at the other wall, under the side of the stove, stood several beds covered with woolen blankets. By the partition stood a pair of chests impossible to lift by look, and a curtain of dark fabric hid the passage to the room behind the wall.
Scarce had Aegon crossed the threshold when a terrible bustle arose around him from nowhere: Darion's daughters, daughters-in-law, and granddaughters found a chair with a high back and armrests (surprisingly decent), covered it with blankets and pillows, seated the Prince on it, moved it to the table, and very soon dishes of simple peasant cuisine began to appear before him out of nowhere. Fresh, still hot bread, a pitcher of water, a pitcher with that same Reach wine, pots and bowls with some porridge, vegetable stew, and braised lamb. Sending a piece of meat into his mouth, the Prince involuntarily recalled how Caraxes's meal felt in his First Dream: rancid, burnt outside and raw inside meat could not compare with soft and juicy lamb.
Aegon had already begun to eat, when suddenly he noticed that Darion and his household stood along the walls and looked at him attentively; from their look, a piece stuck in the Prince's throat. Swallowing with effort, he beckoned Dennis, standing at attention behind his right shoulder.
"Dennis, what is happening?" whispered Aegon. It was quiet in the house, so he suspected his question was perfectly audible to all its inhabitants.
"They are feeding you, my Prince," the servant answered in the same tone.
"I see. But why do they look at me?"
"Peasants cannot sit at one table with a lord, my Prince. They will wait until you have supped to eat themselves."
Aegon examined Darion's family carefully again; together with the elder of Little Pasture, eleven people huddled in the corners.
"Darion," the Prince called the old man.
"Yes, dārilaros ñuhys (my Prince)?" he approached.
"I am not accustomed to eating alone," pure lie, but eating under the attentive and expectant gazes of peasants was impossible. Not chase them out into the street? "You are the master of the house, so sit here."
With these words, he pulled one of the pillows from behind his back and moved it to the bench on his right hand.
"My sworn shield will sit opposite you, and behind you your family. Almost like at a feast in the castle, right?"
"Very like, dārilaros (prince)," nodded Darion, sitting on the offered place with an extremely confused look. Dennis, chuckling, sat nearby, masterfully tore off a chunk of bread, and began to ladle stew for himself. A little later, coming to their senses, the elder's family joined them. Wooden spoons began to clatter on wooden bowls, otherwise tense silence reigned at the table; somewhere in the middle of the meal, Aegon remembered that peasants probably ought to pray before eating, and since he sat at the head of the table, the sign for prayer should have been given by him. Almost slapping his forehead in irritation at his own oversight, he began to think feverishly how to rectify the situation; in any other place the Prince would only have waved away conventions—he himself entered the sept only to check how diligently and correctly the choir performed hymns of his authorship,—but he did not want to leave an unpleasant impression on the people of his house.
The situation, however, resolved itself. When the meal was finished, Darion poured the remains of the wine into Aegon's goblet and into his own clay cup, waited for Aegon to drink, after which he turned to the hearth where the fire still glowed.
"Ondoso Syrakso tepilla kisittā, zijo rijare kirimvosē (By the hand of Syrax, satisfied, we thank her)," with these words the elder splashed the wine into the fire. For some reason, Aegon subconsciously expected the fire to flare up even higher, become even brighter, but in reality, the smoldering brands only hissed, most of the remaining tongues of flame went out, and the rest danced somewhat very lazily on the coals.
He exchanged bewildered glances with Dennis, but the knight-servant only shrugged; he understood no more than his Prince. Meanwhile, the women began to clear the table, and Darion, scratching a chin hidden under a grey beard, addressed Aegon:
"We shall make a bed for you in the room, dārilaros ñuhys (my Prince)," evidently, this meant behind the partition. "Only forgive me, dārilaros (prince), old man that I am, for boldness, but allow me to lie there too, by the stove. Our nights are chilly, my bones ache, and tomorrow I must go for the flock..."
"I can understand you," Aegon chuckled and demonstrated the maimed leg, lightly tapping it with the cane for certainty. "Well, I allow it. Only my knight..."
"The knight will lie at the threshold of the Lord Prince," Dennis hastened to declare himself.
Darion led them into his little room, where stood two beds separated by the corner of the stove; by a small window place was found for another pair of chests, where, evidently, all the meager peasant belongings were kept. Ceding the widest bed to the Prince, the elder explained in an apologetic tone:
"Before, my old woman lay here while she was ailing, but when she was gone, so I sleep. A warm place, dārilaros ñuhys (my Prince), do not worry."
"And is it long since your old woman died?" inquired Aegon lazily, carefully sitting on the edge of the bed on which the quick daughter-in-law of the elder had already managed to change the linen. Not that he was truly interested in the family life of a peasant elder, but the laws of hospitality demanded polite and respectful treatment of each other not only from the host but also from the guest.
"Why, still under the Old King. Gods give memory..." Darion wrinkled his forehead. "Ah! In the same year as our Good Queen Alysanne. Her Grace passed away in the seventh month, and my Lyra another two later. From the Holy Week she lay flat, and here she began to get up for a couple of days, we rejoiced, but too soon... So the Stranger took her too."
The elder sighed, evidently remembering his wife; Dennis meanwhile managed to pull boots off the Prince and was now rubbing the leg, dispersing blood through it. The Reach wine turned out treacherous, and from what he had drunk Aegon's head buzzed; detachedly he thought this would help him fall asleep quickly. Scarce had the servant finished when he climbed under the blanket and slowly fell into a light sated doze characteristic of a man tired for the day and just eaten well. As if from afar he heard Dennis ask for a blanket for himself and settle beside him on the floor; how Darion shuffled back and forth, gave some order in an undertone to women clattering in the kitchen corner, shushed grandchildren, and climbed onto the bed with a grunt himself; how the peasant house gradually quieted, fell asleep.
Real sleep, however, did not come. Scarce had one of the elder's sons snored in the next room when the Prince surfaced from that blissful state of half-sleep-half-waking and opened his eyes, staring at the plank ceiling. Accumulated fatigue went nowhere, but it was displaced by thoughts rushing somewhere at a gallop. Aegon noted all the oddities of the past evening: from the welcoming cup of wine to supper and the strange prayer, if it was a prayer at all, at the end; then he jumped to the culprits of today's embarrassments and thought it would be worth checking how they were arranged, and then began to sort words for tomorrow's dressing down in the morning. Hardly could the Prince say how long he lay thus; it seemed to him it was already past midnight, but Maester upbringing made him doubt this. Below, wrapped in a blanket, sniffled Dennis, who always slept the sleep of the righteous; on the neighboring bed Darion tossed, sighing and coughing quietly into the pillow.
"What, can't sleep either?" whispered Aegon when silence became unbearable. He felt the old man also knew the guest was not asleep.
"No, dārilaros ñuhys (my Prince)," he answered quietly. "Bones ache—tomorrow will be rain."
Aegon chuckled soundlessly, but listening to himself, noted with surprise that his right ankle ached too; quite possibly overwork was the reason, but in the night darkness the old man's version seemed preferable.
"Yes, perhaps," agreed the Prince and, after a silence, added: "Darion, I want to ask you something..."
"Ask, dārilaros ñuhys (my Prince). I shall answer as I can."
"You can, I think. Whence do you know Valyrian? You spoke so confidently after supper, but to my question in the day could barely tie two words."
For a few moments silence hung in the room, and Aegon had time to imagine the old man was insulted by the question, or that he fell asleep at the wrong time.
"Baezemon taught me. He was an elder too. I was a boy and prepared to go into service at the Castle. He offered my father to teach me himself, father was terribly proud. They said the lords and ladies in the Castle would be pleased with me if I knew the high tongue. Baezemon always spoke only in it, I never heard a word of Andal from him."
"Hard, probably, it was," sympathized Aegon.
"Yes, I was not the most diligent student," the old man laughed quietly. "When Baezemon complained to father, he thrashed me across the back, called me ungrateful. Now I understand why."
"And did knowledge of... the high tongue help you?"
"Yes, dārilaros ñuhys (my Prince). I entered the Castle as a cupbearer in the year of Her Grace Visenya's death..."
"You saw Queen Visenya?" Aegon's surprise knew no bounds; the Conqueror's elder sister died in the year 44, sixty-one years ago, and Darion, it turns out, is even older.
"I saw, dārilaros ñuhys (my Prince). Only forgive me generously, there was nothing great in her anymore. A frail old woman, blustering, threatening, but barely moving her legs herself. When she was buried, I returned home. Thought my service ended. And Baezemon said then it was a sign of the gods and he needed to finish my education. I, young fool, first thought they wanted to give me to Maesters. What else was there to learn? He called me to him in the evening then and told about Valyria all night."
"He could not remember it," chuckled Aegon, who himself did not notice how he moved closer to the edge of the bed to hear better.
"But his great-grandfather remembered. Through him Baezemon knew how they lived in the Freehold, and how they fought, and how, forgive me, dārilaros (prince), they fucked, and how they prayed. That is what he began to teach me."
"How to fuck in Valyrian?" Aegon could not refrain from a barb. From somewhere below came Dennis's snort—evidently, the conversation woke him, but he showed no displeasure.
"You say such things too, dārilaros ñuhys (my Prince)," judging by the voice, Darion himself smiled broadly. "What is there to learn by eighteen years? I managed to lift a couple of skirts in the Castle, not just carried cups and poured wine. No, dārilaros ñuhys (my Prince), Baezemon taught me the faith of our ancestors. Told about gods, how they were glorified in ancient times, and how one must pray to them. Said I would be his successor."
"Priest?" not believing his own ears, asked Aegon.
"If you please, dārilaros ñuhys (my Prince). Baezemon called himself uēpir (old one/priest), so call I myself."
The Prince wondered how it happened at all: Baezemon became elder because he was a priest, or Baezemon became priest because he was elder?
"And what, you pray to Valyrian gods?" he asked.
"As we can," answered Darion and stirred on his bed.
"And Septons? Do they know about this? They must come to you if there is no sept."
"They come," something flashed in the old man's voice... not contempt, rather condescension. "Once a month, and even then not every one, and on Holy Week, of course. Well, we don't say much, what they ask—we answer. One asked here: saying, do you pray to gods? We say: of course, we pray, how not to pray. Well, he mumbled something, read from his book, gorged on stewed vegetables with meat gravy and ran back. And we did as we did in our own way, so we do. Got up from the table—thank Syrax, she does not like to starve and does not let us. If you were treated unfairly—pray to Meraxes the Merciful, she will turn her face to you. Keep the hearth always warm and never extinguish the fire yourself, it is a sin."
"It turns out, when we got up from the table, you prayed to Syrax?"
"Yes, dārilaros ñuhys (my Prince). Said everything as Baezemon taught, word for word. And in the mornings he rose before dawn and always lit vēzītsos (sun) from the sun."
From these words Aegon sat up in bed and stared where the old man should have lain.
"What did you say?" he asked almost in full voice, but cut himself short at once when Dennis hissed at him from below. "What did he light?! How? Show me!"
"Vēzītsos (The Sun) of dragon glass," answered Darion, surprised by such pressure. "And how he lit... Here in three words you cannot say, dārilaros ñuhys (my Prince), here one must see."
The elder fell silent, obviously deciding something for himself, and after some time delivered:
"I shall show you, dārilaros ñuhys (my Prince). You are a Targaryen, so you may. But need to rise before dawn."
"Wake me," demanded Aegon, climbing back under the blanket.
"Yes, dārilaros ñuhys (my Prince)," yawned Darion.
Soon his quiet snoring filled the room, Dennis joined him. Aegon was kept awake by thoughts that did not tire of swarming in his head and received a new reason now. The very fact that peasants proved better keepers of Valyrian heritage than dragonlords boasting of it hurt the Prince's self-esteem and family pride painfully. Nursing resentment in his heart, he did not notice how he fell asleep.
But scarce had he closed his lids and turned to the other side when someone shook him by the shoulder.
"Dārilaros ñuhys (my Prince)? It is time."
Aegon wanted to express everything he thinks about people hindering him from sleeping and explain in detail what awaits them if they do not leave him alone, but immediately remembered who wakes him and why. Darion, elder and priest of Valyrian gods, wanted to light obsidian. The Prince opened his eyes. Dennis busily pulled the blanket off him, paying no heed to dissatisfied hissing, and threw it over the youth's shoulders.
Darion, meanwhile, opened one of the chests, extracted something wrapped in rags from it, tucked it under his arm, and moved to the curtain, paying no heed whether Prince and knight followed him or not. Aegon, somehow pulling on boots, grabbed the cane and hobbled after, trying not to knock too much with it on the floor.
Beyond the threshold of the house reigned predawn gloom, already too light to be considered night, still too dark to be morning. Fog crept from the sea, and Aegon thought it might hinder the rite, but Darion hobbled purposefully and with an irritation-inducing vigor toward the nearest hill. Passing the last house, they still in single file—Darion, Aegon, and Dennis—climbed the treacherous slope hiding potholes and small stones in the grass; periodically Aegon stumbled and was ready to curse, but every time bit his tongue—any word seemed sacrilegious to him, and a tremulous feeling of the importance of what was happening extinguished rising irritation.
On the top of the hill a boulder a couple of feet long was discovered, on which Darion laid out his burden and began to unwrap the rag; under it turned out to be a polished disk some three or four inches in diameter of obsidian, black as the very embodiment of hopeless gloom.
Stroking its edges with fingers, the elder wiped the disk with the rag and spoke:
"This is vēzītsos (the sun). It came to me from Baezemon, and to him from his great-grandfather, and he kept it in his house in Valyria."
"Will you... light it?" curiosity finally woke up completely in Aegon. Vēzītsos (The Sun), of course, is not a Valyrian candle, but if the elder lights it... It means Aegon can too, and pouring blood for this is absolutely not necessary.
"Of course, dārilaros ñuhys (my Prince). I do this every day for how many years now. Only you and your ser step back a little," the old man vaguely moved his shoulder, and his gaze was already riveted to the brightening horizon. Aegon and Dennis retreated as they were bidden, and began to watch tensely the elder, somehow imperceptibly transformed into a priest.
Darion peered tensely into the gently pinking east, awaiting sunrise, and for some time nothing happened. Then, as if seeing some sign understandable only to him in the sky, the old man raised the obsidian disk with both hands over his head and spoke in a singsong voice:
"Vēzos sīmonis ondoso jaehoti tepilla sparo syt rāelza vȳho. Kostagon pōja ōños sikas tolvior tegor. Kostagon pōja ojehiknon rūsīr ilva kessa kesȳ tubī se tolvie tubir! (The Sun rises by the hand of the gods, giving life to all that is alive. May its light warm the whole earth. May its blessing be with us today and all days!)"
Scarce had the last word torn from his tongue when the first ray of the sun rising over the island touched the disk, and it flashed with that very light that was so familiar to Aegon. Unnatural flame sharply outlined every wrinkle on Darion's face, casting deep shadows in all directions, competing with the luminary itself.
But still it was not a candle. The light proved no more than a flash, a spark, a reflection, and lasted but a moment; scarce had Aegon blinked when the glow coming from inside the disk went out, leaving in Darion's hands only a piece of dragon glass illuminated by the rising sun. Nodding contentedly, he reverently kissed vēzītsos (the sun), wiped it again, and began to wrap it back in the rag.
"And that is all?" exhaled the Prince disappointedly.
"Yes, dārilaros ñuhys (my Prince). Nothing more is required—I asked blessing from the gods for us for today and..."
"I know the high tongue," Aegon cut him off, falling into irritation again. He expected miracles of Old Valyria, ancient wisdom, secret skills, and he was shown merely a simple ritual with a couple of simple prayers, which on inspection turned out no better than septon ones. Light obsidian, indeed!..
Catching his displeasure, the elder quickly finished packing and, mumbling something about idler-sons, hastened to hobble to the village. Aegon, all boiling inside with vexation, kicked a pebble under his feet with the cane.
"Did you expect he would have a Valyrian candle?" inquired Dennis quietly, as if truly admiring the sunrise.
"Yes," grumbled the Prince in response not immediately.
"Even Maesters in Oldtown have only four," reminded the sworn shield. "Did you truly think an old shepherd could have another lying around?"
"I know not. He did not tell all sorts of nonsense about this teacher-priest of his for nothing. Where did such a one come from? I thought Visenya herself was the last who practiced something similar."
Dennis hummed something indefinitely; having lived with the knight-servant for more than ten years, Aegon recognized the strange sound—Dennis made it to demonstrate he had his own opinion on this score, but no one was interested in it yet.
"Speak," cast the Prince.
"In fairness, My Prince, Darion and Baezemon are not the only ones who honor Valyrian traditions. It is so all over the Stone, even in Dragonport, and on Driftmark, as far as I know. In every village there is some old man, like Darion, or old woman, who memorize old words by ear and mutter them from occasion to occasion. Here my younger brother married last year: in the morning went to the sept, and by evening called an old man who lives on the neighboring street. He came with a candle, ordinary, of course, and an obsidian knife, well and married them in Valyrian fashion. They gave him a roasted goose for it. Usually make do with chicken and apple pie, but there the father-in-law was terribly glad he married off an only daughter, so he gave generously from the heart."
"But... why do we not know this?" asked Aegon confusedly. If at night the image of his family as keepers of Freehold traditions cracked dangerously, now it shattered into a thousand fragments with a deafening ring. "Why do you not speak of this?"
"And do they say Valyrian sword is sharp, and sea water salty?" answered Dennis question with question, who, it seems, was not a little surprised by the master's reaction. "Why speak of what is obvious to all?"
"It is not obvious to us. We do not observe these rules."
"Because you needed the Faith to rule Westeros," the knight shrugged and shivered. "For the sake of power, even worse is forgotten. Let us go, My Prince, for only you have a blanket."
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