Contrary to Dennis's promises and wishes, Aegon had no dreams: neither those ones, nor with Nerra's participation. The latter circumstance caused much greater regret. The nights were already cold and in the morning the grass silvered and sparkled in the rays of the rising sun from a light coating of frost covering it. Climbing out of the bundle of cloak and blanket in which he had wrapped himself at night, Aegon, limping more than usual, dragged himself around the corner to piss, cursing along the way the utterly idiotic decision of his sworn shield to sleep in a dilapidated tower without a roof and two walls, and not under a warm dragon flank. When Dennis joined him, the Prince grumbled displeasedly:
"Why did you need this tower? Cold as on the Wall. Better to have slept under Vermithor's wing, as always."
"At least it didn't stink of dragon," he shrugged lightly.
"Let it stink, but warm and no drafts."
"Then next time we shall sleep in a peasant barn. It smells there too, warm and no drafts."
Vermithor, catching his rider's insulted mood, decided to be insulted himself and roared offendedly, spreading his wings to meet the sun.
"And what are you displeased with, bronze-head?" Dennis chided him grumpily. "Should say thank you that you slept through the night without snoring fleas in your armpit."
Bronze-head, naturally, understood not a word of the Common Tongue, but snapped his jaws just in case and turned away. The dragon reconciled himself to Dennis's existence as his rider reconciled himself to his limp, and perceived him as some dependent part of the Prince, completely useless separate from him; in other words, the Bronze Fury considered the sworn shield something like Aegon's cane. Dennis himself, though grumbling at Vermithor's character, as a true native of Dragonstone hid deep reverence before the beast under prickly behavior, which the dragon, as Aegon understood, managed to discern and therefore forgave the grumbling in Andal.
After breakfast, the travelers spread the map of Andalos obtained from Karlaris on a piece of wall fallen from the tower.
"We are somewhere here now," the Prince poked a finger at the parchment, right in the middle of the Velvet Hills in the interfluve of the Little and Upper Rhoyne; it was closer to the border with Norvos here than to Pentos. "South of us is Ghoyan Drohe, but there is nothing to do there."
"Do you not want to visit Rhoynish ruins?" asked Dennis.
"I am not interested in water magic and prayers to the Rhoyne, if such words are still remembered there. The miracles of the Rhoynar did not help them, and will certainly not help me," Aegon waved him off. "If one believes the map, the Great Sept of the Smith is less than a day's journey from here. If we fly out now, we shall make it to the midday service."
"So, prayers in the Common Tongue interest you more?" the knight squinted mockingly.
"Not prayers, but holy springs. If one believes Pentoshi Septons, they possess healing properties."
"My Prince, was it not you who doubted the existence of the Seven yesterday at supper? And now you want to ask them for healing?"
Aegon pursed his lips displeasedly. He knew how his desire to get to one of the first seven septs looked, especially after yesterday's frank conversation. He himself hardly believed in parables and tales preached from the pulpit by Septons in Pentos, but having heard of them once, the Prince could not throw them out of his head. The blind gaining sight, lepers healed, hunchbacks straightened, the lame running—what was not told about miraculous springs. Aegon did not want to admit even to himself that the words of the priests stirred something in him; he had long ago reconciled himself to the fact that the days when he ran on two legs along the walls of the Red Keep to meet the dawn remained in distant carefree childhood and would never return.
However, something inside him stirred nonetheless, something forced him to ask himself: "What if?" Maester education immediately started wailing and sounding the alarm, dissuading and citing a thousand and fourteen arguments why it is impossible, but it was too late. At the very bottom of Aegon's soul not hope was resurrected, but its smallest and most timid sprout. Waking up the morning after the momentous feast in the Karlaris ancestral estate, Aegon decided it was worth trying, and convinced himself with the aid of the following arguments.
Firstly, they needed to go to Braavos, and this is almost on the way. Secondly, as a student of the Citadel he must question every fact and if possible verify it in practice and personal experience—he had such an opportunity, and it had to be used. Thirdly, if rumors are true, he will be rid of the limp, and if not, he will simply waste time; if he does not visit the wretched springs, he will be tormented by uncertainty all his life and regret the missed opportunity (albeit ephemeral).
Thus, the pilgrimage in the eyes of a not too faithful follower of the Faith acquired the appearance of a scientific experiment to which he decided to subject himself voluntarily. When the Prince told the Prince of Pentos he would go to Andalos springs for healing, he implied not only and not so much the consequences of poisoning by mussels grown in too warm water.
All these days Aegon managed not to think and not to remember the purpose of their journey through Andalos, managed to abstract himself from empty hopes and vain dreams, but the grave of the Valyrian warrior broke the armor he was erecting. A stone thrown into a pond generated circles on the water and raised silt from the bottom. Now the Prince wanted to get to the sept faster, crawl into the font of the spring, or wherever ablutions are performed, and walk out of it on his own two feet.
Dennis likely suspected his question was not too appropriate and hastened to translate it into a more practical plane:
"I would leave Vermithor here, my Prince."
"Why?" he responded not immediately.
"Andals," the knight shrugged. "What will they think if a dragon's shadow falls on their dearest sept?"
"They cannot rebuff us," Aegon snorted. "According to Kallio, their fortifications around septs are as old as these ruins. I do not think scorpions remain with them."
"I do not think so either. But do you want to check it?"
Thinking a little, the Prince nodded reluctantly; he did not want to risk Vermithor.
"Then we shall go on foot," Dennis decided for him. "Perhaps we shall manage to reach it today."
Ordering the dragon to wait for them here, Aegon and his sworn shield hoisted shoulder bags with some supply of victuals onto themselves and, checking the map once more, set off on the way. Although at first they walked quite briskly, soon the Prince remembered why he traveled on a dragon: the bag, despite its small size, began to bend him to the ground, and the right leg to tangle in the grass; Aegon began to lag behind, and Dennis without superfluous words shifted his things to himself; the pace had to be slowed too. When the sun had already passed the zenith, they came out onto the road—two half-overgrown tracks in the middle of a field—and on one of the western hills saw the bulk of the sept rising against the background of the sky greying due to gathering clouds.
"To make it before the rain," Aegon thought aloud.
"We shall make it if you take the bags and I carry you piggyback," suggested Dennis. The Prince imagined how it would look from the side and chuckled crookedly; the spectacle would have been amusing.
"No," he shook his head. "I shall reach it on my three. I do not think the gods will be deceived by the fact that I suddenly lost the use of my legs completely."
Having said this, he hobbled on. As they approached the hills, the air itself changed; if before it smelled of some meadow freshness, and the nose could catch even a special dampness and coolness always accompanying the coming of autumn, now the wind reaching the travelers brought with it smells accompanying human life activity. Small hamlets surrounding the sept began to appear on both sides of the road, each no more than a dozen households; peasants harvesting in their gardens and fields cast indifferent glances at the travelers, saw them off resting from righteous labors, and returned to their beds.
Near one of the villages, a nimble, desperately squealing piglet ran across their road, and following it a horde of kids of different ages rolled out onto the tract, yelling almost louder than the unfortunate boar. One girl lagged behind her friends and stared at the travelers; she was no more than five years old, and with exclusively childish immediacy she examined the strange pilgrims, mouth slightly open and picking her nose; a dirty, patched and re-patched dress was clearly too big for her. Aegon stopped to catch his breath and tried to smile at her, but the little girl immediately dashed off and ran after the others.
"They haven't reacted to me like that since Rhaenyra grew up," the Prince spoke discouragingly.
"I do not think it is because of your leg, my Prince," remarked Dennis. "If people come here for healing, surely she has seen freaks in her life already."
A little later, near another village, the travelers came out to some semblance of an outpost. Near a stone hut sunken into the ground grazed a pair of puny horses; by a fire lit right there sat and played knives seven soldiers. At the sight of the travelers, one of them rose and stepped forward, laying a hand on the sword hilt.
"Halt!" he shouted in the Common Tongue, but with some strange accent. "Who goes there?"
"We are pilgrims," Dennis gave voice and pulled a chain with a silver seven-pointed star from under his cloak; Aegon immediately followed his example. "My friend here is lame, well, you see yourself. Heard about your springs, so wanted to pray, and ask the Mother and Smith for blessing and help."
"That is a righteous deed," the guard answered sedately.
His tone, befitting rather a merchant or petty lord, contrasted sharply with his appearance: a frankly trashy chainmail in which links were missing was pulled over a canvas jacket, and covered by a colorless woolen surcoat with an embroidered seven-pointed star. As befits an Andal, the soldier was fair-haired and black-eyed, wore an uncombed beard and a wart on the right cheek; he smelled of sweat and garlic. Surveying them with an almost uninterested gaze, he said:
"Make a contribution for the adornment of the sept and you may pass."
Aegon barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes.
"How much?" inquired Dennis.
"Depending on what money," the guard chuckled.
"Pentoshi towers."
"Then one gold and seven silver."
The Prince hid indignation behind a cough. A Pentoshi gold coin bearing the image of a crowned tower was three times smaller than a Westerosi golden dragon, and the share of gold in it was not so great, but the Sept's appetites still unpleasantly surprised. If such prices are everywhere there, the money they took with them will be spent in a few days. Dennis meanwhile, mumbling something under his nose, poured the named sum from a purse and handed it to the guard.
"I do not recall duties for entering a sept being established in The Seven-Pointed Star," Aegon could not refrain from a remark.
"Nothing is said about horse-lovers in The Seven-Pointed Star either," guffawed one of the soldiers sitting by the fire and, as it turned out, listening to the dialogue.
"Yes," nodded the first soldier, biting each coin. "A horde of pagans will rather accept a gold coin than an iron arrow."
"And they still call themselves warriors!" shouted a third.
"Pass," the senior guard graciously permitted, hiding the money in a purse on his belt. Aegon did not doubt that part of the duty would certainly be distributed among the soldiers; doubts, however, arose about what part they would transfer to the Sept. "Do not draw swords from scabbards, do not get into fights, do not drink wine, obey Septons and the guard in everything. If you hurry, you will make it to the evening service."
"And where to stay?" Dennis asked about the pressing matter.
"Once you pass the Bowing Star, turn right—the hospice of the Mother of Mercy is visible there."
The guard waved a hand in parting, ordering not to delay, and returned to his comrades continuing to toss a dagger. Aegon measured the distance to the hill with the Sept on top with his eyes: no more than five miles remained to it, but the road already began to rise, and walking did not become easier from this. Sighing heavily, the Prince hobbled after Dennis who had gone ahead.
During the damnably long day of the damnably long foot march, the Prince managed to get damnably tired, and it took the travelers more than an hour to climb up; during this time they twice heard the bells of the Great Sept of the Mother—the evening service managed to begin and end when they finally reached the Bowing Star. The stone obelisk turned its polished side to the valley, over which dark grey gloom of night already crept; under the seven-pointed star carved on it burned several dozen candles.
"I wonder, could Vermithor drag it away?" inquired Dennis aloud.
Skeptically looking over the block, Aegon inclined his head to his shoulder.
"Probably could. Only what for? It will look wild in the Conqueror's Garden."
"As a gift to the High Septon."
"Ah, well only so," the Prince chuckled. "Only a dragon will tire dragging such a pebble all over Essos too. Where is that hospice?"
As was said, they turned right from the Bowing Star and entered the town surrounding the Great Sept. Houses were built of stone—trees in the vicinity were a rarity, as Aegon managed to notice—and covered with straw, which was in abundance; low structures huddled lonely to each other; some lacked shutters, or even doors, and now, abandoned by their inhabitants yesterday or decades ago, they grinned threateningly with black gaps. On the threshold of one such empty house sat a rat and stared insolently at the travelers passing by; Aegon knocked the ground with his cane to scare it away, but it only lazily scratched itself and continued to portray the mistress.
The street was clearly once paved—shards of slabs with which roads were lined came across under feet here and there—but over the years and centuries passed since the moment of former greatness, a layer of earth had managed to grow over the stone from dust, mud, and shit. There were few passersby on the street, the late time told, but for some reason, it seemed to Aegon that there were far more empty houses in the town than inhabitants. The closer they got to the center, the more illuminated windows from behind closed shutters were encountered, but confidence in the correct choice of road did not appear.
The Prince had already drawn air into his chest to inquire if they were mistaken somewhere, when the street, wagging for the last time, led them to a small square. In its center loomed a ten-foot statue of the Mother holding a pitcher with a cracked neck in her hands, from which a trickle of water lazily flowed into an overgrown fountain bowl. Behind it stood a white stone two-story building with a flat roof, cracks snaking along its facade; on the sides of the entrance framed by a portal burned torches illuminating stars carved nearby and an inscription over the door: "The Mother's Mercy shall shield thee from all evil."
"Evidently, we are here," Dennis voiced the obvious.
The wooden door of the hospice, heavy even in appearance, was bound with iron and had a knocker, which the knight knocked. For some time nothing happened, but when Dennis already took the knocker again, bolts rattled and the door swung open. Behind it, peering anxiously into the twilight, was a lean middle-aged woman in a grey Septa's habit with a tallow candle in her hand; a headscarf tightly framed her sharp face, and a metal star dangled on a chain on her chest.
"Greetings," Dennis greeted her. "My friend and I have been on the road all day, and we were told one could stay overnight here. If needed, we can pay..."
"Rich man and poor man are equal in the eyes of the Seven," the woman said strictly. "The Mother is merciful, and Her protection extends over all the suffering, money is unknown in this house. Come in."
With these words, she stepped aside, letting them forward. Passing a rather spacious stone (and therefore cold) anteroom, the travelers found themselves in a spacious hall filled with long benches and tables, at which, listlessly knocking with wooden dishes, supped some two dozen pilgrims. At the far end burned a hearth by which another couple of women in grey robes bustled. The Septa silently made an inviting gesture with her hand, and Dennis and Aegon sat shoulder to shoulder at the nearest table; another servant of the Faith, a small and fat old woman, placed two steaming plates before them.
"My name is Septa Edith," finally introduced herself the woman who met them and pointed to the old woman. "Partake with us of the humble gifts of this land. When you finish, proceed to the sept."
"Did we not miss the evening service?" inquired Aegon, impatiently fidgeting on the hard bench in anticipation of the long-awaited supper.
"Missed," Septa Edith bowed her head with regret. "But the sisters and I read prayers for the coming sleep for all lodgers."
"Well yes, of course," muttered the Prince, trying to recall how long this could drag on.
"Afterward Septa Elinor will escort you to your beds. At sunrise the bell of the Great Sept will ring and one can attend matins. We serve breakfast immediately after it."
"We thank you, Septa Edith," nodded Dennis, trying to hint to her that enough words had already been said.
She, however, had her own opinion on this score:
"Help to neighbors is pleasing to the Seven, and each of us must ask himself what he can do for his brother or sister in the Faith. Any help, any feasible participation is a great benevolence. But you must be weary. May the Father bless this food and those partaking of it..."
Reading a prayer that seemed outrageously long to Aegon, Septa Edith traced the sign of the seven-pointed star in the air and finally moved away to the hearth. The travelers, exchanging expressive glances, immediately grabbed wooden spoons. In his plate Aegon discovered a rye flatbread torn into seven pieces, a couple of boiled carrots, a potato, and an incomprehensible greyish-white slimy gruel matted into some lump. As he feared, not a hint of meat.
Poking the strange something with a spoon, Aegon turned bewilderedly to the knight already gobbling up the small supper with both cheeks, and, unable to hide disgust in his voice, inquired:
"What is this, Dennis?"
"Boiled onion, my Prince."
"Is this eaten?"
"Well, you eat roast with onion, do you not? Tastes almost the same. Eh, pity, no salt..."
Aegon stared at the contents of his plate as if Septa Edith had put a live toad in his plate.
"Fast, dearies, more is not allowed," explained the fat old woman in a loud whisper, placing two clay cups before them. But, evidently, despair and anguish appeared so clearly on Aegon's face that she, taking pity, walked away and soon returned with two potatoes in each hand, plonking them into the plates of the dumbfounded Westerosis. "Only do not tell Septa Edith."
Aegon looked at the plate again; there seemed to be more food, but the look became even drearier. Raising eyes to heaven, the Prince held back moans and curses tearing out, saying quietly instead:
"How good that we did not take Vermithor with us. He certainly would not have observed the fast."
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