Eiks Jaegaer
As Jaegaer expected, the road turned out disgusting; it was not about the Valyrian road at all—riding on smooth black stone was stupidly pleasant. However, the dull landscapes of dry stony plains on both sides of it were not at all like the fields and groves of the Orange Shore and the vicinity of Volantis; willy-nilly the gaze sought at least some water landmark, to which all inhabitants of the banks of the great Rhoyne are accustomed, but did not find it. It was impossible to hide from the cold wind rushing around like dust devils and knowing no obstacles.
His fellow travelers did not give pleasure either. Maerys seemed disgustingly satisfied with life; for him, this was a great adventure; the boy did not give a damn that his elder brother was actually forced to flee the city fearing for his life, accused of what he did not commit; he must have given even less of a damn that Laegon was dead as shitty Valyria itself.
The gracious Prince-cousin, having beaten him with his cudgel, imperturbably climbed onto his dragon and flew back and forth like a free bird, exploring the road ahead, returning back, flying to the sea splashing half a hundred miles from the road, or climbing into the steppes in search of game for his Vermithor. Sometimes they saw only a winged shadow gliding above them in the height for a day, but, as a rule, Aegon arrived in the evening, making it to supper. This was justified by the fact that he was the only one who could ensure that Laegon's kin did not think to take revenge for what Jaegaer did not do, and did not send assassins on his trail.
For the first couple of days Jaegaer did not want to talk to him. That he fucked their sister did not give the Prince the right to teach him, a Triarch's son, about life; in the end, he is only a year older than him! What could he know about life that Jaegaer himself had not yet learned? But playing the silent game constantly did not work; at some moment Aegon brought another piece of news that there was no pursuit, and the indestructible wall erected by the young eiks yielded, cracked, and Jaegaer did not notice how he was already conversing with his cousin, almost as before.
A few days later, when they passed by another ruin of a ravaged and abandoned city, Aegon deigned to descend to them from the heavens and explore the ruins together. In the dusty skeletons of palaces and towers, among the debris of collapsed bridges there was nothing remarkable, but the cousin and Maerys spent several hours circling the city, arguing about something of their own, bookish, and Jaegaer and Dennis trailed after them.
"What the Hell pulled him here?" grumbled the eiks, kicking a cobblestone from the road.
"To the ruins, my Lord?" asked the knight again in Andal, though Jaegaer himself spoke in Volantene. He knew the language of the Seven Kingdoms, of course—mother spoke with them in childhood both in Common and in Volantene; this continued until she was elected Triarch; after that, they switched to Andal very rarely in their family, when they needed to whisper in the presence of slaves.
"Both to the damn ruins, and to damn Essos," Jaegaer himself did not notice how he supported the conversation in Westerosi. "Were I legless, I would have died of boredom already."
"Prince Aegon is very stubborn and wants to live, and moreover wants to live well and interestingly."
"And does his family support him in this?"
"Of course. His brothers love him," said the knight with conviction.
"I love my brother too, but sometimes I want to wring his neck. This says nothing."
"So do you ask about his family or about how he ended up in Essos?"
"Some pointless conversation," thought Jaegaer with slight irritation, understanding that in many respects it became pointless because of him; but still he did not want to drop it, and the eiks, thinking a little, chose a topic:
"About the family. He told about Targaryens, but..."
"Want to hear how it looks from the side?" smiled Ser Dennis.
"Yes."
"Well, that is not difficult. His Grace is a little like Prince Aegon, he is kind and cares for the family. Precisely for the family, and not for the royal house. About the latter, however, too, but he does not forget that his family is not only princes, princesses, and dragonriders, but his brothers, daughter, cousin... Forgive me, my Lord, I explain poorly."
"I understood you," nodded Jaegaer. "King Viserys is an exemplary father of a family?"
"Something like that, my Lord. Prince Daemon is somewhat like you."
"Yes, Aegon said he is just as good-for-nothing."
"Not the most precise description. Prince Daemon is a warrior. Like you, my Lord."
"I have never been in a battle," admitted the eiks; why would he be so frank with a half-Andal? "Only training fights. I do not think that counts."
"Being a warrior is not only chopping enemies, my Lord," explained the Westerosi. "A true warrior is not afraid to challenge and not afraid to accept it. Of course, he must understand when it is worth doing, and when not..."
"With this I have problems," chuckled Jaegaer joylessly.
"You are young, my Lord. As they say in the Citadel, this vice is inherent in everyone, but one is quickly cured of it."
"One might think you are an old man yourself!"
"No, my Lord, but I have listened to them enough," chuckled the knight and fell silent.
They sat on a fragment of a column, watching Aegon and Maerys examine the pedestal of some destroyed statue; the only thing preserved from it—legs to the knees—indicated that the sculpture at least depicted a human, but Jaegaer was not completely sure—it would be like Valyrians to stick a dragon snout instead of a head. The knight sighed a couple of times, as if hesitating to ask or say something, but the eiks preferred to pretend he noticed nothing. Soon the bookworm-bores got tired of ruins, and Aegon in addition overworked the maimed leg, staggering on ground not the best for his walks, and they returned to the Valyrian road to the slaves waiting for them.
At night Jaegaer dreamed of those cursed races again. Drinking was a way to escape not only from nightmare reality by day, but also from nightmares at night; when by the cousin's order barren earth was watered with wine, and not him, Jaegaer said goodbye to peace again. This time he drove his chariot along the Black Walls again, only this time he whipped the horses as if not only the result of the race depended on it, but his life itself. His heart contracted with fear, and he did not know why. When the eiks gathered courage and turned back, he saw that the red chariot driven by Laegon almost caught up with him. Only the carriage was red not from paint, but from blood oozing between planks, and the charioteer looked exactly as he was found after falling from the Black Walls: broken, with protruding bone shards piercing white skin, resembling in nothing the man with whom Jaegaer spent his youth.
From horror seizing him the eiks screamed in sleep and screamed awake, sitting up in bed damp from sweat that broke out on him, though the winter night was cool, and the brazier cooled long ago. They shared a travel tent with Maerys, but the brother only grumbled through sleep and turned to the other side. Until dawn Jaegaer did not close his eyes, fearing to see Laegon's face again, on which a grimace of pain and realization that he is dying now froze forever. The eiks had not seen anything more terrible yet.
In the morning, while slaves struck their small camp, the cousin hobbled to him. Evidently, yesterday's walks through ruins were not in vain and Aegon was tormented by leg pains; that at night he was also kept awake by his nightmares strangely calmed, made the Prince more... human.
"You look lousy," remarked Jaegaer.
"You too," he did not remain in debt, leaning heavily on his white cane. "Maerys complained you screamed at night."
"Maerys always complains. As a rule, about me."
The cousin did not answer and continued to stand silently. This suited Jaegaer completely, he turned out to be in the shade—the winter Essosi sun did not warm, but shone just as brightly.
"The dead are dead, Jaegaer," finally delivered Aegon a truism.
"It is customary to mourn the dead."
"Mourn and grieve, not kill oneself over their death."
With this phrase the know-it-all finally infuriated Jaegaer. Jumping up, he grabbed the cousin by the lapels and hissed into his face:
"You did not know him!"
"Did not know," admitted the other, making no attempts to free himself.
"Laegon was my friend, understand! Best friend! First friend! Do you know what it is like—making friends among the Old Blood?! He was the first to speak to me when everyone poked fingers at me and called me a whore's son! Do you even imagine what it is like, to make a real friend when your own mother does not remember who your father is? Does not remember when and where you were conceived: in Lys or already in Volantis?!"
"Do not imagine," said Aegon compliantly. "Let me go, Jaegaer."
The eiks loosened his grip, expecting the cousin to recoil, run away, hit back. But he, contrary to everything, ran nowhere, but only looked at him point-blank with his bright green eyes.
"Did you kill your friend, Jaegaer?"
"No!"
"Then you are innocent of his death."
"But..."
"You are not guilty, cousin. Stop tormenting yourself and let Balerion accept Laegon's death."
"How do you know about Balerion?" the question burst out involuntarily—so great was the surprise. "No one speaks with us about the gods of Valyria, and certainly would not with you."
"They did not with me," grimaced the cousin in vexation and shook his head. "That is not the point. People die, Jaegaer, and sometimes it is not in our power to prevent it. One must somehow survive this, simply live on and remember the deceased. That is all we can do for him. Killing oneself is pointless, besides it is unworthy of you and me."
"Probably," grumbled Jaegaer reluctantly.
Aegon smiled and winked conspiratorially:
"Well, if so, then let us go choose a horse for me."
"You have a dragon, why do you need a horse?" said the eiks with bewilderment.
"I am tired of freezing in the heavens," waved off the cousin; both perfectly understood this was not true, but preferred to pretend they believed it.
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