Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen
A week before Holy Week of the year 106, the Red Keep was seized by a joyful excitement, to Rhaenyra's great delight: the royal court always celebrated the turning of the year with grandeur, regardless of the season. This time, the festive mood spread even to the dull septas, who grumbled that holy days ought to be met with fasting and prayer: a white raven had arrived from the Citadel, and Grand Maester Mellos had announced the end of winter. Her parents' faces also glowed with relief and the anticipation of happiness—Mother was pregnant again, and the arrival of spring was deemed by all a most auspicious sign.
"When your grandfather was born, Princess, he was immediately nicknamed the Spring Prince, because spring came to Westeros a week after Queen Alysanne was delivered of her burden," Mellos explained to the girl, ladling finely minced meat with milk for the white raven. "Your father is called the Spring King not so much because he is the son of the Spring Prince, but because the Old King passed away in the last days of winter. If the Gods are merciful—and they shall be—and all ends well, it will be fitting to call your House the Spring Dynasty."
Rhaenyra liked Mellos more than Runciter; the old Grand Maester had been tedious, slow, and dull-witted, whereas the new one (though he too was old) seemed a good-natured grandfather whose lessons were not too boring. Of course, they were far from the lessons of Uncle Aegon, who could recount the most uninteresting things so captivatingly that Rhaenyra did not always wish to leave them. But Uncle had been traveling in Essos for a year and a half, and she was cramming "Farewell to Valyria" at his behest. "Aenar's Song" seemed too weepish to her for a grown lord, "Daenys's Song"—too incomprehensible, so she had learned only the third part, "Gaemon's Song," which resembled the furious and wrathful roar of flame in the vent of the Dragonmont.
Gradually, Rhaenyra convinced herself that she and Uncle had "agreed" only on one part, and not all three, so when news arrived from Pentos that the King's youngest brother would return to the capital on Father's Day, to which less than a week remained, panic seized the Princess. Mother, in answer to complaints about the traveler's premature return and the general injustice of the universe, said that one ought to have thought of this earlier, and now she would have to confess to Uncle. Father merely smiled (for some reason not too cheerfully) and ruffled her hair, saying:
"I had forgotten to think of it, and he even more so, since he wrote us so rarely. Do not fret."
But Rhaenyra knew that Uncle Aegon never forgot anything, and so she tormented Alicent with ceaseless attempts to make up for lost time. Together they fled to the Godswood, where, hidden from the septas' gazes, the Princess tried to reproduce from memory the poem that occupied three weighty scrolls for her friend. It came out poorly; Rhaenyra confused things, corrected herself, stumbled, and Alicent could help or prompt her in naught—she had never mastered Valyrian and did not understand the simple difference between issa and issi.
On the night before Father's Day, Rhaenyra tossed in bed sleeplessly all night, against her will recalling scattered verses with the lamentations of Aenar the Exile and the dreams of Lady Daenys. In the morning, the royal family set out for Visenya's Hill, where amidst the unfinished construction of the new great sept, the court prayed for the Father's mercy; the utterly sleep-deprived Princess successfully slept the whole way to the sept, and then nodded off through the entire service, which seemed endless. Neither the fresh breeze wandering amidst the columns and uncovered walls nor constant pokes from Alicent helped her come to her senses.
"You will leave bruises on me," hissed Rhaenyra to her friend.
"And you, do not sleep," the confidante did not remain in debt.
But everything in the world, praise the Gods, has its end, and after the sevenfold blessing, the Most Devout finally released them in peace. Scarce had their carriage returned to the Red Keep when the Inner Yard resounded with a guard's cry:
"Dragon in the air! Dragon above the bay!"
Everyone, without conspiring, poured out onto the street and began to crane their necks, striving to discern something in the clear spring sky. After a couple of minutes of agonizing waiting, during which time Rhaenyra managed to rejoice, be frightened, and rejoice again, and her heart—to gallop off to beat madly somewhere in her throat, a rolling roar flew over the Blackwater, and in the next moment, Vermithor flashed over their heads like a bronze arrow. Everyone gasped in shock, and Rhaenyra heard one of Father's courtiers mutter:
"Damn it, I did not think he was still alive!"
The Princess cast a withering glance at the insolent fellow, and he, sensing the attention, cut himself short and hastened to mutter some excuses that, well, he did not mean that and in general, it is a great happiness that the Prince has returned. Rhaenyra snorted disdainfully.
"Rhaenyra!" Mother called to her, scarce had the first shock receded. The Queen stood supporting her rounded belly with her hands, and beside her, Father watched the flight of the Bronze Fury with a detached air; Mother made an expressive face and nodded barely perceptibly toward the Holdfast—need to change.
"Mo-other!" Rhaenyra knew resistance was useless, but tried to feign indignation anyway—let them not think she surrendered easily.
"Quickly!"
"Let us go," whispered Alicent, leading the Princess away by the arm. "He will land in the Dragonpit anyway, not here."
Naturally, Vermithor did not land in the yard of the Red Keep, but circled over the city for another hour, which is almost a whole eternity. Even longer, it seemed, Uncle took to get from Rhaenys's Hill to Aegon's Hill. In this time, the whole court managed to gather in the Great Hall. Father ascended the Iron Throne and set Blackfyre before him; he had a formidable and forbidding air—brothers are not met with such a stern face after separation. Rhaenyra wanted to ask him what the matter was, but there were already too many excited lords and ladies around, and Father sat too high.
Two luxurious weirwood chairs with soft upholstery were placed for her and Mother, and the Princess literally drowned in hers—so soft were the pillows. Alicent settled behind her shoulder on a simpler chair; on the other side of the Iron Throne, members of the Small Council lined up, headed by her father Lord Otto, thoughtfully chewing his ginger mustache. At the very last moment, Uncle Daemon slipped out from nowhere, in armor, the gold cloak of the City Watch, and with Dark Sister on his belt. Unlike Father, Uncle smiled, and even managed to wink at Rhaenyra.
At this very moment, fanfares sounded and the herald, straining himself, proclaimed:
"His Highness Prince Aegon Targaryen!"
The massive doors slowly opened, and Uncle appeared on the threshold of the throne room. The Prince walked deliberately slowly, and his white cane tapped ringingly on the stone flags. A sigh rolled through the crowd like a wave, breaking against the foot of the Iron Throne, and Rhaenyra, and Alicent, and Mother too—all shared it. Through the assembly of great and small lords of Westeros, dressed in their finest furs, armor, doublets, gowns, and dresses, having donned gold chains and precious necklaces, in all the power and glory of the Old Freehold walked a true son of Valyria.
For the occasion of his return, Uncle Aegon had clad himself in multilayered tunics; the upper one, the color of dark Dornish wine, the color of blood, was adorned with gold embroidery. On the strip of the hem, the family three-headed dragons coiled in familiar rings. A wide and immensely long sash encircled his waist several times, the free end of which Uncle had thrown over his left elbow; on the sash, amidst tongues of flame, dragons also writhed in a dance, and Rhaenyra was ready to stake all her dresses that they were embroidered with real rubies. A coal-black cloak was thrown almost carelessly over his shoulders, fastened with a large clasp with a large piece of amber.
The Princess did not immediately notice that rings of dull grey metal, mimicking dragon claws, graced Uncle's fingers—one could scratch eyes out with such things, flashed through her mind—and from his loose silver hair, as if directly from the skull, sprouted similar horns, like a dragon's. On his neck rested a massive necklace, very heavy even in appearance, with large rubies. Rhaenyra had already seen such metal, but in the Seven Kingdoms it was used differently, and so she did not immediately recognize it; who in their right mind would waste precious Valyrian steel on jewelry?! Madly, madly beautiful, but... If one can buy a whole army for a Valyrian steel sword, then how much is the necklace worth?
In reverent silence, broken only by rare whispers of the most unrestrained courtiers, Uncle Aegon hobbled to the Iron Throne with head held high, as if he bore not all the weight of jewelry and clothes. Uncle smiled, but not at all as Father and Uncle Daemon usually smiled. In his smile there was no royal benevolence, no hidden danger that was in Daemon's smile. Aegon Targaryen smiled as dragons smile—that was what his niece could compare him with.
Meanwhile, the Prince attentively swept his gaze over those gathered beside his father's throne, and deliberately slowly bent in a low bow; the ring-"claws" scraped unpleasantly on the stone flags. Uncle straightened just as slowly, thoughtfully examined his fingers, and licked them:
"In one's father's house, even the dust tastes sweet," he spoke loudly enough for all to hear. "How pleasant to return home and see that the very same King sits on the Iron Throne, and beside him are the very same faces."
Rhaenyra was no fool, and immediately understood that Uncle spoke not of the whole court, but of the Small Council, more precisely, of the Lord Hand. Alicent understood this too—the Princess heard the folds of her dress creak in involuntarily clenched fists. While the lords and ladies digested this ornateness, two more men approached Uncle Aegon: the first was Ser Dennis Greyhead, the Prince's sworn shield, whilst the second Rhaenyra saw for the first time. In appearance, he was of the same years as Uncle, the white gold of hair and bright amethyst eyes betrayed pure blood of Old Valyria in him, and clothes, only slightly inferior to Uncle's, spoke of his wealth. Judging by the bewildered glances and murmur in the crowd, no one knew him.
"However," the Prince continued as if nothing had happened. "One must give this court its due: it has remained true to its tastes. This is praiseworthy. You see, Jaegaer, we have always had two types of fools: the smaller one, and the lame one. The dwarf-fool is the very same, but they have taken someone for my place. Hey, Mushroom, with whom do you joke jokes now?"
"Just so, m'lord," the fool responded. "In essence, with no one. Only with myself, about myself, and about my faithful little friend. It is boring without you."
"I do not believe it. With such a little friend, it is never boring."
Mushroom rolled with laughter, comically shuffling his feet; several stifled chuckles followed, but the court continued to keep silence. As did Father on the throne.
"Who are you, My Lord?" Uncle inquired.
"Ser Larys Strong, My Prince," the other responded not immediately.
Rhaenyra had seen him several times in the corridors of the Red Keep and every time could not suppress a squeamish grimace: the Master of Laws' younger son was ugly and unhandsome. Both his legs were bent in arcs (Alicent said he was taken from his mother's womb thus), he himself was stooped, unkempt, and sullen. Uncle Aegon, of course, was also clubfooted, but this did not hinder him from looking after himself, being affable and friendly.
"Ser?!" Uncle was surprised. "Even I am not a Ser, and you have one crooked leg more than I. Do they take such as us into knights now?"
"I am the King's Confessor. According to the statutes of King Jaehaerys, the Confessor has the same status as a swordsman sworn to the crown."
"Is that so. So you are a man of law?"
"Yes, My Prince."
"I ought to have guessed. Lord Lyonel is raising a worthy replacement for himself, I speak this without any irony. In any case," Uncle bowed shallowly. "Grateful that you held my place of lame fool. But I am home, so you may return to your direct duties."
"Enough clowning, Aegon," Father cut him off sharply; his voice was stern and, what was quite unusual for Rhaenyra, anger was heard in it.
Uncle offered another bow to the throne, this time completely serious.
"I obey the Sovereign."
A viscous silence hung. Rhaenyra wanted to look at how Father angers (truly a rare spectacle), but she knew she should not turn around—it would be noticed at once. Having held an ominous pause, the King said:
"Do you know how many times your death was reported to us?"
"Forgive me, My Sovereign, but rumors of my death proved somewhat exaggerated," Uncle smiled.
"I asked you to be more careful with the Magisters. And what did you do? Already from Pentos a report came to me that you were poisoned!"
"They served stale shellfish for supper; small wonder everyone felt ill."
"I was told you involved yourself with some sect in Andalos, nearly went into hermit septons."
"Merely a small pilgrimage," the Prince objected, shrugging carelessly. "Moreover, one can scarce call one of the Great Septs of Andalos a sect."
"And Braavos? Ser Warrick said you were attacked on the very second day."
"Such is Essosi politics, Sovereign. Perchance it will flatter you if I say they tried to kill me with the aid of a Faceless Man?" a murmur rolled through the Hall; Rhaenyra knew the Faceless Men were dangerous hired assassins, but it seemed everything was far more serious. "In any case, their professionalism proved exaggerated—the result of their work is before you."
"Is that why you involved yourself in a accursed war, for which the Seven Kingdoms have no concern?!"
"Yes. And also for the sake of money, including for the royal treasury, and a Braavos grateful to us. Allies are not scattered to the winds."
"Do you have any idea what rumors reached us?"
"To be honest—no, but I am very interested."
"We were told Vermithor drowned in the Shivering Sea."
"Only Ibbenese drowned in it."
"That Norvos marches on you with a gigantic army."
"Fifteen thousand poorly trained heretics worshipping the wrong goat—that is no army."
"That you were shot down over Lorath."
Here Uncle shrank a little and pronounced in an apologetic tone:
"Of all said, only this is true. But Vermithor and I did not become a new Rhaenys and Meraxes."
"What happiness," Father cast out venomously. "Then you were seen flying toward the Sorrows."
"We skirted them in a wide arc."
"We were told you were held hostage in Selhorys."
"They simply did not know where to lodge me."
"And then you send this letter from Volantis. You did not even apologize!"
"And for what am I to apologize, brother?" the Prince cast out sharply. "For bringing a million dragons to your treasury? Or for visiting our last aunt?"
"You could have written more often," the King grumbled.
"I would look at how you would live in the Black Walls and whether you would write home often."
"And then you were expelled from these Walls in disgrace!"
"I flew away at Aunt Saera's request."
"And she sent you to damned Mantarys! Why not to the Valyrian City itself?"
"It is hard to get there, you know..."
Father sighed wearily; the royal mantle rustled, and then the tap of heels on steps rang out. The King spoke wearily:
"Six letters, Aegon. Six letters in a year and a half. And if something had happened to you?"
"But it did not happen," Uncle was contrition itself. "I am no longer a boy. And unlike you all, I managed to do some fighting."
"And we all managed to miss you," Father said, standing before his younger brother.
Blackfyre finally rested in its scabbard with a melodic ring, the King opened his arms.
"Come here, Daemon," he beckoned the other uncle, and all three embraced briefly—exactly enough to show the court that the Royal House is still united, and the dragon has three heads again. When they pulled away from one another, Uncle Aegon announced in an official tone:
"My Sovereign, our aunt, Princess Saera Targaryen, sends you her greeting and congratulations on the occasion of your coronation."
"A trifle late, but I thank her," Father chuckled. "I heard she settled in Lys?"
"In Volantis, Your Grace. She was acknowledged as Old Blood, granted rights of citizenship, and now she lives within the Black Walls. She was even Triarch, moreover, she managed to be elected four times!"
"Well, now our relations with the Freehold will go well. Since Targaryens sit on both sides of the Narrow Sea, we shall agree somehow in a family way."
"For this, Aunt will have to become Triarch again," Uncle remarked and stepped aside. "My Sovereign, allow me to present our cousin to us. This is Jaegaer, eldest son of Princess Saera Targaryen."
"Jaegaer?" Father asked again.
"Aunt has a very peculiar sense of humor."
"Sovereign," the one named Jaegaer bent the knee before the King. "It is a great honor for me to stand before your throne and the throne of my ancestors."
He spoke Common well, but by the way he drew out certain vowels, it was evident this tongue was not native to him. Rhaenyra closed her eyes for a moment and rejoiced that she could have identified him as a native of the Eldest Daughter by accent alone—Uncle Aegon would have been pleased.
"Rise, cousin. We are always glad of kin. Welcome to the Red Keep, be my guest."
"I thank you, Sovereign," the Volantene said, but did not rise from his knees. "But I am not here for the sake of hospitality. I fall at your feet in an hour of deep need. By force of... certain circumstances, I was forced to leave Volantis and henceforth shall never return there. I ask Your Grace to accept me into service; my sword and my loyalty belong to you."
With these words, he laid a scabbard with an immensely long sword at the King's feet. The King silently bent down and picked up the weapon; the wavy blade was freed with a quiet singing sound.
"Well of course, Valyrian steel," Father looked duly impressed. "Do all Old Blood carry such things?"
"No, Sovereign. I took it myself. In battle."
"Then you are worthy to bear it as my knight. What is your full name, cousin?"
"Jaegaer, Your Grace. I do not consider myself entitled to bear the same name as you."
A whisper ran through the crowd of courtiers. Rhaenyra had been told that Princess Saera fled the Red Keep and led a not too decent life, and she already understood what that meant. Alicent always lowered her voice in such cases and spoke in a terrible whisper of "dubious origin," Mellos called it "illegitimacy" in Maester fashion, and Uncle Daemon—"bastardy."
Evidently, Father understood this too, since he stood for some time with head tilted to one side. Finally, he asked:
"Do you know the oath?"
"Yes, Sovereign. I swear to be faithful and keep true allegiance to His Grace Viserys Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, as well as his heirs and successors. So help me the Gods in this."
Father touched the alien sword to the Volantene's shoulders in turn and proclaimed:
"Rise, Ser Jaegaer Ilileon. Henceforth you are our knight. I return this sword to you, that you may serve me and the Seven Kingdoms faithfully and truly."
Timid claps rang out, growing into a hum of applause, not too orderly, not too joyful, and not too sincere. For any other baseborn, the courtiers would have rejoiced more actively, but this one was a stranger, and a stranger twice over—a bastard born across the sea. Rhaenyra joined Mother's polite applause, and Alicent, taking advantage of the noise, quickly bent to her and asked in a whisper:
"Why did he call him Leleon? What does that even mean?"
"Ilileon," the Princess corrected her friend and giggled, having unraveled Father's ambiguity. "Īlilion is a crossing. Ser Jaegaer of the Crossing."
"That makes sense," Alicent nodded meaningfully.
Meanwhile, Ser Jaegaer managed to rise from his knees and embrace his newfound cousins, and Rhaenyra could examine him better. He, naturally, was very handsome—only Valyrians are such—stately, broad in the shoulders, and almost equal in height to Uncle Aegon, and he was always tall as a tower. His white-gold hair was cut short in the Andal fashion—men in their family did not cut their hair so short. A smile of relief shone on his handsome face, and amethyst eyes glowed with timid hope. Thinking a little, the Princess concluded that she rather liked the new relative than not, but he would have to conquer the court's favor.
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