Prince Aegon Targaryen
Quite logically, Viserys did not wish to send a raven with written apologies; after all, the admission of a royal error could cause considerable damage to the reputation of the Iron Throne and turn it into a genuine laughingstock. Therefore, instead of black wings, bronze wings set off for the Vale, and they carried not black tidings written in ink, but a verbal message and an invitation to return to the Red Keep, which Prince Aegon was to deliver.
Circling the castle, Aegon noticed burnt bald patches in the fields, traces of Caraxes' repasts, and discovered the Blood Wyrm himself on one of them. The Prince still felt ill at ease every time he saw his brother's dragon (his uncle's dragon). Even years later, images of the Second Dream rose before his gaze: rancid mutton fat dripping from dragon fangs, the taste of burnt yet raw meat scalding his tongue, and the Myrish arrow still piercing Prince Aemon's throat. What would have been, bad he inherited the Iron Throne? What would Westeros have been like under King Aemon the First? What use guessing, Aegon pulled himself up, and, moving the handles, directed Vermithor to the ground.
Under Caraxes' welcoming clucking, they landed on one of his old feasting grounds, the one closer to Runestone. Climbing out of the saddle, the Prince nearly stumbled over charred bones scattered everywhere. Dennis, however, failed to avoid the small trap and cursed:
"Why the hell do they not clean up after themselves?!"
"Who? Dragons?" chuckled Aegon.
"Even dragons! What does it cost them to work their jaws better? They would digest a piece of granite!"
"Sated, that is why they are squeamish. In the Pit and on the Stone, they are looked after and cleaned up after, but here who wants to look after winged death?"
"Andals—what can you take from them?"
The Prince grunted and hobbled toward the castle. The hilly coast by the Bay of Crabs, on which stood Runestone, the ancient stronghold of the Royces, met Aegon, Dennis, and Vermithor with almost Sothoryos heat—summer was coming into its own, and the spurs of the Mountains of the Moon were completely under its power. In flight, this was not felt so strongly, but scarce bad they landed when the sun began to bake, and by the time they reached the village huddled under the castle walls, Aegon had managed to sweat in his black leather flying doublet.
The village where the Royces' subjects lived was something between the Great Yard on Dragonstone and Dragon's Haven: it had clearly outgrown the title of village but still fell short of the status of a town. Although it had its own sept where several novices even lived, the temple of the Seven remained the only stone building outside the walls of Runestone. There was only one road here, winding from behind the hills to the castle, but it too left much to be desired—the compacted stone crumbs from which it was made crumbled in all directions, overgrown with weeds, and made a completely unpleasant impression. The inhabitants, though they should have already become accustomed to dragons in the sky, looked at the arrivals warily, if not unfriendly.
"Were we not supposed to be met?" inquired Dennis.
"We were," nodded Aegon. "But be I damned if I wait in this accursed heat in this accursed doublet until Lady Rhea deigns to come out of the gates."
On the approach to the castle, its inhabitants finally came out to them; a shortish man in a rusty-orange doublet appeared from the gates, accompanied by two guards.
"My Lord Prince," the man bowed very reservedly, and from the height of his stature, Aegon saw an extensive bald spot covered in front by a wisp of pitch-black hair. "My name is Ser Gunthor Royce, I am the castellan of the castle. On behalf of Lady Rhea, I am glad to welcome you to Runestone."
Aegon wanted to say something about the amount of joy reflected on the castellan's face, but instead made do with a dry nod. In the end, Ser Gunthor himself had done nothing to him, and he had exchanged barbs and pinpricks with the Lady of Runestone herself fully three years ago—quite enough time for well-bred and sensible people to recall the rules of propriety.
"Regrettably," continued the castellan. "Lady Rhea departed for a hunt yesterday and is not expected before tomorrow. Naturally, we shall be glad to offer you shelter and hospitality in her name."
"I thank you, Ser. I would like to see my brother."
Ser Gunthor pursed his lips and began to resemble a displeased little dog.
"Prince Daemon is in his chambers. I shall escort you."
Without wasting words, he turned and entered the gates; Aegon snorted and followed him.
The inner yard of Runestone turned out quite unlike the inner yards of the Red Keep or Dragonstone. Compared to the two Targaryen strongholds, where life never ceased to boil, here it was sparsely populated and quiet. Several servants not too briskly carried out butchering tables—when Rhea returned from the hunt, the game would go straight under the butcher's knives. The smith could be heard shouting at an apprentice, colorfully but not too energetically describing how he could lend him speed, and in what relations he stood with his mother. Four grooms, lazily spitting, stood and watched as a fifth critically examined the hooves of a horse, evidently deemed unsuitable for the hunt. So, most of her people had ridden out to the hunt with Lady Royce; for some reason, it seemed to Aegon that the ladies of her retinue would yield in nothing to the knights.
Ser Gunthor led them through the clean corridors of the castle, not distracted to tell of the tapestries hanging on the walls, of dusty and moth-eaten banners hanging from the ceilings, of the history of one or another room where surely some hero of the past had stayed. Aegon, let us suppose, would have found it interesting to hear some beautiful or bloody legend from the Age of Heroes or the Andal conquests. The current Runestone, of course, had managed to be rebuilt more than once since the last of the Bronze Kings bent the knee to the Kings of the Mountain, but still, it was old and surely kept many stories.
Daemon was found in the library. The domains of the local Maester turned out as clean as all other premises in the castle: no books scattered in disorder, no dust. The castellan, throwing open the door, let Aegon pass ahead and announced as if reluctantly:
"Prince Aegon, My Lord."
Daemon tore himself from studying some tome and nodded silently, permitting him to leave, which Ser Gunthor readily took advantage of. Aegon had not decided which greeting to choose—formal or familial—so he preferred to avoid it altogether and inquired:
"Are all your people so taciturn?"
"These are not my people," his brother grimaced.
"You are married to their Lady, that means you are their Lord and Prince."
"These are the people of my Bronze Bitch. Do not confuse."
"As you please," Aegon raised his hands conciliatorily and added. "I did not know you had enrolled in bookmen."
"One could die of boredom in this backwater. The only amusements here are Caraxes, when she is home, and books, when she is not. Local swordsmen are mediocrities. Gunthor does not remember when he last entered a tourney."
"And what of Lamentation? Is it truly unworthy to rival Dark Sister?"
"Rhea carries it. If we cross swords, I am not certain I shall not wish to become a widower by the results of the duel," Daemon grinned crookedly. "Did you fly here to talk of my family life, brother? The way from the Red Keep is not close."
Aegon walked forward through the hall and stopped at the very table where his brother read.
"No. I am here because Viserys sent me."
"Truly?" the Rogue Prince was amused. "And how can I be of use to His Grace? Has he decided to send me to the Wall? Or to Essos?"
"You are needed not by His Grace, but by our elder brother," Aegon cut him off and, sighing, proceeded to announce the message. "Viserys regrets his hasty decision to banish you from the capital. He admits that, blinded by grief, he hastened too much to believe others' whisperers, who distorted and twisted your words, and asks your forgiveness for the false accusation. The guilty have already been punished."
"Did he send Otto back to Oldtown?"
"No."
"Then who is punished?"
"One of his whisperers. He thought he could be trusted, but that one thought that if he helped the Hand banish you, he would shower him with gold. In the end, Otto himself insisted on an inquiry and signed his sentence—tearing out of the tongue and exile to the Wall."
Daemon laughed briefly:
"Gods, what nonsense! And you believed this?!"
"Viserys believed him," Aegon answered evasively. That Hightower lied was clear as day, but to catch the experienced courtier by the slippery tail proved impossible—many preferred to close their ears and believe in a smooth lie. "And you know how stubborn he can be in certain matters. It is impossible to dissuade him."
"And you?"
"I need no dissuading. I confess, I also believed this tale at first, but something forced me to doubt it? Any lie crumbles if the right question is asked. Your truth is that you did not say those words, and my truth is that I shall always be on your side."
Daemon fixed an unblinking gaze of his violet eyes on him, but Aegon withstood it confidently. Speaking the truth is easy and pleasant, and most importantly—one can be sure of it as of nothing else.
"Very well, and as whom shall I return? A hanger-on?"
"No one deprived you of command of the City Watch. You still head the Gold Cloaks, who helped us dig down to the truth."
His brother jumped to his feet, knocking over the chair, and began to pace circles around the room, nearly kicking cabinets and chairs that got in the way.
"What the Hell?! Why was a bucket of shit poured on me, and I must pretend that it should be so?! I am the King's brother, the King's grandson! But who cares? Any younger son of some lordling can insult me and be sure the King will close his eyes to it! What is he thinking?! That I shall simply accept his apologies as a favor, return to the capital, and pretend nothing happened? That I shall become a laughingstock again? Is this what he wants of me? That I be a fool?!"
"He wants you to be Prince of Dragonstone," Aegon announced imperturbably, not allowing himself to fall for another outburst of anger.
Scarce had he said these words when his brother froze in place and stared at him with the greatest disbelief on his face that he had had since the times when in childhood Aegon offered him to choose between two pies he had stolen from the kitchen: one, allegedly, was with lampreys, and the second with berries; Daemon, suspecting a trick, chose for a long time, and stopped on the one that looked neater, but fell into the trap—in fact, both pies were with lampreys. Daemon did not like lampreys.
"Repeat," he cast out abruptly.
"The mourning ends soon. Viserys promised to announce the name of the heir to the Iron Throne upon its conclusion. He conferred long with me, with Lord Lyonel..."
"With Lord Otto..." Daemon interrupted him.
"He, of course, expressed his opinion, but defended it not so actively after he was nearly caught by the hand. But Viserys wrote to Uncle Vaegon."
"He is a mathematician, not a man of law."
"He is our uncle and former Hand, who conducted the Great Council. He advised not to invent nonsense and not to go against precedents. According to the Harrenhal statutes, you are the obvious and presumptive heir."
"Otto wanted to seat Rhaenyra on the throne," Daemon said with the same suspicion.
"Otto is a smart man," remarked Aegon, occupying the chair in which his brother had sat before. "If his bet did not play, he will not support it to the end. In the end, when Viserys, at Lord Lyonel's insistence, put the question bluntly and asked what recommendation the Small Council would give him, he remained silent. He named neither your name nor Rhaenyra's."
"So... I won?"
"You did not lose," clarified the Prince. "The Hand, Ser Harrold, and the Sea Snake abstained, Lord Lyonel, Lord Lyman, and I named your name, Lord Robin—Rhaenyra's."
"What, Beesbury for me too? After all the reproaches for wastefulness and sloppy bookkeeping?"
"Lord Lyman voted after Strong and me. He is friendly with Lyonel, so this is not surprising. Furthermore, he seems to have managed to understand whose name the King wants to hear, since I named yours. In the end, he started under Grandfather—he is an experienced courtier and knows how to count not only golden dragons."
Daemon walked to the window and stared either at the spurs of the Mountains of the Moon in the distance or the inner yard before the tower. His face became serious and thoughtful as never before, and for a moment it even seemed to Aegon that he saw Grandfather's crown, which Viserys now wore, on his brow; to his own surprise, he saw nothing blasphemous in this, there was nothing similar to what the Prince felt when he looked at the image of Maegor the Usurper in the Conqueror's crown.
"Will he change his mind?" inquired the brother after some time.
"He has already made a decision for himself," shrugged the Prince. "Viserys can doubt for a long time, moan that he does not want and will not choose, but if he has chosen something, he will insist on his own. A raven to Winterfell has already flown, so Lord Stark and his people will manage just by the end of the mourning. If they hurry, of course."
"And he will not kick me out if something is whispered in his ear again?"
"They will whisper to him in any case, but he will scarce listen to tales of your escapades. Even if they are true."
"Only by half!" grinned Daemon.
"Yes, the other half they simply fear to tell."
The brothers laughed at the simple joke, and Aegon felt the tension between them flee from the room somewhere, tail between its legs. Imps danced in Daemon's violet eyes, not rage mixed with resentment and anger, as a few moments ago. The elder Prince returned to the table, poured wine from a jug into a crystal goblet, and hesitated unexpectedly.
"Forgive me, there is no second one here," Daemon spoke in an apologetic tone. "Here I drink alone, but I can send..."
"No need," waved the Prince and, impudently taking the jug, swigged straight from the neck, which caused a new chuckle from his brother.
"Essos has spoiled you."
"I was taught this in the Citadel."
"Bad company?"
"Uncle Vaegon."
They drank again, and afterwards a not very pleasant thought came to Aegon's head, which he nonetheless deemed necessary to voice:
"This coin has a reverse side too. When you become Prince of Dragonstone, you will need heirs yourself."
Daemon grimaced as if overcome by toothache, diarrhea, and a clansman's arrow hitting straight in the chest all at once.
"No, only not with her!" he implored.
"She is your wife," reminded the Prince. "A Lady of noble birth..."
"She is no wife to me and never was. After that ceremony in the sept, I have not touched her with a finger!"
"Not once? In all these years?"
"No. On the first night I ran away to Nerra, on all others either I did not come, or she. This suits us."
"This will scarce suit Viserys now," spoke Aegon cautiously.
"Let it not suit him. I shall achieve an annulment," said Daemon resolutely and set the empty cup aside. "There was no bedding, the marriage was not consummated, which means it can be dissolved. Let the High Septon only try to refuse—all these foolish conditions are met."
"It all depends on whether Viserys wishes to divorce you."
"So let us ask!" Daemon cheered up. "Let's fly! I am ready right now. All mine is on me, I'll only take Dark Sister. You and I never found out whose wings are faster. High time! Let's fly!"
Scarce having finished speaking, the brother jumped out of the room, and Aegon heard him shout to the castellan:
"Ser Gunthor! Gladden your Lady—I am returning to the capital!"
---------------
Read advance +50 chapters on my Patreon
Patreon(.)com/WinterScribe