Prince Aegon Targaryen
"Greetings, my brother."
The three words rolled through the Great Hall over the heads of the courtiers, rebounding from columns and walls and soaring toward the vaulted ceiling. It seemed the lords and ladies forgot how to breathe—so greatly were they struck by Daemon's appearance in a crown. All the rumors and talk of a "Maegor, the second of his name," ceased to be idle gossip in the blink of an eye, turning into reality and, as it surely appeared to many, the events of the near future.
Aegon cast a glance at Viserys. The latter no longer attempted to portray a benign smile (though, the Gods witness, he had done so poorly) and, frowning, leaned forward with a tense face, as if an extra foot hindered him from discerning the challenge thrown at him by the middle of the brothers. The hand of one King lay upon the hilt of Blackfyre; the other had not yet released the grip of Dark Sister, and both continued to drill one another with glares. The silence, which had turned from shocked to oppressive, Viserys was the first to decide to break:
"What is the meaning of this?"
"Your command is fulfilled, my brother," Daemon answered simply. "You commanded the defeat of the Triarchy, and I, with the help of the Gods and men, have defeated it."
"You have come to the foot of my throne in a crown," hissed the King of the Seven Kingdoms with restrained rage, and Aegon scarce recognized in him his usually good-natured elder brother. "You called yourself a King, appropriated lands that ought to have passed to me. What is this, if not treason? What is this, if not usurpation?"
The last question thundered like a drum beneath the vaults of the hall over the heads of the courtiers. After its last echo subsided, Daemon stood for a while, his crowned head tilted slightly to the side, and then slowly lowered himself to one knee and spoke:
"Let not my appearance lead you astray, my brother. I am yet your loyal servant and Hand. My victories would not have been without your support, your gold, and the men you gave me, and thus they belong to you as well. I conquered the Stepstones and Tyrosh with all its domains, riches, and people not for myself, but for our House. Allow me to share this triumph with you. And as for the crown... Any jewel looks better in a fitting setting, does it not? And I lay it at your feet as a sign of my loyalty and love for you."
With these words, the named King of Tyrosh pulled the circlet from his head and, demonstratively raising it high, slowly placed it upon the first step of the Iron Throne. The metals of the three hoops clinked loudly against the steel of the melted swords, and it served as a signal for the entire court, which exhaled in a single impulse of amazement. From end to end of the Great Hall, a surprised whisper rustled; particularly sensitive souls cried out softly, yet no one paid them heed. All gazes turned to Viserys, who rose from the throne; upon his face, rage yielded to some strange degree of disbelief mixed with hidden relief and pride. The heels of his boots clicked slowly and hollowly upon the steps, sounding the beats like a sept bell; as the King descended lower, a white wall of his guardsmen rose before the Iron Throne, cutting the Sovereign off from any possible attack. Reaching the very end, Viserys picked up the regalia presented to him and examined it fastidiously.
"A fitting setting, you say?" he drawled.
"Gold and silver represent the trade and crafts of Tyrosh, and Valyrian steel is the symbol of our heritage."
"And the symbol of Conquest," the King chuckled. "I have already a crown of Valyrian steel, yet this too is beautiful in its own way."
"'Tis yours, my brother," said Daemon, still not rising from his knees.
Viserys turned the crown in his hands silently, whether truly pondering what to do or intentionally keeping his brother and the whole court in suspense. Aegon—and not he alone—attempted to catch any shadow upon the royal face that might indicate the possible consequences of Daemon's so bold a step. But then the furrows of drawn brows smoothed; violet eyes grew warm; lips, hitherto tightly compressed, relaxed and folded once more into their former benevolent smile.
"Disperse," Viserys commanded the guardsmen. "Ser Harrold?"
"Aye, Sovereign."
The Commander of the Kingsguard respectfully accepted the regalia with both hands and froze behind his liege's shoulder. The knight attempted to maintain the detachment from what was happening and the imperturbability customary for his brothers, yet judging by the creases gathered upon his high brow, the fact that his hands were occupied with a bauble while a throng of armed men stood in immediate proximity to the King unnerved him somewhat. Meanwhile, Viserys stepped forward and with a fatherly smile extended a hand to Daemon.
"Victory for the glory of our House and all the Seven Kingdoms ought not be a cause for quarrels and slights."
"And never shall be, while I live," Daemon hastened to declare, pressing his lips to the royal ring.
"Rise, my brother. The labors and feats of every man shall find their reward, especially yours. For now, we must needs celebrate the victory!"
The last phrase, which flew throughout the Hall a moment later, was caught up in applause, at first timid and uncertain, but soon turning into a true storm of delight and cheers for the royal house. Clapping his hands along with the rest, Aegon watched as, amidst the general rejoicing of the two retinues—the old and the new—his brothers embraced, clapped one another on the shoulders, and laughed at something audible only to the two of them.
The rapturous court could not hide from the Prince the anxiety radiating in waves from the Queen, nor the tension that had not vanished from her father's face. For once, Aegon could understand them: a truce is not yet peace.
. . . . . .
The cooks and servants of the Red Keep had outdone themselves, managing by evening to organize a feast worthy of a victory and of two kings. Viserys seated Daemon, as the triumpher, the Hand, and his brother, at his right hand, and the whole evening they conversed, jested, laughed, and drank, demonstrating to the entire court that the conflict was spent and all was once more as of old. Aegon himself sat between Rhaenyra, who attempted to command the attention of her elder uncle, and Laena, who successfully commanded his own.
"Had I not spent several weeks here, I should have deemed that you were avoiding me," Lady Laena remarked.
"And would you have taken offense?"
"Naturally. But I have managed to observe court life and can say that it was simpler on Estermont."
In King's Landing, Laena Velaryon had joined the retinue of Princess Rhaenyra, quickly becoming her closest friend and displacing Ellyn Beesbury, Bethany Strong (the eldest daughter of Lord Lyonel, who had replaced Jolanthe Massey), and Bertha Celtigar, the niece of Lord Bartimos. The so-called "Small Court of the Princess" could not entirely separate itself from the more decorous and crowded "Great Court," yet it strove in every way to distance itself. Scurrying servants and courtiers loitering by his niece's chambers had never given the Prince and his betrothed the chance to speak quietly and without witnesses.
"Alas, such is the nature of the royal court," Aegon sighed. "Many people and little purpose."
"But who would have thought that we should manage to speak only while sitting at the royal table in the sight of all," Laena chuckled, raising an elegant crystal goblet.
The Prince intended to support the toast, but at that very moment, Lord Lyonel Strong approached the dais, supported on either side by his daughters. The Master of Laws was pale; his high forehead, which practically merged with his bald crown, glistened with sweat.
"My Sovereign," Strong found the strength to bow. "I pray... I pray Your Grace excuse me... and permit me to withdraw. I fear I am not entirely well."
"Naturally, My Lord," Viserys nodded, knitting his brows with concern. "Let the Grand Maester examine you. Restore your strength, sleep your fill; the affairs of the Small Council shall wait."
"Nay, Sovereign," the counselor unexpectedly objected. "I feel that my time has run out. Tomorrow, I shall submit to you my petition for resignation."
"First, you shall recover, and then we shall speak of it. I am certain that all is not so dire, and Mellos shall do all possible to set you on your feet. The Iron Throne ever cares for its loyal servants."
"And loyal service shall never remain without reward," Daemon intervened. "Lord Lyonel, I offer my house's condolences to yours once more. Ser Harwin was my close friend and a true knight; his courage and heroism admired me and inspired the rest. On the Stepstones, I promised him that I would reward him duly. And though your son is no longer with us, I intend to fulfill my promise. Your daughters shall receive the finest dowries in the Seven Kingdoms; of that, you may have no doubt."
Lyonel's face was distorted by a grimace of pain, and Aegon could not immediately answer what manner of pain tormented the Master of Laws more: that of the soul or that of the body. The Strongs, meanwhile, bowed again.
"I thank you, My Prince," Lord Lyonel exhaled.
"You are most kind," Lady Bethany murmured, dropping a deep curtsy.
"Come now, lose no time, My Ladies," Viserys hurried them. "Put your Lord Father to bed and send for the Maesters. Lord Lyonel, I shall visit you on the morrow. Good night."
"Good night, My Sovereign."
As soon as the Strongs vanished into one of the side passages, Laena sighed sadly.
"It is terribly sad for them. Bethany wept so when the raven arrived with the tidings of Harwin, and it simply destroyed Lord Lyonel. To send fourteen kinsmen to war and lose them all..."
"The Stranger knocks at every door—so say the Andals," Rhaenyra remarked in the same tone, distracting herself from her attempts to win Daemon's attention. "But I prefer our own: Valar morghulis (All men must die)."
"The trouble is not that man is mortal," Aegon spoke philosophically. "But that he is mortal by chance, and war, like naught else, shows us this."
"If Lord Lyonel returns home, then Bethany will go with him," the fate of her confidante clearly concerned his niece more than the fate of her father's counselor. "It will be a pity to part with her; she is very sweet, is she not, Laena?"
"She is very clever," the other agreed. "But if Lord Strong leaves the Small Council, someone must needs take his place."
"The main thing is that Father does not return Otto," the Princess grimaced and began to rend a capon lying on the plate before her, evidently imagining the face of the Hightower in its stead. "There is less harm from a chamberlain than from a Master of Laws."
"Lord Otto was already Master of Laws," Aegon reminded her.
"And enough of him; 'tis too much honor for a second son. Let Father choose someone else. Surely we have no lack of men of law?"
"Changes are inevitable regardless, riña (child/girl)."
The Prince sighed. That changes would follow, and that they would primarily concern the outcomes of the war, he did not doubt. The question lay only in what Viserys and Daemon would manage to agree upon before they again required the mediation of their younger brother to avoid starting a war. The King of the Seven Kingdoms, suppose, would heed him, but would the King of Tyrosh heed him now? Of that, Aegon was no longer certain.
It was obvious that Daemon would strive to obtain from Viserys, if not a new oath from the lords to him as heir, then at least another public confirmation of his status. All the Seven Kingdoms had to see that the heir to the Iron Throne was he, and not their little nephew. Furthermore, there could be no doubt that the middle of the brothers would never renounce what he had already appropriated during the war and had already begun to manage without regard for Viserys.
"My Prince, you are again thinking of complicated matters," Laena gently reproached him.
"I pray you forgive me, My Lady," Aegon had not noticed that, plunged into his own thoughts, he had remained silent too long. "How may I atone for my fault?"
"Perhaps with a promise to show me Tyrosh."
"Of a certainty," the Prince responded readily. "I think the city will please you. But I remember that you wished to see Pentos."
"And I still do," the Lady nodded.
"I think, after the wedding, we shall have time enough to visit all the places you desire."
"Dost thou hear, Nyra? I hope thy betrothed will humor thee as well as my groom does."
His niece hurried to hide a displeased, envious grimace behind her goblet. Leaning toward Laena, Aegon inquired in a low voice:
"Did she speak of him often?"
"She missed not a day."
The rest of the feast passed for the Prince in such conversations, flowing quietly like the Rhoyne. Politics and heavy thoughts of the future receded before most pleasant company and far more pleasant thoughts. In his and Laena's marriage contract, the date of the wedding was denoted by a vague "after the conclusion of the war," and now it could be discussed with all necessary specificity. The wedding of a prince of the dragon blood and the daughter of the famous Sea Snake must by no means be hasty or ill-prepared. They had not even decided where to hold the celebration: Aegon wished to hold it on Dragonstone and, as it seemed to him, as the groom, he had every right; Laena, however, imagined the terraces of High Tide, whither they were to fly on dragons for the ceremony itself. At the end of the feast, they parted unpersuaded and full of certainty that each would insist upon their own.
In the morning, Aegon was awakened ahead of time by Dennis. While his liege climbed out of bed and wrapped himself in a patterned Pentoshi robe, the knight frowned and pursed his lips—'twas a sure sign of ill tidings.
"Lord Lyonel is dead," the sworn shield reported once the Prince had settled in his chair awaiting breakfast.
"In the night?" The news did not surprise Aegon; the whole court had seen that Lord Strong was in a very bad state. Yet the lack of surprise did not compensate for the general sorrow. The Master of Laws had been a good man, a clever interlocutor, a skilled politician, and a loyal servant of the Iron Throne. The departure of such is always marked, and it is difficult to find a replacement for them.
"Aye. In the Hour of the Wolf, he was struck by an apoplexy, and by the Hour of the Nightingale, he gave up the ghost. The Grand Maester did all he could."
"Which is to say, naught," the Prince concluded gloomily and took a sip of hot tea. Lord Lyonel deserved a commemoration with wine, but as they said at the Citadel, only lords and laggards drink wine for breakfast.
"You know yourself, My Prince, sometimes there is no help to be given."
The death of Lord Strong greatly saddened Viserys; although he did not declare official mourning for the entire court, the return feast of the victors had to be postponed. At a meeting of the Small Council gathered a few days later, the late lord's comrades in turn spoke a memorial word, rendering the empty chair of the Master of Laws due honors before moving to matters more pragmatic and mundane.
"Has Your Grace already confirmed Lord Lyonel's heir?" the Sea Snake inquired.
Velaryon pride and reputation, trampled by the adventure in the Stepstones, had been restored, and now Aegon's future good-father absently rolled a lapis lazuli sphere on its marble stand. The intrusive noise did not bother Aegon, but Otto Hightower winced with annoyance, and he was not the only one irritated by the sound.
"Lord Corlys," the King spoke with emphasis, and the Admiral immediately left the symbol of his office as counselor in peace. "I thank you. The war did not spare House Strong. Lord Lyonel's nearest kinsman in the male line is his uncle Simon, so Harrenhal belongs to him by right."
"Lord Lyonel left daughters," Corlys reminded him.
"Lord Corlys, 'tis not funny," Otto snorted. "Do you truly think a woman has the strength to hold Harrenhal?"
"As far as I am aware, a woman holds all the Vale and the Mountains of the Moon quite successfully," Aegon remarked.
"The inheritance of the title of high lord is a separate case," the chamberlain, clearly eyeing the post of Master of Laws, stubbornly countered.
"In any case, there is naught to argue over," Viserys interrupted the dispute. "I have already named Simon Strong Lord of Harrenhal and invited him to court. Grand Maester, have we received an answer yet?"
Mellos cleared his throat significantly.
"Aye, My Sovereign, but... ahem... Simon Strong refuses the castle."
"What?"
"Is he old? Mayhaps 'tis senile dotage?" Lord Beesbury suggested in bewilderment. "My maternal grandfather, Lord Rowan, was a poor thinker in his old age and at times refused to wear breeches."
"After this letter, I cannot exclude it," the Grand Maester chuckled. "Ser Simon, as he continues to style himself, refuses Harrenhal and prays Your Grace rid his family of their domains. He believes the curse of Harren the Black hangs over the castle, which sent nearly all his kin to the grave, and believes he shall follow them if he and his grandsons do not renounce the inheritance. He has commanded Lady Bethany and Lady Rosamund not to leave the court. Ser Simon himself writes that he sets out for King's Landing this very day to personally pray Your Grace save House Strong."
"We have been to Harrenhal," Daemon drawled. "We saw neither ghosts nor curses."
"And yet the Strongs are the fifth house in turn to own Harrenhal, if one accounts for the Hoares. Four lines, and each of them was not small, died out in a hundred and ten years, and the fifth, like the first, is almost entirely exterminated by war."
"Do you perhaps blame me for this, Grand Maester?" the Prince-Hand drawled mockingly, but there was no laughter in his voice, only the steel of Dark Sister. Mellos felt the hint quickly and shook his head very, very fast, denying his own supposed malice.
"To renounce a title?.." Lord Corlys drawled with doubt.
"Not everyone would renounce a castle even under threat of death, and especially one such as Harrenhal," Otto chimed in.
"Foolish superstitions," the Prince-Hand snorted in response.
"It seems the Strongs have decided to desert in full force," Aegon joked gloomily, earning a disapproving glance from both brothers at once.
"'Tis not funny, my brother."
"Harwin and his kin fought bravely and deserve better than that."
"And who said I was laughing?" the Prince snapped back. "Lord Lyonel can still be understood, but Simon? To believe in some foolish tales of superstitious peasants? Why, they likely still frighten children there with Harren the Black, who ate babes for breakfast, dinner, and supper—and raw, at that, washing them down with gallons of their fathers' blood while ravishing their mothers. With Harwin's inheritance, the whole of Harrenhal could be set in order!"
"A new castle could be rebuilt anew," Daemon shrugged. "Not so large, naturally, but it could be."
"In any case, he is already on his way here," Viserys grimaced, having never liked brawls in the Council. "We shall hear him and then make a decision on the fate of House Strong and Harrenhal."
"And the fate of the empty seat?" the middle brother inquired.
"Lord Lyonel, as a true man of law, left instructions in case of his death. He must have felt the end was near... In short, shortly before his untimely passing, he advised appointing Lord Beesbury as his successor. What say you, My Lord? Will you trade ringing coin for laws?"
"If such be Your Grace's will," Beesbury bowed obediently. "But who then shall head the treasury?"
"I have attended to that as well," Viserys informed the Council with visible pleasure. "The new Master of Coin shall be Ser Tyland Lannister."
Aegon raised his eyebrows in surprise. Judging by the bewildered faces of the other counselors, this was news to them as well. Casterly Rock had scarce changed masters, and the twin brother of Lord Jason had already reached the Small Council; furthermore, before him, no Lannister had climbed so high.
"He is but one-and-twenty, My Sovereign," Beesbury remarked. "I do not wish to cast a shadow on Ser Tyland or diminish his abilities, but he is too young."
"The fact that he is a Lannister and shits gold does not make him a banker," Daemon supported him.
"The candidacy of Ser Tyland was proposed by Archmaester Vaegon," the King replied calmly, surprising everyone again. "I asked him to name the most capable student ready to occupy the seat of Master of Coin, and he named Tyland Lannister. He wrote that Ser Tyland is a rare case of rumor matching reality, and all others in comparison look like swindlers and incompetents. He forged only five links—and all of gold. He shall come for your wedding, by the by, Aegon."
"Ser Tyland? I should hope the new counselor will not neglect his court duties."
"I speak of Uncle. He is evidently disappointed that you must wed, but promised to arrive."
Lord Velaryon, sensing a slight against his daughter, tensed and had already opened his mouth to say something, but Aegon forestalled him:
"Fret not, My Lord; such is Archmaester Vaegon. He would only have approved of my union with the Citadel."
"I suppose Lord Tyland ought to be given a chance," Otto remarked, inserting the Lannister's new title.
Beesbury shrugged as if surrendering.
"Well, I can always set him on the true path."
"In that case, My Lords, all is decided. I shall detain you no longer. But you, my brothers, I pray you stay."
Viserys, clearly pleased with his labors, leaned back in his chair, and the lords rose from their seats and left with a bow. No sooner had Ser Harrold Westerling closed the massive door behind them than Daemon hastened to speak his mind:
"And yet he is too young."
"You and Aegon were roughly the same age when I seated you at this table," his elder brother countered.
"That was us; this is a Lannister."
"I have already made the decision, Daemon."
"You might have consulted with me," Daemon grumbled. "I am your Hand."
"I should have consulted had you not been occupied with war. Но I wished to speak not of this, but of the Stepstones and Tyrosh. To how many more have you promised a share in the spoils? Whom have you already gifted with land? To whom have you only promised?"
With a sigh, Daemon pushed back his chair, which scraped its legs against the stone floor, and walked silently to the bookcase against the far wall. Disgruntled muttering about disorder and a negligent Mellos was heard, but soon the Prince-Hand returned with a map of the Stepstones, which he spread on the table between the brothers.
"Otherwise you shall understand naught," he explained the obvious for some reason. "Strictly speaking, I have managed to give out little."
"But you managed nonetheless," Viserys chuckled.
"We need effective control over every island—a single castle on each of them will not suffice. Therefore, I decided to borrow the experience of the ironborn..."
"You found a people to learn from," Aegon could not restrain a contemptuous grimace.
He knew only one native of the Iron Islands—an Archmaester of medicine named Kadwyl—and, by all appearances, his other countrymen were equally unpleasant individuals. Meanwhile, Daemon ignored his remark and continued:
"...naturally, an adjustment must be made for the fertility of the soil; it is poor here, but an island ought to be divided between at least two houses. Unless, of course, one can spit across it from end to end. On Bloodstone or Torturer's Deep, four or five holdings can be carved out. And then there is the mainland, on which we also need to secure a footing..."
"So to whom must I issue land grants?" Viserys asked insistently.
"I hope Jaegaer is among them?" Aegon clarified and, turning to the King, explained. "Our cousin deserves this perhaps more than others: he always went at the head of his men and feared not battle—in short, he bore himself as befits a knight of the dragon blood."
"He is first on the list. I gave him these lands," Daemon hastened to assure and outlined a strip of land in Essos with his finger directly opposite the Tyroshi island. "He shall shield us from the land side."
"A border cannot be plugged with a single lord."
"Neighbors shall appear later, fret not. Furthermore, he shall have bannermen: the dragon blood ought to have its own privileges."
"So be it," Viserys approved.
"Furthermore, I promised lands to Malentine Velaryon."
"Lord Corlys's younger brother?"
"The third," Aegon specified, having memorized all his betrothed's kin on Estermont. "The youngest of them is Rhogar."
"I wished to entrust the fleet to Rhogar and also give him a holding," Daemon remarked. "The port of Tyrosh must be renewed, the islands surveyed, harbors laid out at the future castles; furthermore, we need ships."
"One lordship is enough for the Velaryons," the elder brother cut him off. "A marriage with a prince, trade preferences, lands for the junior branch—do they want to settle every one of them?"
"There are enough Velaryons to seat one on every stone, and yet there would be some left over," Aegon grinned.
"Alas, the stones must be saved for others," the middle brother replied. "There is furthermore the second son of Lord Darry; he currently commands the garrison at Muddy Wallow, and there he shall remain. There is Ser Morgat of Mistwood, Ser Tygett Lanni, Ser Samwell Sunglass. He, by the by, wishes to style himself Moonglass to distinguish himself from his cousin—he hung a crescent moon on his sigil instead of stars. Furthermore, we shall have to recognize the remaining Magisters as lords, but there are few of them left, only five families."
"By your efforts," the younger Prince put in.
"It was their own fault; furthermore, it was inevitable."
Viserys rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily, and Aegon quite understood him: 'tis one thing when only one Jaegaer would have to be recognized, and quite another to give out lordships left and right.
"Is that all?"
"For now, aye."
"Peace. Ten houses at once!.. Gods, even under the Conqueror there was no such thing."
"Eleven," Aegon corrected the King. "Daemon also needs a reward."
"High Lord of the Stepstones? Well, it sounds not bad," Viserys drawled thoughtfully.
"A High Lord stands below a prince of the dragon blood, so that is no reward," Daemon objected.
"And what do you propose? To let you keep the crown you placed upon yourself?"
"Andal kings were deprived of their crowns when they bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror, but Targaryens are not Andals. I shall swear a vassal oath to you for these lands and waters and shall hold them in your name with my former title."
"No one else can be seated there," Aegon remarked. "The Stepstones are far, and to hold them with Tyrosh in direct subordination to the Iron Throne will not be easy. Thus, a vassal is needed, close and loyal, on whom one can rely. To seat another High Lord there? But from whom? Of all the great houses, only the Tullys directly participated in the war, but Ser Elmo is already heir to Riverrun. Someone of lower birth? But that is laughable."
Viserys thoughtfully scratched his overgrown stubble.
"Are you ready to do this? To bend the knee again?"
"Aye, my King," Daemon answered, lowering his head humbly. "But I pray for one more grace."
"What else do you want?"
"I ask for the hand of Princess Rhaenyra."
The meaning of what was said, apparently, did not reach Viserys at once. He tried to say something but fell into a coughing fit, and Aegon pushed his unfinished cup of wine to his brother. Draining it in a gulp, the King uttered in a hoarse voice:
"She is but fifteen."
"In two months she shall be six-and-ten," Daemon shrugged.
"Why should I give her to you?"
"Because you permitted me to take any wife of my own choosing."
"I also promised Rhaenyra a marriage of love, so..."
"I do not think you shall hear a different answer from her, lekia (elder brother)," Aegon remarked, rolling the Master of Dragons' obsidian sphere in his hands. "But one can always ask her herself. In any case, it is better than if she herself ran to him in the night through the whole Red Keep."
Viserys paused a little, looking in bewilderment from brother to brother, and then shouted:
"Ser Harrold!"
"Aye, Sovereign?"
"Bring Princess Rhaenyra. We wish to see her."
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, having appeared on the threshold, immediately closed the door.
Until the last moment, the Prince was not sure what position to take regarding Daemon's matrimonial plans. Doubt still gnawed at him: what if all Daemon's persistence was but bravado, dust in the eyes of the whole court, and he needed Rhaenyra only for the sake of strengthening his claims to the Iron Throne? A marriage with the King's first daughter, naturally, has no small political benefit, but is it capable of radically changing the situation? That would be possible were Rhaenyra herself the heir to the throne, but the Great Council had excluded women from the succession, and Viserys, when the opportunity arose, instead of passing Dragonstone to his daughter, preferred through Aegon's mouth to reach an agreement with his brother. But now? Nay, hardly.
The falling out with Daemon that occurred beneath the walls of Tyrosh considerably troubled the Prince. Previously, he could be certain that under any circumstances he could persuade his brother of anything, talk him out of it, restrain him from unwise actions, but now, when the need for it had become sharper than ever, Aegon felt he could not rely on the former effect. Thus, now he ought not simply escape with silent indifference but side with Daemon, especially since, apart from feelings, there was political sense in this marriage. Therefore, Aegon returned the polished obsidian to its marble stand and said:
"Look at it from another side too, Viserys. In our family, kin have married one another to ensure the unity of the House of the Dragon. 'Tis foolish to deny that now it is under threat."
"And whose fault is that?" the King asked defiantly.
"Ours all, and mine too," Aegon cut him off. "The search for the guilty and the shifting of responsibility only deepen the chasm that divides us, and marriage in all times has been the most reliable way to save a family. Listen, Father always called us the three heads of the dragon. What would he say if we thus gnawed at one another in his presence?"
"He would have taken your cane and thrashed us all across our backs," Viserys said with a sad smile.
His face softened; doubt had not yet left his gaze, but the hard irreconcilability was no longer there—well, that was a good sign. Building on the success, the younger of the Princes added:
"I know not; he never punished us."
"It was you who were not punished," Daemon corrected. "I, it happened, was whipped."
"And too little, apparently," Viserys put in, and the brothers laughed quietly. "He only gave me a couple of boxes on the ear."
Aegon smiled sympathetically but remained silent. Were Father alive, would they find themselves in such a situation? At the edge beyond which brothers become enemies? Unlikely, but what use in thinking of what was not and what will not be?
At that moment there was a knock at the door, and Rhaenyra entered the Small Council chamber. If she was surprised to see both her uncles beside her father, she showed it in naught—the court, like naught else, teaches one to maintain an imperturbable facial expression, especially if it is the court of an unloved stepmother. Greeting them with a shallow curtsy, the Princess clasped her hands over her stomach and inquired:
"Didst thou call me, Father?"
"Aye, my girl. Sit, we must needs speak."
Aegon almost grimaced. 'Tis hard to imagine a more unfortunate beginning for a conversation about marriage. Fortunately, Viserys did not draw it out and moved immediately to the main point:
"Uncle Daemon asks for thy hand. I promised thee that I would never compel thee to a marriage with anyone, therefore..."
At the first words, Rhaenyra gave a start; her gaze immediately darted from her father to Daemon, who looked at her fixedly, as if striving to read the answer on her face. His niece glanced at Aegon too, as if seeking support, asking: "Is it true?"; the Prince tried to smile reassuringly. The Princess's hand reached for a small necklace on her neck, but she hastily withdrew it and, interrupting her father, exhaled:
"I agree."
"I told you so," Aegon shrugged, leaning back in his chair.
"Art thou absolutely certain?" the King clarified.
"Aye," the same immediate answer followed.
Daemon looked significantly at Viserys, who had driven himself into the trap of promises. He could not even restrain a triumphant smile, the scoundrel. Viserys sighed wearily, and his sigh was comparable to a groan.
"Good. So be it."
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