Prince Aegon Targaryen

On the twenty-seventh day of the tenth month of the one hundred and first year, the half-year term set by the Small Council for all great and small lords of the Seven Kingdoms to arrive at Harrenhal on the shore of the God’s Eye to determine the future of the realm expired. Lord Otto Hightower had supposed that more than five hundred lords with retinues and servants would appear; Uncle Vaegon, who had never put off the Hand’s badge, declared there would be far more. Reality exceeded all expectations: no fewer than a thousand banners of noble houses fluttered on the walls of the largest fortress in Westeros, as well as in the fields around Harrenton. No royal tournament could compare with such representation.

On the morning of that day, scarce had Aegon forced himself to rise from bed in his chambers in the Kingspyre Tower when a thunderous roar rang out over the God’s Eye. Had the young Prince been a superstitious burgher of Harrenton, he would surely have thought the Conqueror returned from his Seven Hells with Balerion to finish the destruction of the castle begun long ago. But it was not the late Black Dread, but the very much living Bronze Fury.

Vermithor, lazily flapping wings that nearly brushed the quiet surface of the lake, flew slowly and majestically. When the dragon began to gain altitude, banking over the river gate, Aegon saw his grandfather in the saddle: clinging to the saddle, he was almost flattened in it, and the long hair from his half-unraveled braid streamed behind his back like another dragon crest.

The King astride his dragon circled Harrenhal thrice, demonstrating his appearance to all his subjects, and then Vermithor suddenly vanished from sight. In the next instant, the colossal tower creaked, groaned, ground its teeth, and several stones the size of a man’s head flew past the window chosen by Aegon, after which a roar rang out that made the Prince’s insides vibrate. Jaehaerys the First, with the aid of Vermithor from the summit of the Kingspyre Tower, announced to the lords the beginning of the Great Council.

Naturally, the leaning and melted tower could not serve as a nest for a dragon, and the King was forced to land his beast in the yard between the Widow’s Tower, the Tower of Dread, and the Kingspyre. Aegon saw the dragon crouch to the ground, almost spreading over it, bending a wing in a strange manner; Grandfather fussed long with the saddle straps fastened to his belt, and descended even longer. Vermithor offered his rider the wrist of his wing and slowly lowered him to the retinue gathered at a respectful distance. Scarce was Jaehaerys on the ground when the Bronze Fury raised his head and surveyed the castle from within. Suddenly the dragon froze, and for some reason, Aegon understood that the dragon was looking straight at him. Amber eyes flashed in the sunbeams, and the delusion vanished. The dragon shook himself, clattering and clapping his leather crests, and began to settle into a lair.

“Since the King is already here, we must make haste, my Prince,” remarked Dennis, standing silently behind his shoulder. “You must meet him with your brothers in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths.”

“Are there truly a hundred?” Aegon inquired lazily.

“Only thirty-three, my Prince.”

“Then who counted a hundred?”

“Whoever that man was, he was evidently drunk and counted every fireplace thrice. Ninety-nine is a pretty number, but a hundred sounds weightier.”

Aegon snorted and, draining his tea in a gulp, allowed himself to be dressed. The Great Council summoned by the King, like any noble assembly in Westeros, besides solving the main and obvious problem, pursued far more mundane goals. Aegon doubted not that even without the Good Queen Alysanne and her matchmaking, a vast lace of marriage alliances and betrothals would be woven in Harrenhal, concluded in support of one of the candidates. If one descends to an even lower level of the lords’ aspirations, many had come only to show off before their neighbors—saying, my lands are richer than yours, and I have more knights too.

This was characteristic not only of petty provincial lordlings living in daily rivalry with a neighbor across the hill or river but also of the Great Houses of the kingdom. Tymond Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, brought three hundred men with him, and Matthos Tyrell of Highgarden, to outdo him, took five hundred. And all these lords, knights, squires, and servants, for the sake of their own pride, not to lose face, were ready to sell their own mothers for an extra silver moon, just to look finer. Their foolish rivalry held the Targaryens hostage as well, obliged to confirm their royal status with truly royal riches.

Now jackets to the knee were in fashion at court, but unhappily for Aegon, doublets left footwear in view, which allowed everyone to see how different the heels of the Prince’s boots were. Not that Aegon was shy of his infirmity—in almost ten years he had managed to live with it—but to parade it when any trifle might cost a vote in support of Viserys seemed wrong. The doublet was ruthlessly swept aside and replaced by a long-skirted gown. The heavy garment of black velvet had a blood-red lining visible through the slits of the very wide sleeves with jagged edges, and was embroidered with crimson royal dragons. Aegon gathered his hair into a bun held by a silver pin, letting two thin braids hang under his ears and weave into the bun. A silver chain with a not large but bright ruby—one of his mother’s “third eyes”—lay on his forehead, and his father’s (now his own) silver chain with links in the form of dragon heads settled on his neck.

The descent from the Kingspyre Tower required a certain time, but Aegon, for all his slowness, managed to arrive just in time to take his place on the dais at the right hand of the throne, immediately behind Daemon with his Bronze Lady Rhea and Viserys with Aemma.

“I thought you would be late,” Daemon remarked in an undertone.

“Surely Prince Aegon was carried away by another book,” the Lady of Runestone opened her mouth. “A good book is capable of replacing any amount of noble company.”

Aegon had not seen Royce since that very feast in honor of the King’s Golden Jubilee. Over the past years, her face had completely lost its girlish features and turned into the face of a young woman; she was definitely not a beauty—her face was weather-beaten from hunting, and by her fingers, it was visible that she was accustomed to drawing a bowstring more often than threading a needle; her curly pitch-black hair barely reached her shoulders, and by the shape of her nose, it was easy to guess that it had once been broken. Aegon thought that precisely such a wife—bold, freedom-loving, more warrior than lady—would have suited Daemon; Grandmother Alysanne undoubtedly thought the same, but here she made a blunder—the spouses disliked each other from the first meeting; even to Harrenhal they arrived separately, and the Prince doubted not that his brother and his wife saw each other only here, in the Hall.

Years had not changed only Rhea’s character, leaving her just as sharp of tongue, and Aegon decided to remind her what her past barb had cost.

“Truly so,” he agreed with enthusiasm. “But you, I heard, very talented replace both a good book and noble company with horses and hunting hounds.”

From such a hint even Viserys snorted, and Aegon allowed himself a slight smile. Rhea, of course, might take offense and deny them support, but her uncle, Lord Protector of the Vale in the name of the young Lady Jeyne Arryn, would not let her play the fool. Meanwhile, the trumpets of the heralds howled, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard announced King Jaehaerys’s full title, and the whole sea of people of a thousand lords and thousands more of their wives, sons, and knights swayed respectfully in a bow.

Aegon, bending at the waist himself, peeked at how his grandfather processed and involuntarily compared this walk with what had been at the proclamation of his father as Prince of Dragonstone. Grandfather had failed greatly: the white gold of his hair had faded, the lilac fire of his eyes had turned into barely smoldering embers, his formidable and confident stride had been replaced by a shuffling old man’s gait. The King preferred to renounce his house colors and dressed in a long white robe embroidered with gold threads. Like Aegon’s, Jaehaerys’s clothes became a symbol. But unlike his grandson, Grandfather did not hide behind color and length of hem, on the contrary: this was his weapon. In white, the King is pure before gods and men; having renounced black and red, he renounced all attachments and demonstrates to the lords that he has no grandchildren now—only princes who have come to him with another suit; donning white, Jaehaerys separated himself from the family, saying he is here as the Anointed of the Gods, not a kind grandfather. Aegon admired such subtly thought-out political subtext and was glad he managed to unravel the royal design.

Blackfyre dangled at Jaehaerys’s belt, distinctly pulling him to the ground. In his right hand, he clutched the Scepter with the Star—a rod of white gold an arm in length, crowned with a crystal symbol of the Faith. The High Septon had handed him this rod at his coronation, as a sign of reconciliation with the House of Targaryen after the Faith Militant uprising; now the scepter, casting sunbeams with its finial, demonstrated that the Anointed of the Seven had come here to fulfill his duty.

Not without difficulty overcoming the seven steps to the richly decorated chair, Jaehaerys clambered onto it with too loud a sigh and muttered so that only those close by could hear:

“Gods, why must I sit on that iron monstrosity, and not on a normal chair? What were you thinking, Grandfather?”

Aegon had to bite his cheek to maintain a seriousness befitting the setting and not blurt out another foolishness. So, the iron chair is not so comfortable after all?

Meanwhile, the King, settling onto the cushions, raised his voice so that he could be heard in the furthest rows of the Hall. Jaehaerys, First of His Name, addressed all the lords of the Seven Kingdoms in the heavy hour of grief that had befallen his family. Deprived of an heir, the unhappy King could not choose a successor from his grandchildren, and therefore he summoned all lords, great and small, that they might determine themselves who would ascend the Iron Throne after Jaehaerys’s death. The King swore by the Seven, naming each of the gods by name, that he would recognize any choice of the Great Council, limiting it only in one thing—the candidate must belong to the House of Targaryen.

Afterward, seven of the Most Devout, sent by the Starry Sept, read a prayer in chorus, calling upon the gods to grant the lords wisdom and justice in making such an important decision. Aegon thought how strongly the Northmen, honoring the Old Gods, did not fit into this orderly Andal picture of the world; for the first time, the conquest of the North by Aegon and his sisters seemed to him a vain escapade that only complicated the life of the state.

Archmaester Vaegon stepped forward, this time limiting himself to a golden half-mask that left his mouth open. For decency’s sake, he pinned the Hand’s badge to his grey Maester’s robe after all, causing whispers in the Hall.

“Noble Lords of the Seven Kingdoms! Today I shall announce the list of those who have submitted a petition to the Great Council, that it might consider their claims to the Iron Throne.”

One of the Maesters handed him a scroll, and Uncle, smoothing it exactly at eye level, began to read.

“Thus, here are these persons, listed in order of closeness by blood to our Sovereign and seniority of birth. Princess Rhaenys of House Targaryen, daughter of Prince Aemon Targaryen of blessed memory, the King’s first son, and lady wife of Lord Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides and Driftmark. Prince Viserys of House Targaryen, son of Prince Baelon Targaryen of blessed memory, the King’s second son. Archmaester Vaegon of the Citadel, born Prince of House Targaryen, the King’s third son. Lady Laena Velaryon, daughter of Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys Velaryon and their firstborn child. Lord Laenor Velaryon, only son of Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys Velaryon. Ser Viselor Teltaris of Dragonstone, calling himself a descendant of Gaemon Targaryen, styled the Glorious, Lord of Dragonstone. Vhalasso Votar of Volantis, calling himself the son of Princess Saera Targaryen, the King’s fifth daughter. Salladhor and Sharakko Sahar of Lys, calling themselves sons of Princess Saera, the King’s fifth daughter. Ser Jasper Blue-Eye of Brown Hollow, calling himself the King’s bastard son. Ser Alfred the Red of King’s Landing, calling himself the bastard son of the Usurper Maegor Targaryen.”

The scroll was rolled up and returned to the Maester. Shouting over the rising din, Vaegon proclaimed:

“The claims and petitions of each of them shall be considered tomorrow! For now, the Crown dismisses you and awaits you tomorrow two hours after dawn.”

Aegon, counting the claimants, thought that considering and discussing the demands of each would require no less than a day, and the lords would still have to choose and vote… The coming weeks would prove tense.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep