This thought horrified Aegon so much that it pushed him into the saving embrace of reality; the gods this time had mercy on him and on all Harrenhal, and the Prince woke without screams, but in a bed damp from the sweat that had broken out on him. Outside the door, Dennis whistled quietly in his sleep; somewhere an owl hooted; the rustle of bat wings was heard. No dragon roar, no crackle of burning wood, no sounds of mortal battle, no groans, no screams. The perfectly ordinary sounds of a perfectly ordinary night in a castle overflowing with nobility helped to calm the heart beating wildly in his chest, but to calm the thoughts rushing restlessly in his head, this was not enough.

Vhagar had not been saddled after Father’s death, and Caraxes had long been ridden by Daemon. A battle between them was sheer nonsense. But Vhagar’s size… How many years had she waited for a new rider? And who became one? And, for that matter, who sat on Caraxes’s back? After all, it could be that it was no longer Daemon there?

The dream would not leave his head, and Aegon languished again until morning, again trying unsuccessfully to understand what he had seen. As always, he rose with a steadfast hatred for all living things twittering with joy at the first rays of the new day.

The Great Council had sat for eight days already, and by this time the lords and the King had rejected the claims of all pretenders save four: only Viserys and Princess Rhaenys with her son Laenor and daughter Laena remained. For the last two days, the representatives of the Targaryens and Velaryons argued until their voices broke, trying to outshout at once themselves, each other, and a thousand lords to boot about Rhaenys’s right to take the throne herself. After all, she was the first child of the King’s eldest surviving son; moreover, Driftmark stood for her like a mountain with all its gold and the armada of ships holding the whole Narrow Sea from Braavos to Lys in gauntleted hands; Lord Boremund Baratheon, uncle to the dearest cousin, held her side, and behind him all the Stormlords. The matter was not limited to kinship ties; the Starks brought all the Northern lords and all those who still worshipped the Old Gods to Rhaenys, and Aurane Celtigar, son of the suddenly deceased Lord Maemion, brought the support of half the lords of the Crownlands.

The new session brought no clarity; the sides chewed over the same arguments for the umpteenth time, dissecting them again and again, examining them each time from new sides. The question of dragons was considered again; Viserys, of course, was the last rider of the Black Dread, but the key word was precisely “was,” while Rhaenys had Meleys, whom they already openly called the Red Queen. They counted the children of the claimants and their potential dragons—Laenor and Rhaenyra with Seasmoke and Syrax respectively were taken into account on the principle of offset, but the nine-year-old Lady Laena could saddle any dragon at any moment and tip the scales to her mother’s side.

“She is her mother’s daughter, My Lords,” Lord Corlys held forth. “And the right to saddle a dragon flows in her veins along with the blood and the right to the Iron Throne. She may saddle even mighty Vhagar!”

At these words, Aegon lost the power of speech; the scattered pieces of the mosaic of his dream came together in his head into a single picture, and it frightened him even more than at night. Of course, if the Velaryons get Vhagar—war cannot be avoided; Visenya Targaryen’s dragon was too serious an argument not to put it into play.

Then the dance over the God’s Eye acquires a special meaning too: Caraxes and Vhagar were ridden by two brothers, Aemon and Baelon; while they were alive, no friendlier brothers could be found, but now their children have placed the Seven Kingdoms on the verge of war. Their dragons were simultaneously symbols of both branches of the Targaryens, having made a peculiar exchange; that is why Aegon did not see the riders—their identities mattered not. The brothers loved each other, but their children will force their dragons to tear at each other’s throats.

Aegon heard neither the speakers nor the noise of the arguing lords any longer; all his thoughts reduced to the battle seen in the dream, a prototype and harbinger of the future; it seemed the gods of Old Valyria had risen from the ashes of the vanished Freehold; shaking off the dust and ash of centuries, they clashed again in a duel so great that it was impossible to notice the death of men. Therefore, the Prince started and blinked rapidly when the Hall of a Hundred Hearths resounded with cries simultaneously joyful and angry. Uncle Vaegon announced something, King Jaehaerys, as in all days before this, sat with an expression detached and joyless, Viserys smiled contentedly and pressed a pleased Aemma to himself, Daemon managed to express enthusiasm and concern simultaneously.

“What happened?” Aegon inquired of him.

“A mere trifle,” his brother waved him off. “The Council rejected the claims of Rhaenys and Laena.”

“On what grounds?”

“Did you sleep through everything?”

“Possibly,” Aegon answered evasively, wishing not to share his fears with his brother. At least for now.

“They are women, my brother,” Daemon explained the obvious truth. “And men do not like it when a woman commands them.”

“But you did not mind when Nerra commanded you,” the Prince muttered under his breath.

Daemon snorted in response and said in Valyrian:

“Ao mittītsos iksā. Nyke ademman zȳhon syt ziry (You are a fool. I pay her for it).”

“Pār ao mittys iksā, lēkia. Ao aemā ābrazȳrys syt ziry (Then you are the fool, brother. You have a wife for that),” whispering this, leaning his head on his brother’s shoulder, Aegon found that the confusion halved with anger on Daemon’s face was his best reward.

. . . . .

The King in a black robe embroidered with red beads in the shape of a dragon walked the galleries and passages of the Red Keep with the confident gait of a master whose rights no one disputes. Courtiers on both sides of the living corridor of guards in Targaryen surcoats bowed their heads before him and in their servility were ready almost to fall prostrate.

Aegon, following the King relentlessly, wanted to run ahead and look into his face, but he could not quicken his pace; the matter was not even so much that the speed of the royal procession was set by the King himself, as in the resistance of the dream itself. Every time Aegon wanted to speed up, his legs (both sound, which was surprising) seemed to mire in something viscous, as if cast-iron shackles hung on them. A couple of times Aegon nearly stumbled and thought with incomprehensible malice:

Very well, I understand; you do not want me to hurry.

And the King walked on, and the corridors of the castle did not end… Aegon even began to suspect they were walking in circles—he even began to recognize some faces of the courtiers, and the galleries looked similar to one another; suddenly, right from under the floor with a terrible grinding, the door to the Great Hall grew. Nameless Kingsguard emerging from nowhere along with it threw open the heavy leaves decorated with dragon carving, and the procession came immediately to the foot of the Iron Throne.

The King, ringing his hobnailed boots loudly on the sword-steps, began to ascend; Aegon discovered that his legs had brought him to the very base of the throne, to the first step. Looking around in surprise, he saw a proudly grinning Daemon standing on the other side of the throne at exactly the same distance, with Dark Sister bared in his hands and a gold cloak behind his back.

If Daemon is here too, then…

Illuminated by a sudden guess, the Prince raised his gaze to the throne and saw Viserys in their grandfather’s white-gold crown, with two scepters in his hands and Blackfyre at his belt, settling onto the Iron Throne. The expression on his face acquired that same exalted detachment distinguishing the Anointed of the Gods from mere mortals.

Somewhere beyond the castle walls dragons roared, marking the beginning of a new reign; in their chorus, Aegon distinctly distinguished the screech of Caraxes and the bass voice of Vhagar.

I must understand, Aegon managed to think. If Vhagar and Caraxes are here and cry together, it means there will be no war! Or… they cry precisely because they are about to fight, and no one here knows it…

And meanwhile, fanfares rang out in the Great Hall, drowning out even the dragon roar, and the polyphony of courtiers struck up some extremely proud and loyal anthem:

— Gods, save our King! Long live our noble King! Gods, save the King!

—————

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep