Prince Aegon Targaryen

For the first time in his life, Aegon flew, and it was a sensation comparable to naught else. Daemon helped him climb into the saddle, seating him before himself, and when Caraxes first gathered himself, and then pushed off from the earth like a spring, the Prince felt the mighty muscles of the dragon working. In the sky, Daemon allowed the Red Wyrm to frolic a little to impress his passengers, and on another turn, through the whistling of the wind in his ears, Aegon heard some gurgling sound from behind; turning, he saw Dennis with jaws convulsively clenched. Evidently, Valyrian blood did not help him much.

Aegon flew amidst the clouds, saw the fields of the Reach spreading like a patchwork quilt beneath him, the dark grey ribbons of great and small rivers, felt the wind tugging at hair escaped from his bun, striking a tear from his eyes—everything was almost as in his dreams. However, the key word here was precisely “almost.” Try as he might, the youth could not understand what he lacked. Too cold? Unlikely; in the winter sky, of course, it is chilly, but under several layers of clothes, donned precisely at Daemon’s insistence, this was almost not felt, and heat came from Caraxes himself.

On the third day of flight, somewhere halfway between Appleton, where they spent the night, and Bitterbridge, it came to Aegon’s mind that this strange “almost” comes from the fact that he is not the dragon’s rider. He has not that special bond of which the ancient Valyrians wrote and of which his father and brothers spoke. This flight is but a weak reflection of what he experienced in dreams night after night, and of which by Grandfather’s grace he was deprived in waking life; realizing this, Aegon only grew more upset and until King’s Landing itself was gloomier than a thundercloud.

They arrived in the capital at the end of the fourth day. Scarce having flown into the Dragonpit, the weary Caraxes stretched out on the sandy arena, throwing his wings wide, and Aegon felt a prick of guilt: after all, all his notes, taken from the Citadel, weighed nearly as much as he and Dennis put together. Horses already awaited them; somehow changing one saddle for another, Aegon and Daemon raced full tilt to the Red Keep.

The sight of the winter capital did not impress Aegon; the mud and snow of Flea Bottom gave way to snow and mud in more respectable districts, but the whole city seemed somehow grey, dull, joyless, and as if frozen in anticipation of something alarming. The Red Keep towered dark and ominous on the summit of Aegon’s High Hill and more than ever resembled the creation of Maegor the Cruel. From within, it seemed already plunged in mourning; the King still breathed, but the court already lamented him.

On the stairs to the royal chambers, Viserys met the brothers. Aegon noticed that the Prince of Dragonstone had thinned a little and this, perhaps, did him good; Baelon’s eldest son had a most sorrowful aspect.

“Well?” Daemon asked instead of a greeting.

“Still alive,” the Heir to the Throne responded.

“One would not say so by your face,” Aegon blurted out.

“Aemma lost the child,” Viserys answered hollowly, and the youth felt ashamed. “We returned from Dragonstone two weeks ago… There was a storm on the way, and on the very first night…”

“I forgot to tell you,” Daemon whispered guiltily.

“I am very sorry,” Aegon sympathized with his brother sincerely.

Viserys nodded gratefully.

“I understand you have only just arrived, but I would like you, Aegon, to examine him.”

“Is Runciter at death’s door too?” the Prince would have been glad not to be sarcastic, but after the gloomy capital and joyless thoughts in flight, barbs flew from his tongue of their own accord.

“No, but…”

“We trust you more,” Daemon interrupted his elder brother.

Aegon only shrugged and limped up the stairs after them. At Grandfather’s chambers stood Ser Harrold Westerling on guard and the Lord Commander himself, Ser Ryam Redwyne.

“My Princes,” Ser Ryam greeted them. “Welcome back to the capital, Prince Aegon. I regret the occasion is so sorrowful.”

“Leave it, Ser Ryam,” the youth waved him off. “I have no other occasions for return.”

Ser Harrold opened the door slightly, letting the princes inside. Semi-darkness reigned in the royal bedchamber; the room was heated hotly, but a fresh breeze came from the slightly open window, and Aegon nodded with satisfaction—stagnant air is harmful to any invalid.

On a vast bed, of truly royal dimensions, under a dark red canopy and a black coverlet lay a withered old man, in whom the young Prince recognized his grandfather with difficulty. Jaehaerys lay with closed eyes, but judging by his frequently rising and falling chest, he was hardly asleep. Beside his bed on a chair with red cushions sat a ginger-haired girl of some ten or twelve years, who hopped off it at the sight of those entering.

“This is Lady Alicent Hightower, Lord Otto’s daughter,” Viserys introduced her. “She cares for Grandfather.”

“You forced a girl to watch over an old man?” from surprise, Aegon’s eyebrows crept dangerously toward the back of his head.

“It is no trouble to me, my Prince,” Lady Alicent chirped. “I know how to tend the sick. I was with Mother when she was ill, and watched over my brothers. To help His Grace is my duty.”

“Is that so? And who shoves the chamber pot under him? You too?”

“No!” the girl squeaked indignantly. Even in the light of candles and the fireplace flame, it was noticeable how the little one blushed deeply.

Paying her no heed, Aegon approached the bed and sat on the edge. Jaehaerys’s beard, which had known neither razor nor scissors for at least the last ten years, was neatly combed and laid atop the blanket. The Prince took Grandfather’s thinned hand with protruding blue veins and barely found a pulse. Too infrequent, he decided. Evidently, his hands were too cold and woke the King from his semi-oblivion; Jaehaerys opened his eyes and looked at his grandson with a cloudy gaze of violet eyes.

“Grandfather?” Viserys called him from over Aegon’s shoulder. “We brought Aegon.”

“Aegon?” the King rustled. “Is he here?”

“Yes, my King,” Aegon himself did not understand how such a formal address slipped out. He laid a hand on Jaehaerys’s forehead and noted the absence of fever not without satisfaction. “How do you feel?”

“Aegon…” Grandfather called again. “Is it truly you?”

“Yes, it is I.”

“Son… How glad I am! How good that you have come!..”

Aegon stared in bewilderment at his brothers, but they looked just as shocked as he himself. The little nurse looked anxious, but not too surprised.

“You are mistaken, my King,” Aegon corrected him cautiously. “I am your grandson.”

“What nonsense,” the other tried to wave him off, but the weak hand fell atop the colorless beard. “You are my eldest son, heir, Prince of Dragonstone…”

“But…” tried to insert the ‘heir’.

“Better tell me, how is your wife? We have not seen her for so long…”

“My… wife?” in any other situation Aegon would have laughed at what was happening, but scarce did he find himself in the place of a sick man’s relative than the Prince felt eerie.

“Daenerys… Our beloved daughter… You said she is expecting a child again. Is it born already?”

“My King,” Aegon decided to cut short this misunderstanding. “I am your youngest grandson, Prince Baelon’s son. Princess Daenerys died many years ago, as did your firstborn, Prince Aegon.”

“D-died?” it seemed for Jaehaerys this was a great discovery.

“Yes, and very long ago.”

“Grandson…” the King of the Seven Kingdoms repeated quietly.

“Yes, I am your grandson, I just arr…” Aegon barely managed to bite his tongue not to say “flew”. Grandfather is obviously ill, but he is still King, and he has not repealed his prohibition on approaching dragons; who knows what will come into his head. “Just arrived from Oldtown. Your son Vaegon is an Archmaester of the Citadel, and I left him in good health. He sends you his filial greeting and wishes for health.”

Vaegon would sooner have sent curses, but Jaehaerys is now in no state to distinguish lies from truth, and fantasy from reality.

“Vaegon… I am weary. Leave, all of you. All!”

The princes obediently moved away from the bed to the far corner of the room. For a minute the brothers stood in shocked silence, digesting what they had seen and trying to accept the state of him who was called the greatest and wisest of kings.

“Well, what say you?” Viserys finally asked.

“And what can be said here?” Aegon shrugged and suddenly felt he was shaking; the maimed leg began to tap out some dance rhythm with its heel from tension, and the Prince had to slap his calf with the cane to calm it. “You heard everything yourself. He took me for his firstborn and believes I am married to his first daughter. He is losing his mind.”

“Gods…”

It seemed only now did Viserys understand the full gravity of Grandfather’s position. Daemon expressed himself far more precisely, mentioning the Seven Hells, not shy of Alicent’s presence.

“And… Is it for long?” the middle brother asked the pressing question.

“No idea,” Aegon shrugged again. “Days, weeks, maybe even months. Depends on how long his life force lasts. In the Citadel hospital, some madmen lie for years.”

“Years?” Viserys was amazed.

“Maybe years. Or maybe a few months. I need to observe him, examine him in the morning, speak with Runciter. Maybe Dennis will notice something else.”

With these words, he hobbled toward the exit, not looking back at his grandfather stirring under his blanket. Already on the stairs, his brothers caught up with him.

“And what to do now?” inquired Viserys. ” can he be helped somehow?”

“Dementia is not cured,” Aegon cut him off. “What to do? Do you truly want to know my opinion?”

Viserys stopped and looked point-blank at his brother.

“I always want to know your opinion,” he declared in a very serious tone. “Yours and Daemon’s.”

Not a little touched by such a display of feelings, Aegon lowered his eyes and pronounced quietly:

“The King is in no state to rule. Appoint a Regent.”

—————

Read advance chapters on my Patreon

Patreon(.)com/WinterScribe

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep