Prince Aegon Targaryen

Just as the fortress of Harrendel fell under the flame and blows of Balerion the Black Dread, so fell Viserys’s position on the issue of divorce, which had seemed just as unshakable; having lived with Aemma for twelve years in love, peace, and harmony, the King did not wish to accept that his younger brother wanted to divorce his wife. How much true respect for the institution of marriage there was in this, and how much reluctance to destroy one of the famous unions arranged by the Good Queen Alysanne out of piety and reverence for her memory, remained a mystery to Aegon for a long time; he himself remained convinced that this conflict could not be resolved simply so, but politics intervened.

Naturally, at first they tried to betroth him to Calla Carlarys as the King’s unmarried brother, but Daemon did not miss the chance to remind everyone that he was, in fact, older and the heir to the Iron Throne, which meant a union with him was more promising. Viserys thought, sighed, but agreed nonetheless. However, to dissolve a marriage sanctified by the Faith required the dispensation of the High Septon, and there were certain doubts that the Hierarch of the Faith would agree to it.

“He will not agree, mark my words, he will not agree,” shook his head Lord Chamberlain Robin Massey.

Meanwhile, the King invited his sister-in-law from Runestone to come to court and asked the High Septon if not to come himself, then at least to send a delegation of the Most Devout. Lady Rhea sent a brief, very dry letter in response, in which she admitted that Daemon was no husband to her and she no wife to him and never had been, and if the Septons wished to verify this, let them come to her themselves and check.

Viserys, wishing not to make the situation even more scandalous, accepted such an answer as official consent, and Daemon flew to Oldtown that very day in joy. The Prince’s personal presence truly accelerated the process—the Council of the Faith, led by its Arch-Shepherd, sat for only an hour: exactly as much time as the Most Devout needed to gather, pray, read three letters, hear the sole witness, and dissolve the marriage. The brother returned to the Red Keep happy and single again; for a whole day and night the Gold Cloaks caroused on the Street of Silk on the occasion of the happy event in the life of their Lord Commander, but when the sun rose, the Blood Wyrm took off from Rhaenys’s Hill, carrying his rider across the Narrow Sea to the newly formed Kingdom of Pentos. There, in the palace, only recently princely and now royal, under the vigilant gazes of Westerosi ambassadors and the nervous whispering of the local nobility, he took the younger sister of Callio the First as wife.

The ceremony was performed by seven Septons, four local and three Most Devout from King’s Landing, who, to Aegon’s surprise, managed to agree on all the subtleties of the service; despite the fact that after Mantarys the Prince visited septs as he visited sessions of the Small Council—that is, out of necessity and a sense of duty—he deemed it necessary to refresh his musical skills and selected several hymns for the service. The wedding turned out completely Andal, managing to be simultaneously strict and solemnly lush, but the celebration that followed became for Aegon the apotheosis of Pentoshi love for luxury.

Local brocade embroidered with gold and silver thread, Lyseni patterned satin, Myrish lace on velvet from Lannisport, two-colored Yi Ti silk, Tyroshi wigs, Qartheen perfumes, pearls from both shores of the Narrow Sea, necklaces, beads, rings, tiaras, chains of various metals studded with the most diverse precious stones from all ends of the known world—from all this variety, the head spun and eyes dazzled. The orchestra tried hard to drown out the shouts of tipsy courtiers of both powers, and sometimes it even succeeded; the music, truth be told, became completely unbearable and incomprehensible at such moments. The celebrants themselves clearly tried to outdo each other in floridly ornate congratulations and tastelessly expensive gifts to the newlyweds.

Against the background of others, Callio and Aegon, representing the eldest of his brothers, looked almost like poor relations: both Kings made gifts in advance and behind closed doors. The King of Pentos asked Daemon to consider him a third brother and gave the Prince one of the ancestral estates on the high bank of the bay; the King of the Seven Kingdoms charged his Master of Dragons to present his brother with a dragon egg for the Crown Prince’s future child at the wedding. Aegon, having fully experienced all the torments of choice, settled on a dark red one with scales gilding at the edges and small black speckles; Meleys had laid it during the life of their mother, Princess Alyssa. Mother died, Meleys changed rider, and the dragon egg returned to their family.

The celebration ended with a boisterous bedding ceremony; in Westeros, women led the groom, undressing him along the way, and men led the bride, but in Pentos this was combined into a single process, managing simultaneously to push the spouses toward each other and pull them apart. Aegon, whom due to youth and weak health they did not force to participate in the bedding of Viserys and Aemma, was shocked by the old Andal tradition. The very same people who by day at the Septon service wore lean and sublimely spirited faces literally tore the dress, which cost a fortune, off Calla, and yanked the breeches off Daemon to pay tribute to the size of his dignity under friendly laughter and drunken hooting. Daemon would not be Daemon if this embarrassed him; on the contrary, under universal envious whistling, he shook his member for show and, scooping his already undressed bride into his arms, carried her into the bedroom. The guests had not yet managed to let loose all the appropriate obscenities and distribute all the necessary advice, had not even managed to leave the newlyweds’ chambers, when Calla screamed loudly—the Prince of Dragonstone did not wait for intimacy and clearly marked the consummation of the marriage.

When the crowd finally flowed into the corridor to characteristic moans and screams, Aegon hastened to get as far away from it as possible and tumbled out of the stuffy palace into the garden embraced by the night cool. Finding the first bench he came across, lurking surrounded by rhododendrons, he collapsed onto it as if cut down, and began to rub his maimed leg, overworked and stepped on in the crush.

“Barbarity, what barbarity,” he muttered, shocked.

Naturally, he knew such a custom existed, but it is one thing to know, and quite another to participate in it, albeit as a guest. The Prince was confused by the contradiction of ostentatious sanctity and rakish lust managing to coexist simultaneously in the same people; it angered him that marriage, albeit frankly political, turned into a clownish performance, insulting and unworthy for persons of royal blood; the very thought that someday he would take part in this not as a spectator but as the one being bedded drove him to frenzy. Septon morality did not take root in Aegon, but it seemed outrageous to him that someone would undress the woman named his wife (regardless of whether they would love each other or not), and make comments about her breasts or urge her into bed with slaps on the ass, as they urged Calla.

The noise of hurried steps was heard, and his sworn shield nearly flew past Aegon; at the last moment, Dennis noticed his liege and turned dashingly on his heels, managing not to crash onto the small stones strewing the garden paths.

“Here you are,” the knight cast out, trying to catch his breath. “I searched everywhere. Lost you in the crowd.”

“Thought I stayed to help my brother?” the Prince asked maliciously.

“Who the hell knows with you, you visited brothels together.”

Aegon only snorted in response, and then, after thinking, said:

“If my brothers want to marry me off, remind me to agree only if there is no bedding.”

“You understand that this is an important tradition?”

“I sincerely hope it proves so important that without it the whole wedding will not take place.”

“Someone told me that the gods love to laugh at people’s plans very much…”

“My gods at least are not hypocritical and do not turn everything into a farce,” snapped the Prince.

“Our gods, if I may, My Lord,” Dennis corrected him gently.

“Yes. Our Valyrian gods.”

Aegon leaned back on the bench. Words about gods reminded him of Mantarys, of revelations and promises. Did he come closer to fulfilling what he promised?

“Something troubles you,” said the knight semi-affirmatively.

“They set a Goal before me, but can it be achieved?” the Prince lowered his voice. The power of the Magisters in Pentos fell, but walls have ears always and everywhere, whoever sits on the throne. “They want more dragons to be born, but how am I to achieve this? Hold a glass candle for them? Hatch eggs for them? I have gone over everything, but nothing comes to mind, and I…”

“Fear divine wrath?”

“Yes. I do not want to be a new Maegor.”

“You will not become him, even if you want to. The Lord Hand has already given this title to Prince Daemon.”

Aegon chuckled against his will:

“That is weak consolation, you know.”

“And have you not tried to pray?”

From surprise, the Prince even coughed.

“What of it?” marveled Dennis. “It worked with Silverwing, correct? Furthermore, does not the essence of faith lie in this?”

“To pray to gods for help in a task entrusted by them?”

“Yes. You said yourself that they liked it when your ancestors extolled them in hymns and psalms.”

“Our ancestors,” returned Aegon the courtesy to the knight and, deciding not to put off the advice for later, closed his eyes. “Baelan, Balerios…” (Help me, Balerion…)

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