CHAPTER V
Of Naughty Carbs and Tired DragonsTo say Egg was tired would've been an understatement. Truly.
He was older now. His silvery hair still held its luster, but the white was creeping in beneath, and Betha had noticed. Of course she had. How could she not?
Dunk stood silent behind him as Aegon looked out over the sprawl of King's Landing. The city rolled below in smoke and sound, red roofs and tiled domes fading into haze.
If you could ignore the stink...which, this high up, was only a whisper and fix the problem that was Flea Bottom, it might even be beautiful.
But that was another ambition. Another goal unfulfilled.
Jaehaerys held small council sessions now. Egg had excused himself from today's-he had no interest in wrangling with his goodson Ormund. The lad had all his father's stubbornness and none of his humor.
And Duncan? No, he wasn't there either. He never was when needed. Just because he'd abdicated didn't mean he couldn't help. He still had pull, still had the presence of a knight and the instincts of a born courtier, but in love… the man was a fool.
Oh, Jenny.
Jenny, Jenny, Jenny. If she weren't so sweet, Egg might've hated her. Betha certainly did. For all her Blackwood blood, she held tight to the Seven and blamed Jenny for Duncan's fall...from grace, from duty, from reason.
Now his son was gallivanting across the Reach, no doubt being fattened on peaches and praise by the Tyrells.
The lords were growing insufferable.
The Blackfyres weren't even the worst of his worries anymore. That was the sad truth. Not like others thought.
Daemon-was it the third or fourth?...was dead. By a kinslayer no less. Egg didn't believe the traitors would fall so low as to follow one like that. No, they were toothless now.
His real enemy was here. At court. In silks.
Petty, pompous lords who thought too much of their own names, whining about "traditions" and "ancestral rights."
As if he couldn't hear them. As if the walls didn't carry their whispers.
The Unlikely. The Peasant Prince.The Sheep King.
That last one stung the worst. Not even clever.
He had that man flogged. It hadn't helped. He was not proud of it.
Things would be easier with dragons. That thought came often now, at his weakest hours. One of the few times he let bitterness fester...when he cursed his ancestors.
He fancied himself a patient man. But patience could stretch thin. And his had. Decades of compromise. Of putting down rebellions. Of burying sons.
Daeron. Gods, Daeron.
Why were they all so willful? Was it him? Had he failed them somehow?
He would ask Betha sometimes. Had he been a bad father?
She would laugh, warm and wicked. She always knew how to wound gently.
He had loved them. He still did. He understood love. Could not fault his children for it.
And little Steffon...bright and bold...and young Aerys, all curls and questions. Rhaella, quiet and golden, a proper princess.
He wanted to keep them small. Hold them close.
A foolish thought for a king.
His musing broke as Dunk nudged him, voice low but edged with humor.
"Your Grace. The Celtigars are here."
Egg turned from the window.
Time to see what young crab had to say.
Oh, the young Celtigar hadn't come directly to the Red Keep. No, that would've been too convenient.
He'd gone to the Sept first. Paid his respects to the High Septon.
If Egg had been a lesser man, he might've felt insulted. But… no. That wasn't it.
The courtiers, of course, had plenty to say. They always did.
"A lickspittle." "A devout." "Stupid copper-counter."
That last one had come from Lord Darklyn...rich, given his debts. Egg stifled a chuckle.
Apparently, young Lord Caspian's success pricked all the wrong nerves in all the right lords. Even Ormund had a scowl on his face. Then again, Ormund always had a scowl.
At least he was happy with Rhaelle. Thank the gods for that. Egg didn't want to see his dutiful daughter suffer.
But the Crab Lord…he was in the Sept, offering food and clothes, those strange tonics of his to the smallfolk. And Egg was grateful. Whatever it was, it had helped Jaehaerys grow hale and hearty. No longer pale, no longer plagued with endless fevers.
There were murmurs now...of a healing house. A hospital, Caspian had called it. Right here in King's Landing. He hadn't consulted Egg, of course. He'd spoken with the High Septon instead for it was to be built on Sept lands, run by motherhouses that would train septas in new duties.
It would cost a fortune.
But somehow, Caspian always had the coin.
The taxes from Claw Isle had increased tenfold, and even that didn't match what the boy must be bringing in. Egg suspected a mind like his would be good with his ledgers, but the master of coin found no discrepancy. He was not bad with ledgers himself, and the math didn't lie.
House Celtigar wasn't just rich. He was growing. Quickly.
Not enough to rival a great house. Not yet. Or could it? The Starks? The Tullys?
Four years it had taken. Four.
And he had turned his house's fortune around. More than that, he'd turned his people's lives around.
Rumors abounded.
Some called him blessed by the Crone. Others by the Smith. Some said both.
Dunk had laughed. "Which one, I wonder," he'd said, "blessed his purse?"
But Egg had heard the other rumors too...the unsavory ones. Whispers of dark rites, of sorcery and sacrifice. He paid those no mind.
It didn't fit.
No, Caspian built septs. Built houses for the sick. Employed not just his own, but folk from every corner of the realm. Egg knew from Ormund's own complaints...that the boy was poaching workers and smallfolk, drawing them off the Stormlands with gold and promise.
Everyone had an opinion on Lord Caspian Celtigar.
To some, he was a greedy copper-counter. To others, a soft-hearted fool.
To Egg, he was familiar.
A boy who cared. Who worked. Who bled for his people. Noble and smallfolk alike.
And he succeeded.
Ports. Deals with Braavos. Hitting the slavers where it hurt. Crossbows and Glass? Myr was in uproar and he enjoyed every second of that.
Isn't that what he had dreamed of? Once?
Duncan snorted from behind him. "Remind you of someone, Your Grace? Someone who wanted to be a Kingsguard once?"
Egg laughed, the weight of his crown lay forgotten.
"Don't think Betha would've liked that."
Then the doors opened. The murmurs ceased.
And a herald cleared his throat.
"Your Grace. The Lord of Claw Isle seeks audience."
Aegon exhaled. "Finally." And found himself wearing the mask of dragon once again.
The perfume helped. Barely. And Caspian had decided he hated King's landing.
He had finally felt the relief of clean silks and a scrubbed body, but the stink of this city still clawed at his throat. Gods, what was this place?
He'd thought that brown sludge pooling by the alley was mud. It wasn't.
He gagged.
Jaremy laughed behind him, the bastard.
"You could have warned me," Caspian muttered.
"And miss this?" Ser Jaremy grinned. "Not even for a lordship, my lord."
Ah, the lordship.
He still didn't understand it. Anyone else might've been ecstatic, but Jaremy had looked almost offended by the offer.
Caspian didn't get it. Most knights would've killed for one. Jaremy hadn't even blinked. Said he liked being free. Said he didn't want to answer to land, just to him.
Strange man. Loyal though.
"I'll get you back for this."
"Oh?" Jaremy cocked an eyebrow. "Again with the Lannister words, my lord?"
Caspian groaned. "I said it once."
"You said it in front of Rogar…while he was bleeding and even he rolled his eyes."
"I thought it sounded cool."
"He was battered and still he rolled-"
Uncle Thoren also hadn't agreed too. Even that knight Rogar had given him a strange look. No matter. They'd all see.
He turned to Ser Lymond, sharp-eyed and lean.
"How far behind is the Brune contingent?"
"A few more days, my lord."
"No more skirmishes?"
"None."
They had wanted to reach King's Landing first. Make their case. Play the victims. He'd seen to that. A few bandits here. A few delays there. He would be lying if he said he did not enjoy this.
Now came the real work.
Thoren was no dobut still fuming, waiting for him in the Red keep. Especially when Caspian had sent him ahead and himself skipped to the Sept first.
"You go to the king before you play priest," he'd urged before and no doubt would grumble the same later..
But this wasn't just piety. He was not that pious. Hehe.
Caspian held no delusions when it came to his reputation. So he did what he did best… leaned into the better half of it.
The food. The 'medicines'. The books thanks to the cheap paper from sugarcane let him print The Seven's Grace by the hundred, handed out to the poor and pious alike.
He had sent his own septons or men dressed as such, loyal and already reverent to the King's landing months before, and it was a success! He could see it as the people received their delegation with cheers and reverence.
The Most Devout himself had received him with a smile. Not just for the gifts. For what came with them. The promise of more septs, especially in the bogs and 'illuminating' the bogmen to their virtues. A healing house too, built on sept land with trained septas tending wounds. Not only here but in every major town the sept held land.
He wasn't fool enough to think the Septon's smile came only from the gods. It was power. Soft, quiet and political. And they would wield it together.
Caspian wasn't truly devout. He'd sat through enough sermons, said the prayers. But since coming here...since everything...he sometimes wondered.
If the gods were real, and if they would approve.
He shrugged the thought off.
The doors to the throne room opened before he reached them.
He didn't notice the murmurs cease, for all his eyes saw was the sight before him.
The throne looked like something that belonged in a fever dream. Blades twisted into agony, a seat made to stab. On it sat a man who looked oddly like him. Older. Worn. Eyes kind yet tired.
King Aegon, fifth of his name.
Caspian stepped forward and knelt.
"Your Grace," he said.
The king studied him for a breath.
"You are late," Grunted the Baratheon, recognizable by the crowned stag and durran frame. And the man did not look happy. Expected.
Caspian lowered his eyes with care but his answer was to the king himself. "Forgive me, Your Grace. I had never before laid eyes on the Sept of Baelor. It seems the gods were calling me to visit them first."
A pause. Then a soft huff.
Aegon chuckled.
"No offense taken, Young Caspian," he said, and the hint of a smile touched his lips. "Your uncle seemed wroth enough for both of us. I would not add to that burden."
Laughter rippled across the hall...polite, measured, slightly rehearsed.
"Oh, my king is kind indeed," purred some minor court lady, all pearls and praise. And Caspian nodded agreeing.
Ormund scowled harder beneath his black beard, but a glance from his goodbrother calmed him. Lord Tyrell did not even shift…just a single mirthful look.
Caspian let his eyes pass without lingering but for a single nod.
"So you say, Lord Caspian," came the silk-smooth drawl of a lion. A man clad red and gold, heavy chain glinting...Jason Lannister, definitely. "Why visit King's Landing in such... abruptness?"
Caspian blinked. That was a surprise to him. Tilted his head. Faintly furrowed his brow.
"Abruptly, my lord? I had sent a raven bearing the news of my coming. Your Grace"...he turned slightly to address the king..."it seems my raven has lost itself in the grand rookery."
A sound...a polite cough, too pointed to be natural.
The Grand Maester, hunched in cream-colored robes, adjusted his chain. His eyes didn't meet Caspian's.
They met the man in the Darklyn colors instead.
Interesting. Caspian held the thought close. Very interesting.
Aegon's smile didn't fade. If anything, it deepened. His eyes bored into the maester who suddenly found the ceiling very interesting.
"No matter," Caspian broke the awkward silence, rubbing the back of his head. "For that I am here and now is as good time as any, please let your humble vassal present what he's brought."
He clapped his hands once.
Caspian gave a nod. A silent servant approached, bearing a narrow chest of lacquered blackwood with silver hinges.
He opened the chest himself, slowly, precisely, letting the hush stretch.
Inside, on a bed of twilight-blue silk, lay three objects. All shimmered.
First, he reached for the book.
The Seven's Grace, bound in soft calfskin, the leather pale and clean as bone. The title gleamed in gold leaf, and nestled within each letter...seven names, seven virtues...were tiny inlaid chips of sapphire, ruby, and amethyst. Not enough to boast, but enough to shimmer under torchlight.
He stepped forward and presented it with both hands, bowing his head.
"A gift for Your Grace. This is the Crackclaw edition...first printing. My presses produced them by the hundred for the Faith, but this one is bound for a king."
There was a flicker through the court. Recognition. Curiosity. The Grand Maester leaned forward slightly; a Fossoway cousin murmured something at her companion's ear. They had seen these in the poor septs, perhaps even heard the lowborn quoting from them in Flea Bottom. But not like this. Not as art.
Caspian turned back to the chest and lifted the second gift. Slowly.
A golden apple.
Shining brightly. No hammer marks. No seams. Not cast. Not shaped. Not gilded.
Solid.
He lifted it by the stem, holding it to the light. Its surface reflected the entire throne room in a distorted gleam...torches, pillars, faces.
And one throne, jagged and black, burning gold in its surface.
"For Prince Jaehaerys," Caspian said, his voice gentle now. "A token of health and prosperity."
A beat of silence. Then voices...soft, rapid, awed.
The prince, to his credit…gave him a kind smile as one of his retainers carried it over to him.
The women whispered first. Then the men. Then the old lords who thought they knew better. One even stepped closer towards the chest-
Let them wonder, he thought.
Let them count the gems. Weigh the gold. Examine the blade.
They are not even ready for what's next.
Caspian's lips curved… just barely.
For he knew he had their attention gripped tighter than any leash. The court was already tilting toward him like sunflowers to light.
He reached back into the open chest and this time lifted something wrapped in black silk. Slow. Intentional. The fabric peeled away as he turned toward the throne.
The sword was revealed like a blade of starlight.
Clear. Faceted. Unmistakably impossible. No forge in Westeros, nor Essos, had made this. Not steel, not Valyrian. It gleamed like frozen fire...every torch in the hall caught and broken in its edge.
A breath caught. Not one. Dozens.
Gasps rippled, soft but real. A whisper of disbelief. One of the Reachmen actually rose a hand to their chest. Another lord muttered a prayer. The Grand Maester's hand went rigid around his chain.
"Impossible." "SORCERY!" "Blessed Smith!"
But Caspian heard none of it.
He stepped forward and knelt once more, offering the blade across his palms.
"A sword for the Warrior," he said, voice carrying in the hush. "I call it Frostbane. Forged of diamond. Undulling. Unyielding. A weapon not of heat and wrath...but of clarity. Discipline. Judgment."
He tilted it slightly...just enough for the blade to catch the firelight in its facets. The light scattered like shattered stars.
"For Your Grace. To wield, or to keep. As symbol, or steel."
For a moment, the court didn't breathe.
Aegon did not react immediately. His eyes were wide...truly wide...as he leaned forward on the Iron Throne, almost unaware of the jagged edges at his back. His composure, the careful Targaryen reserve, vanished.
When he stood, he moved too quickly for a king. He didn't descend with dignity. He came down from the throne like a father rushing to hold his newborn child.
He took the blade in both hands. Reverent. His fingers tracing the edge, uncaring of the red that spilled.
A whisper passed his lips...inaudible.
He turned it slowly, as if to drink it all. Memories of Blackfyre and his father mourn it. A man who had dreamed of having something worthy to pass to his son once again.
And now held it.
The blade gleamed of rainbows and perfect in his grip, as if it had always belonged there.
The room was silent but for the distant crackle of torches.
"A gift like this-" Aegon said quietly, not looking at anyone but the sword. "Even Valyria never shaped one. A sword like this...lords would beggar their realms for less."
He raised his eyes to Caspian.
"And you place it in my hand."
Caspian bowed his head just slightly. "I thought it belonged there, Your Grace."
Aegon looked at the sword and then at him, and to his surprise- hugged him like a son, his voice shaky with happiness. Decorum forgotten.
"This… is a gift that I- I don't even know what to say." the king laughed.
He handed it, almost reluctantly, to the prince who stood beside, lost in its beauty.
Both share a look. As if to say… I don't yet trust myself not to vanish into this.
"House Targaryen will never forget this-" Aegon said, voice quieter now. Humbled.
"Just a vassal's duty your grace."
"We will speak more," he said. "This… We have much to discuss. Come, Caspian."
He turned and gestured to the open doors at the far side of the hall.
"Let us continue in the council."
Caspian bowed low. "Your Grace."
He stepped back, the empty chest closed behind him.
But as he turned to follow, he felt the court's gaze, its whispers...all of it, heavy on his back.
He smirked as he found his uncle there in the crowd staring with his mouth open. Never gets old.
No one was looking at the golden apple anymore