The next day, Aegon decided to realize one of his old ideas, which had visited him shortly after he and Dennis had left the Blessed City of the Smith. Then, watching the campfire dance in the evening, the Prince thought that for one such as he, born of the blood and flame of Old Valyria, it was foolish to rely on the power of the Andal gods, whose followers were once vanquished by his ancestors; on the contrary, one ought to turn to those cults that might have been professed in the Freehold itself. The flame itself suggested the answer—faith in the Lord of Light existed long before the Doom, and the very essence of worship seemed more than suitable for a descendant of Valyrians. Aegon decided to visit one of the fire temples at the first opportunity and speak with the Red Priests in the hope of hearing from them something more beneficial for soul and body than Septon Ronald's tales.
In Braavos, it was not possible to carry out the plan—first he and Dennis visited the Warren, and then they were "invited" to the Sealord, who hired them for war; in Lorath, not a single follower of R'hllor was found at all. But here, in Volantis, stood the largest Temple of the Lord of Light, the most famous and revered west of Valyria; it would be foolish to miss such a promising option again, so Aegon, in the company of Maerys and his sworn shield, set off to visit the Red Priests.
"Why did they erect the temple outside the Black Walls?" inquired the Prince when their palanquin passed through the Bronze Gate.
"The Lord of Light is worshipped mostly by the smallfolk," shrugged the cousin. "Among the Old Blood, he is not very popular."
"And to whom do they pray then?"
"Whoever to whomever. In this, they also imitate the Old Freehold."
"Honor a hundred gods at once, but no one in particular?"
"Aye."
"And what of the gods of the Old Freehold?"
Maerys did not answer immediately:
"They are rarely remembered, and even more rarely spoken of."
"How so? Is this not one of the threads binding the Black Walls and Valyria?"
"It is so," spoke the cousin. "Therefore they guard the secrets of their cult. Furthermore, the Old Blood adopted this fashion from the Valyrians—they consider themselves above most gods."
Aegon laughed mirthlessly:
"Those at least had dragons to think so. And what has the Old Blood? Ambitions? Memory? Nostalgia?"
The youth shrugged: either he did not care, or he truly did not understand the native inhabitants of the Black Walls. In the end, he himself must have been born outside them, and some concepts are instilled with the milk of mothers and wet nurses, with the first comrades of childhood years; it could well be that, despite Aunt Saera's service as Triarch, her family was still not considered "one of their own" by everyone. Seeing that he would not wait for an answer to his questions, Aegon decided to change the subject and inquired:
"And whom do you worship?"
To his surprise, the cousin answered immediately and not without a smile:
"Mother and Viserra—the Panther, the Andal Maiden, and the Lord of Harmony."
"A contradictory set," Aegon remarked sarcastically.
"Logic is not for women," Maerys agreed with the smirk of a youth who had managed to learn the essence of things; Aegon was not much older than him, but the cousin's bravado evoked a light smile in him. "Jaegaer went to the temples of Semosh and Selloso several times, but he likes the Lord of Harmony more."
"Why so?"
"Because he is a jolly giant with an enormous cock surrounded by maidens," the cousin explained as if to a small child.
"And you?"
"Me?" Maerys was unexpectedly confused. "I know not."
"You know not whether it is worth praying?" Aegon was surprised.
In the Citadel, he had happened to meet those who denied the existence of any gods in principle, and the Prince decided that such people were no better than fanatics or sectarians. Both cited justifications in support of their faith with foam at the mouth: only the first believed in the existence of the supernatural, and the second—in its absence. The Prince himself could not classify himself unambiguously as either; obviously, the Andal gods are no better than the Old Gods of the North, but someone helps him light obsidian candles, do they not?
"I know not to whom," the cousin admitted quietly.
"Oh, and wherein lies the torment of choice?"
"I read the epistles of the Red Priests, and they seemed interesting to me," the youth began to explain confusedly. "Then a couple of times I went to their sanctuary within the Black Walls, it is quite small, Mother knew nothing..."
"Therefore you decided to go with me?"
"Y-yes."
"Well," chuckled Aegon. "I hope we shall both satisfy our curiosity."
Soon the palanquin stopped, and Aunt's slaves threw open the heavy curtains, providing protection not only from the cold wind from the river but also from unnecessary eyes and ears. The Prince stood beside Dennis, who had managed to dismount from his grey gelding, and now stared open-mouthed at the mass of the Temple of the Lord of Light.
"It is bigger than the Dragonpit!" the knight marveled. "Together with the whole hill!"
"Do not exaggerate, the size of Aegon's Hill, no more," the Prince squinted skeptically; at the mere sight of the steps leading to the main entrance, lit by two huge bonfires, his leg began to ache.
Columns, steps, domes, towers exactly hewn from a single colossal rock, which in size truly yielded nothing to the hill on which the Conqueror erected his throne; Aegon thought of how much strength, time, and human lives were required for the construction of such a behemoth; in the end, this fit into the Valyrian spirit that Volantis still breathed—the lives of slaves and servants unburdened by property meant less than the lace on Viserra's dress. The walls of R'hllor's sanctuary were painted in various shades of red, orange, yellow, and gold, transitioning one into another like clouds at sunset; slender towers aspiring to the sky resembled tongues of flame, and the whole Temple resembled a huge bonfire burning in the middle of a populous city.
At the upper steps, they were met by an acolyte in yellow robes.
"Valar morghulis (All men must die)," he greeted them in High Valyrian.
"Valar dohaeris (All men must serve)," Maerys answered for everyone, touching his palm to his heart.
"The doors of the Lord of Light are always open to those thirsting for truth," the acolyte either had not fully learned the language of his god or switched to it intentionally—it was unlikely many of the simple townsfolk mastered it well if even the Old Blood preferred to communicate among themselves in simplified Volantene. "The Light of Truth awaits the Dragonlords."
Not looking back at the young men frozen in bewilderment, he minced inside with small steps; the cousins exchanged glances and followed. Contrary to Aegon's expectations, they were led not into the general prayer hall (evidently, the Red Priests decided not to repeat the Septons from Andalos—the Temple of the Lord already surpassed the Sept of the Smith in external beauty), but into one of the corridors running within the walls, which led them into a small hall completely devoid of windows. At the wall furthest from the entrance stood a simple stone altar devoid of any decorations, on which burned the steady flame of a sacred fire. Before the altar, wrapped in a dark red, almost black shroud, a man knelt, muttering words of prayer in High Valyrian barely audible to the ear.
The acolyte bowed his head respectfully and began to wait silently for the elder to finish his worship and pay attention to those who had entered. Finally, the priest stretched his hands to the flame, as if scooping heat from it and washing his face with it. Aegon heard Maerys sigh admiringly; evidently, the cousin thought the servant of the Lord of Light truly brought fire to his face in his own palms, but the Prince saw everything—it was simply a symbolic gesture, without any mysticism or magic.
"Greetings to the Dragonlords," the priest turned to them. "We awaited your coming."
"Truly?" blurted Aegon. "Did this flame of yours predict it to you?"
"The Lord of Light need not send us visions for us to foresee the future," remarked the servant of R'hllor. "For this, it is sufficient to possess a certain level of logic, to be able to listen to people and draw conclusions. A dragon has settled within the Black Walls again, but his flame has weakened. So they say."
"So they say," echoed the Prince. Positively, there is no secret that could be hidden even behind two-hundred-foot walls.
"When a flame weakens, a man fans it so that it flares up anew, stronger and brighter. When a flame goes out, a man takes a flint and lights it anew, for the night is dark and full of terrors."
"My dragon's flame has not gone out," objected Aegon.
"But it has weakened, and the Dragonlord thinks he will find answers here."
"And will he find them here?"
Instead of an answer, the Red Priest turned to his unquenchable altar again and after a pause said:
"Light is most visible at night, dark and moonless. The Lord is ready to reveal the truth to anyone who is ready for it."
"You evade the answer," remarked Aegon, paying no attention to Maerys, who choked on indignation at his cousin's impudence. The priest turned with a soft, fatherly smile, made a wide gesture with his hand, beckoning the guests to approach the altar.
"My answers may not satisfy you, but I am merely a slave of the Lord of Light," said the man. "You are a Prince of Flame, and He may send a vision to you as well."
The one named Prince of Flame chuckled; fall for the cheap tricks of priests again, only to feel like a fool later? He had already gone through this in Andalos, then in Lorath after Vermithor was wounded, and all was to no avail. But still... Perchance this priest is right? The R'hllorian faith, if only by spirit alone, is closer to the descendants of Valyrians than the Andal Faith of the Seven or the Old Gods of the First Men.
In the end, the Maester's desire for experiment prevailed over the Maester's skepticism; the Prince took a couple of steps forward. In the silence broken only by the hum of the flame, the weirwood cane tapped ringingly on the black stone flags. Although the sacred fire burned with a quite natural flame, it burned too steadily, Aegon would even say—unnaturally steadily.
Aegon peered and peered into the flame, but nothing happened. Tongues of fire danced, sparks ascended to the ceiling, coals crackled, but he saw nothing, heard nothing, and felt nothing. The crackling did not form into words, and the fiery patterns did not birth visions. The stone was simply a soot-stained stone, the fire—fire, and the priest—another charlatan.
After some time, when nothing had changed, the Prince chuckled mockingly and inquired:
"How many years did you spend in this cubbyhole before you saw something in the flame? I, you know, have not so much time to engage in such things—my dragon is ill, you say so yourself."
The Red Priest smiled sadly and shook his head.
"If the Dragonlord saw nothing, it does not mean there is nothing. It means the time has not yet come, but in the appointed hour the Lord of Light..."
"Will reveal the truth to me? Forgive me, I cannot wait."
With these words, Aegon turned, skirted the frozen Maerys, and walked out. A couple of steps later, the yellow acolyte overtook him, mincing ahead again and showing the way; almost immediately behind, the measured tramp of Dennis's boots was heard, and a few moments later his cousin caught up with him.
"Do you even understand with whom you spoke?!" hissed Maerys in his ear. "How could you?! That is the Light of Truth, the High Priest of the Temple!"
"I spoke exactly the same way with the High Septon in the City of the Smith. He is exactly the same," waved Aegon off.
"No, you do not understand!.."
"No, you do not understand!" the Prince spun on his left leg and poked a finger into his cousin's chest in fury. The acolyte coughed inappropriately, not too delicately indicating the inappropriateness of any quarrels. Aegon cursed, exhaled, and, waving his index finger before his cousin's face, followed the acolyte, losing strength with every step. By the time they went out onto the street and descended to the palanquin waiting for them, his head hummed mercilessly, as if all three Norvoshi bells were beating inside it at once, his eyes were sticking together, and his legs and cane carried their master rather by inertia. Scarce had he climbed onto the pillows when he himself did not notice how he fell into sleep...
...only to wake immediately. A wall of fire stood around Aegon, shimmering with all the colors of the rainbow. The flame danced, rising from nowhere and going nowhere; it was above his head (or rather, where his head was supposed to be, that is, above), it was under his feet (or rather, where his feet were supposed to be, that is, below), it was everywhere, all around and at once, but the Prince felt neither terrible heat nor pain. And they should have been there—Septons insisted on this, prophesying the fiery vents of the Seven Hells for sinners; Aegon's Maester half came to the same conclusions. In fairness, he did not feel himself either. He simply was amidst the roaring colorful flame, and, it seemed, remained in such a state for an infinitely long time, experiencing no discomfort. Suddenly, in his chest (or rather, where his chest was supposed to be, that is, somewhere below the head), something awakened, stirred, and reached somewhere, to something or to someone. It did not tear outward, did not try to tear Aegon apart, but simply pulled him somewhere. The Prince tried to take a step, but could not, since he still had no legs. The Prince tried to move by thought after something that was pulling him, but nothing changed either. It seemed something was calling him, but he was imprisoned in his terrible fiery dungeon. The shimmering flame, which at first seemed beautiful, now began to frighten. Among scarlet, orange, yellow, bronze, copper, green, silvery, Aegon suddenly began to notice dark red and even ominously black tongues. He had no time to properly realize the color palette when a thunderous voice rang out from nowhere:
"Imāzīs īlo! (Come to us!)"
If Aegon had eyes, he would have popped them out crazily now. It seemed to him that behind the flashes of flame, between its separate tongues, something flashed, some shadow, so huge that it was impossible to understand exactly what the Prince saw.
"Imāzīs īlo!" repeated the unknown voice, sounding at once in High Valyrian, and Common, and Pentoshi, and the Summer Tongue, and all languages of the world: living, dead, and not yet born. "Īlon jumbi! (We wait!)"
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