On the day of the Velaryons' arrival at Dragonstone, the weather decides to surprise: instead of the expected rains and the greyness of a low sky, the day begins with a bright, warm sun and an infinitely blue sky. Aegon stood on the small balcony of the Windwyrm, where he had moved his chambers (closer to the secret chapel), and warmed himself in the gentle rays, throwing back his head. He knew-sensed that on the Dragonmont, near his cave, Vermithor also stretched out in the sun, spreading his wings, and beside him sprawled Silverwing. The flame of the dragon's heart inflamed the Prince's blood from within, and the sun's warmth from without, and Aegon rocked on these waves of measured bliss, captive to it, unable to force himself to return to the rooms. He had scarce felt anything of the sort before the revelations.
As if reluctantly opening his eyes, the Prince swept his gaze over Dragon's Haven stretching beneath the castle and the sea expanse beyond it. The day before, a raven had flown from Driftmark, warning of the imminent arrival of Princess Rhaenys and Lady Laena; as if in confirmation of Aegon's thoughts, a red spark flashed in the heavenly blue—Meleys, styled the Red Queen for her power, fury, and stern beauty. The Prince sighed and reluctantly left the favored balcony; his uneven stride was just enough to emerge at the castle gates when the she-dragon landed before them, kicking up a small whirl of dust.
"Dear Cousin," he smiled affably at Rhaenys, scarce had she descended to the ground. "Marvelous weather for flying, is it not?"
"Undoubtedly," nodded the Queen Who Never Was and smiled in return, though rather dryly; after all, good weather helps considerably to dispose people to oneself.
At this moment, the cause of the family reunion climbed out of the saddle—Lady Laena Velaryon. Aegon had already seen her after his return, and the whole court agreed that the Pearl of Driftmark possessed rare beauty even for a person of Valyrian blood: at fifteen, she was slender as her mother, tall as her father, with foam-white skin, a regular oval face, lilac eyes, and a mane of long silver-gold hair curling into small ringlets.
"Lady Laena," Aegon offered a light bow.
"Prince Aegon," the Sea Snake's daughter curtsied in a carefully measured reverence, comparable to the Prince's greeting.
"On behalf of His Grace, I am glad to welcome you to Dragonstone. The Sovereign asked to express gratitude to you and House Velaryon as a whole for the heartfelt support you rendered our family in these heavy and tragic days. My brother highly values the friendly relations that bound you to the late Queen, and thanks you for the words of comfort that were spoken to Princess Rhaenyra."
"Your family would have done the same," nodded Rhaenys, and the shock of her black-and-white hair, gathered in a high coiffure, swayed in time. Both her phrase and the verbiage Aegon had spun before it were pure politics, and everyone understood this perfectly, as they understood that these things had to be said.
"I suppose you are impatient to begin," Aegon pronounced semi-affirmatively.
"Yes," answered Laena, not trying too hard to hide her impatience. "We can begin right now."
Her mother clicked her tongue, and the spirited lady cut herself short—evidently remembering that she was not mistress on this island, and before her stood the Master of Dragons himself. The Prince chuckled at the naivety inherent not in a maiden of marriageable age, but a child, yet signaled the Dragonkeepers and Dennis to follow them. How good that both women were dressed simply, in flying leathers; trousers, though covered by a long-skirted jacket, remained trousers, and could well have shocked some Reach ladies.
"Since it is so, let us not delay. We shall scarce manage to visit all the roosts and nesting grounds in a day, so during our walk, chambers will be prepared for you in the castle," he explained. "I thought to take you, Lady Laena, to our hatchery where we keep eggs, that you might choose—and there is plenty to choose from there, believe me. However, your lord father proved very persuasive and managed to bargain for a dragon already hatched."
"An adult dragon," reminded Rhaenys, following her cousin up the path winding up the mountainside.
"Yes, of course," Aegon agreed compliantly. "This, however, greatly limits the choice—there are few adult dragons, mostly young ones. Furthermore, they may... not like you."
"Not like?" frowned Laena; her mother and brother, undoubtedly, had told her of the special bond between a dragon and its rider, but the Pearl of Driftmark scarce allowed the thought that she might not please someone.
"It would be more precise to express it as 'not to their taste,' but that is a wretched pun. A dragon cannot be forced to fly under someone's saddle; this relationship is a voluntary and equal one."
"Like marriage?"
"Hardly," chuckled Rhaenys.
She, let us suppose, had nothing to complain of; she was lucky with her husband—even their grandfather admitted this—but many marriages could scarce boast such internal agreement, and here there was no division into lords and smallfolk, rich and poor.
"To establish a bond with a dragon is a non-trivial task," continued Aegon in his most Maester-like tone, kicking a stone from the path with his cane. "Gaemon the Glorious wrote in instructions to his children that they should not hurry to run to old dragons. They have their habits, strictly speaking, they are formed personalities, and can easily reject overly ambitious seekers. Therefore, we shall begin with the young generation of dragons; they nest quite compactly..."
"I would like to see Vhagar."
The Prince froze in place; he had calculated that everything would turn out this way, but it is one thing to suppose, and another to encounter it in reality. He turned deliberately slowly and, taking advantage of his height advantage (a mere inch) and the fact that he stood higher on the slope, inquired:
"Did you listen to me just now?"
"And did you hear me?" Laena jerked her chin up defiantly, and Aegon immediately recognized Corlys's movement at Small Council meetings. However, if the Sea Snake expressed his confidence, backed by extensive and very diverse experience, with this gesture, then in his daughter's execution, the too-noticeable imitation looked feigned; even Ser Baelor's guards, not too experienced in high society communication, surely understood that the girl's boldness was born of her self-doubt, disbelief in royal favor, and fear of the dragon of the Conquest. "I want to saddle Vhagar. You cannot refuse me; she is no longer your father's dragon."
"True," nodded Aegon. "But no one has saddled Vhagar for the last seven years..."
"Until Prince Baelon came for her, Vhagar spent thirty years without a rider. Seven years is nothing to her."
Aegon shifted his gaze to Rhaenys; the Queen Who Never Was stood motionless, and her face expressed perhaps only a mother's slight concern for a wild daughter—undoubtedly, the cousin had managed to lose her voice explaining to her how shitty this idea could be; in her lilac eyes, the Prince noticed fatigue from a tiresome dispute, neighboring with restrained curiosity—how will you wriggle out of this situation? Aegon reminded just in case:
"You understand that Vhagar may reject you?"
"She will not reject me, I feel it," snapped Laena.
"Dennis, send someone for horses," ordered Aegon. "We shall go on, and you catch up later. Vhagar prefers the far eastern slopes of the Dragonmont, and it is several hours' journey to them."
The sworn shield nodded obediently and sent a pair of Dragonkeepers back to the castle; they had foreseen such a turn of events, it takes little time to saddle horses. They, meanwhile, moved on. Aegon tried to walk not too slowly and not too fast, so as not to overexert himself ahead of time and so that the guests would not get the impression that he was stalling or, Gods forbid, pitying them; the women walked abreast with him, though the path was perhaps a trifle narrow for this, and someone periodically had to step half a pace back. In one such moment, when Rhaenys let her cousin and daughter pass ahead, Laena said in a guilty tone:
"I ought to apologize, Prince Aegon. My behavior was unworthy, and my words too harsh."
"You behaved exactly as I behaved several years ago," the Prince said conciliatorily. "The Old King did not allow me to saddle a dragon for a long time, so I, probably, understand your feelings like no one else. To be a Targaryen without a dragon is terrible."
The Lady hummed something in agreement, not even disputing that she was a Velaryon by father; a little later, she inquired again:
"Tell me, Prince, which of the Free Cities pleased you most?"
"A good question," Aegon pondered; he had not yet evaluated his journey in such categories. "Perhaps all of them resemble one another in one way or another."
"Because they are all shards of Valyria?"
"Among other things. In each of them, even in Braavos, the light of the Old Freehold is still reflected, but this is perhaps only the last glimmer of the setting sun, giving no warmth and almost no light. The last breath of the old world, if you forgive me such sentimentality."
"I forgive," nodded Laena. "And yet: which of the lands across the sea would you wish to visit again?"
Again? An interesting question. Braavos, where he and Vermithor were bought and where he bought? Volantis, to see Viserra again? Wherefore, to what end hurt himself? Mantarys, the city of revelation and now forever the city of Maerys? No, this was all too personal, too fresh, and the Prince would not wish to relive all this again.
"Pentos, perchance," said Aegon after some thought. "There is no arrogance of Volantis in it, there is more restraint than in Lys, and more uniformity than in Braavos. Of course, their concepts of beauty and luxury are peculiar, but after a couple of cups of local wine, this can be forgiven."
"Pentos, then."
"I beg pardon?"
"I would like to set out on a journey across the Narrow Sea when I saddle Vhagar. You recently returned from Essos and I was curious to know your opinion. Father, for instance, did not like Pentos."
"Why so?"
"He says it is foolish to stop at the very threshold. Pentos is the nearest of the Free Cities to us, and there is nothing in it that would shake the imagination. Neither Black Walls, nor its own Titan..."
"But there is the famous Pentoshi hospitality," Aegon recalled the feasts there.
"Well, I shall check it."
"First you must saddle a dragon," grumbled Rhaenys, catching up with them. "Furthermore, I do not recall that we permitted you to set out on a journey."
"Let us return to this question when I saddle Vhagar," Laena smiled mischievously and stuck out her tongue at her mother.
Aegon could not refrain from a smirk and was already preparing to quip something about the necessity of taking Vhagar's own opinion into account, when at that moment the tramp of horses was heard: the guards had returned with four saddled horses. The women deftly climbed into the saddles, not at all embarrassed that they had to ride astride—after all, there are no sidesaddles for dragons. The Prince himself did this a little slower and not so gracefully; out of the corner of his eye, Aegon noticed Laena hesitate, as if not knowing where to look so as not to see his infirmity. Before, Aegon would have preferred to move on faster so as not to focus attention on this; before, but not now, not after Andalos, not after Mantarys; now this is his armor, even better than the suit he gifted to Daemon.
"Do not like cripples, Lady Laena?" Aegon asked maliciously. "A pity."
And spurred his mare; he was, naturally, soon overtaken, but they made the rest of the journey in silence. They rose to the very border of the green lands, where stony pastures turn into useless black earth. Small valleys and gorges where the young grew, as well as the cave of Vermithor and Silverwing, remained below; wild dragons like the Cannibal and the cautious Grey Ghost preferred the northern extremity of the island; after Balerion's death, Vhagar chose secluded slopes on the east of the island, where she would be warmed not only by internal fire, but also by the heat of the mountain and the sun's rays.
At a sign from one of the Dragonkeepers, they first slowed down, and then dismounted altogether—there was no need to annoy the largest of the surviving dragons in vain. Vhagar's sniffing was audible even from behind the ridge separating them; now, when the meeting seemed inevitable, Laena's determination and self-confidence diminished, and Aegon did not judge her for this. Nevertheless, the Sea Snake's daughter coped with her agitation quickly enough and, shaking her white mane of hair, took several steps forward.
And lo, the most crucial moment arrived, for the sake of which the whole combination was started. Aegon closed his eyes, as if from boredom, but tried internally to reach out to Vhagar, as he had done with Vermithor on the day of his grandfather's funeral. It turned out much harder—evidently, the bond between the Prince and his dragon interfered now; somewhere on the periphery of consciousness, Aegon felt the Bronze Fury stir and grumble displeasedly, waking Silverwing. It seemed not a low pile of volcanic rubble separated them from Vhagar, but the Wall itself; the Prince felt his right leg begin to dance from tension, but only gripped the cane tighter in his hands. Finally, he managed to shout through to the dragoness's consciousness and she, somewhat surprised by the attention to her person, stirred, rose from her lair, and in a couple or three steps was on the ridge, directly before them.
Vhagar was great. She exceeded Vermithor in size by almost half, and all other dragons seemed mere birds against her background. It was worth admitting that the years had not beautified her: the green-bronze scales had faded and dimmed, Father had noted this, remembering Vhagar still at the zenith of her power; the edges of her wings were tattered, and the membranes themselves were pitted with small holes here and there—memorable marks of Dorne and the Field of Fire did not hinder flight, but generally left an impression of untidiness and neglect; most striking was the sagging gullet, giving the mighty dragoness of Queen Visenya and Prince Baelon the Brave a resemblance either to a turtle or an old woman.
However, the first signs should not have deceived even an Andal observer—Vhagar still remained the largest, strongest dragon of all living and definitely the deadliest. In skillful hands, this could become a decisive trump card, evidence that the House of the Dragon is strong, as in the times of the Conquest. But the House of the Dragon currently had no opportunity to take this trump card into its hands, so it remained only to shuffle the deck and mix it deeper.
"Vagus! (Vhagar!)" called Laena.
In that very same moment, Aegon opened his eyes and, catching the dragoness's still-sleepy gaze, addressed her mentally:
"Hen brōziot Vagro, ābrāzmo Ozdārlino drējȳr, nyke ivestran — sōvēs! (In the name of Vhagar, by the blood of the Conqueror truly, I command — fly!)"
To be honest, the Prince was not certain this would work. He had spent the last couple of days in vigils in his secret chapel, which he associated less and less with Mantarys, and which fit more and more into the very essence of Dragonstone. Glass candles burned, dark blood in unnatural light ran down them in rare drops onto obsidian dishes, and Aegon asked the gods for advice and help. A new revelation did not happen, nor did one of those very dreams come to him in the night, but when the Master of Dragons rose from his knees and locked the secret chapel the evening before, he had a decision.
And now it worked. Vhagar yawned, showing a toothy maw into which a rider on horseback could freely ride, ignoring Lady Laena's call. Shaking herself, she crouched low to the ground to push off and take flight, gathering air with broad wings. Everyone involuntarily ducked when a gigantic shadow covered them, showering them with a hail of small stones stuck to the dragoness's hide; then the wind raised by her upon takeoff overtook them, and immediately after it—the sharp smell of dragon. Making several flaps, Vhagar roared briefly and headed toward the sea.
Looking back at his companions, Aegon fully enjoyed the expressions on their faces. The Dragonkeepers together with Dennis, as was fitting, were in something very reminiscent of holy awe; Cousin Rhaenys looked slightly stunned—evidently, she had only now fully realized what beast her daughter tried to saddle; on Lady Laena's face itself, confusion and sincere lack of understanding of what was happening were reflected.
"What?.. What happened?" she squeezed out.
"Vhagar wanted to fly," Aegon readily explained the obvious. "The day is truly wonderful for flying. Perchance some whale will be unlucky enough to fall to her for dinner."
"She did not even notice me!"
"Vhagar... rejected Laena?" Rhaenys clarified warily.
"Acquaintance with a future dragon definitely should not be interrupted," said Aegon, shaking sand and stones that had fallen from above off his leather doublet. "You and I know, cousin, how adult dragons are saddled."
"Either at once, or never."
"Precisely."
"I want to try again!" Laena was ready to burst into tears from resentment. "When will she return?"
"I fear I have no answer to this question," the Prince shook his head. "Furthermore, repeated attempts have never led to anything good."
"Were there any at all?"
"Yes. Maegon Targaryen, grandson of Gaemon the Glorious and fourth Lord of Dragonstone, tried to saddle Balerion, but he drove him away twice. The second time Maegon was burned by flame, he spent three days in agony, and on the fourth drank too much milk of the poppy and died. Maester Tybald hints in very cautious expressions that the Lord was killed by his younger brother Aerys, who received title, and lands, and Balerion, and the hand of their sister, whom they wanted to give to Maegon."
"I never heard of such a thing," Rhaenys drawled distrustfully.
"Maester Tybald's chronicle exists in a single copy in the castle library," explained the Prince. "Neither in the Citadel nor in King's Landing are there copies, and for the most part everyone has forgotten about it. The Conquerors, evidently, did not wish to display the family's dirty linen."
"That is... next time she will drive me away?" Laena asked in a completely crushed voice. For a second Aegon felt ashamed that he had shattered the girl's dreams and destroyed her castles in the air, but the Prince inside him reminded that this was done for the good of the realm and House Targaryen, and the cynic chimed in: let her get used to the fact that even the Sea Snake's daughter may not receive everything she desires.
"Almost certainly. In any case, there is no sense in waiting here. I propose returning to the castle, and we shall discuss the rest after supper."
"You and Viserys swore..." Rhaenys began.
"And the Crown will fulfill the obligation undertaken," cut off Aegon. "But surely you will not fly after Vhagar with a request to think better regarding your daughter? Let us return to the castle and discuss what the Crown can offer you."
To cut short possible objections, the Prince climbed into the saddle and moved down the path; Laena should be given time to reconcile herself with the collapse of her own hopes. It remained to hope that the reason for this small personal tragedy would remain a secret. Consoling himself, Aegon reminded himself that only two knew all the details of the Mantarys events—Dennis and Uncle Vaegon; the first would be silent even under torture, the other largely did not care, and besides, Uncle was too smart to gossip and blab. There remained Jaegaer and Viserys with Daemon; the cousin, though he might suspect something, hardly realized what he saw and what he did—Maerys's death crowded out everything else; to his brothers, Aegon reported only the necessary minimum—they were attacked, they fought back, and afterwards found a treasure in the ruins of the old city. He promised both that Laena would not saddle Vhagar; well, he fulfilled his promise, does it matter how?
Several minutes later, when the Prince had already disappeared around the bend, Rhaenys and her daughter caught up with him. Both were out of sorts, so Aegon deemed it best to keep silent. In silence they returned to Dragonstone, in silence supper passed in one of the small halls. Contrary to his own words, the Master of Dragons did not start speeches about new attempts, leaving them for the next day. At the end of supper, Rhaenys thanked him with restraint for the reception and Corlys the Sea Snake's women took their leave, pleading fatigue. Scarce had the door closed behind them, Aegon slid down the chair with a heavy sigh, stretching his long legs under the table.
"To what end is all this circus?"
"For the good of the realm?" suggested Dennis, though not very boldly.
Hastily shoving the remains of the cooling supper into himself, Aegon washed it down with wine and trudged to the Windwyrm. Not a trace remained of the morning lightness and bliss. At the bas-relief, he stopped and hesitantly ran his hand over the ribbed chest of the rising dragon.
"Dennis, I need to..."
"Pray," the sworn shield prompted softly. "It is called 'to pray'."
"And are you not afraid to serve an apostate and a pagan?" Aegon chuckled.
"Who among the Septons has seen the Seven? At least one of them?" the other answered with a question. "I know not one. But I was with you in Mantarys. Besides, I am your sworn shield—I shall cover you this time too."
The Prince nodded gratefully, and began to press on the stone scales. The old mechanism hidden in the walls rustled familiarly, and Aegon entered the dark chapel. There was no light: the sun had long set, the moon and stars were not visible due to the gargoyle, and there were no torches or lamps here. When the door closed, the darkness became almost absolute; Aegon stood for a time, growing accustomed to it, and then moved forward; the cane slid along the edge of the wall, and then bumped into a wooden bench.
Aegon knelt on the pillows and groped for the stone shelf of the altar with his hands; his fingers pricked familiarly on the sharp edges of the glass wick, and a light unlike anything else filled the room. Before the obsidian disk burned an obsidian candle, and behind them on a shelf higher stood figurines of gods—Braavosi finds. A warrior-sphinx with dragon wings bared teeth, a man with a crown of flaming hair held an allegory of death in his hand, a woman in a half-mask blessed everyone. Vhagar, Mistress of Just Retribution; Balerion, Patron of Battle, Lord of Death; Meraxes, Mistress of Mercy, Keeper of Peace.
Vhagar's face was twisted in a furious grimace, her claws tore at a harpy prostrate at her feet, bared teeth of Valyrian steel flashed, beads of eyes with vertical marks of pupils shone brightly. In the light of the Valyrian candle, the figurine looked almost alive—it seemed to Aegon several times that an angry roar was about to reach him, but it was quiet in the room.
"Gaomin tolvȳn hae dārio sȳrkto (I have done all for the good of the kingdom)," he spoke quietly. "Vagus, drēje iksan? Drēje issa? Skorio syt nārijoso botan? (Vhagar, am I right? Is it right? Why did I have to suffer?)"
It was unjust to deprive blood of the blood of Targaryens of a dragon—by the will of the gods they are the only remaining dragonlords; from the point of view of blood—the only point of view that mattered—the Targaryens and Velaryons in the two hundred years since the Doom had become so related that it was fitting to consider them not two different Houses, but two branches of one dynasty. To deprive Laena of the lawful hereditary right to sit in a dragon saddle meant to deprive Rhaenyra or Aegon himself of the same right, and who if not he had learned what it was like to endure eternal refusals.
But he did not deny Laena the general right, this is only his selective application. The interests of the Seven Kingdoms demanded his intervention, this was to help avoid division and war between the descendants of Aemon and Baelon, and thus the death of dragons. From a formal point of view, the Prince could not reproach himself, but his soul felt nasty regardless, and consequently his deed was not so just. At least, not completely. This needed to be corrected.
The decision came by itself and seemed surprisingly simple and elegant. The possessor inside him was angry and ready to spit poison, but Aegon reminded himself that one must pay for everything and this price is not the most terrible of all. At least it did not require the shedding of blood.
Calmed and pacified, the Prince indulged in contemplating the light from the candle playing on the obsidian of the disks and the steel of the figurines. Aegon discovered with surprise that he had been smiling for some time. How right the Septons were, insisting that only true gods could bring comfort and give correct advice. What irony that they were mistaken only in whom to consider true gods.
The Prince waited until the blood on the candle burned out, and after, when his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness again, left the room and, with the calm conscience of a man confident in his decision, went to sleep.
---------------
Read advance +50 chapters on my Patreon
Patreon(.)com/WinterScribe