Prince Aegon Targaryen
Aegon remembered the ninety-fourth year After the Conquest very well for three reasons.
First, the King and Queen had finally reconciled after a two-year quarrel born of the dispute over the succession to the Iron Throne. Grandmother Alysanne had accepted her husband's judgment, though she continued to deem that Cousin Rhaenys had been disinherited unjustly; yet the restoration of family unity seemed then the most paramount matter to all.
Second, Viserys had yielded to the entreaties of his returned grandmother and allowed himself to be wed. The wedding was celebrated with truly royal splendor, yet the groom remained displeased—his young wife was returned to her native Eyrie straight from the wedding feast. Aegon remembered her chiefly because, at his brother's behest, he had demonstrated his musical prowess to the whole court; the court, naturally, praised the Prince, but Rolland of Felwood later critiqued in detail the notes he had taken falsely.
Third, some months after the wedding, Balerion, styled the Black Dread—the last living creature to have seen Valyria in all its glory, the dragon in whose flames the Iron Throne and all the Seven Kingdoms were forged—decided that he had grown weary of human vanity and his young kin, and died.
The Targaryens met the morning of the fourteenth day of the seventh month at a shared breakfast—thus did Jaehaerys and Alysanne demonstrate to the family, the court, and indeed to one another, that the Second Quarrel was behind them. Aegon decidedly disliked this new tradition, for to appear before the royal lilac eyes, the Prince was obliged to rise earlier than many to prepare his crippled self for the new day. Toward morning Aegon always slept poorly; moreover, his leg, naturally, protested such barbaric treatment and early exertions. Despite all of Elysar's endeavors, the bone had knit wrongly; on good days it vexed him with a dull, unceasing ache which, with due effort, could be almost ignored, whilst on bad days it nigh drove him mad. Strengthening exercises, warm compresses, liniments, and baths brought but fleeting relief, which vanished without a trace the moment Aegon hobbled to the dining hall. Naturally, this could not fail to tell upon the Prince's mood and temper: at table he kept mostly silent, fearing to say something irritably impudent in the spirit of the Grand Maester. Grandfather and Father would have laughed, to be sure, but Grandmother Alysanne would certainly not have appreciated another biting comment, and any rudeness that slipped out would inevitably have entailed yet another lesson on good manners.
Aegon remembered well of what they spoke that time. Aunt Gael asked for fruit to be passed. Viserys was devouring a pâté of duck liver. Grandmother, sipping water, chided Daemon for haste in taking his food. Father and Grandfather discussed the affairs of the West in low tones and prepared for a meeting with the young Lord of Casterly Rock, Tymond Lannister. Aegon pondered a far more substantial problem: would he keep down another piece of apple pie, or would it make a reappearance on the stairs whilst the Prince dragged his leg up the steps? Before he could reach a decision, Aegon, like all the rest, turned toward the doors as they were thrown open. On the threshold, clad in black scale armor, stood the Commander of the Dragonkeepers, holding a crested helm beneath his arm.
"Nyke usōvegon, dārys," he bowed his pale-golden head. The greater part of the Dragonkeepers hailed from Dragonstone, and almost all had at least a drop of Valyrian blood flowing in their veins.
"Ȳdrās," Jaehaerys permitted, setting aside his goblet.
"Kesȳ tubī Balerion morghūlilza."
A heavy silence hung in the hall for a moment. One could hear Daemon swallow with effort. At once Viserys sprang up, overturning his chair and clattering his silver, and, asking no leave, flew into the corridor. Grandfather rose following him:
"We, too, should go."
"Wherefore?" Gael asked in bewilderment, nervously winding a flaxen curl about her finger. At ten years of age, Aegon already knew far more of the world around him than his own aunt, and certainly his years had proven far more eventful; he looked with pity upon the simple-minded maid and was about to blurt something out when the Queen forestalled him:
"Because, my dear, no one should be alone in this hour," Alysanne said with a sigh. "Not even a dragon. Especially such a one as Balerion. Come, my dear."
"I do not want to," she balked. "He is so big! So big and scary..."
"He shall do you no harm, Gael," Jaehaerys spoke with the gentle strength in his voice customary for the King. "We shall be there with you."
Only then did the Winter Child allow her mother to lead her away, though she remained displeased. Aegon, contrariwise, was gladdened: if they were taking Gael, who feared her own shadow, then he was certainly going. And so it came to pass, with the only distinction being that he was forced to jolt along in a wheelhouse with his grandmother and aunt, listening as the Queen tried to convince her daughter that nothing would befall them, for Balerion was in chains, he was guarded, the Kingsguard would be with them—and they are the bravest warriors in all the Seven Kingdoms and would let no harm come to them—and moreover, Viserys could make the dragon obey him.
Aegon himself, to whom Viserys—who visited his dragon regularly—had spoken of the Black Dread, knew that Balerion could scarce move a wing now. His growth had ceased only near his two hundredth year, and he had grown so heavy that Viserys had flown him but once—the old beast had been stubborn for a long time, unwilling to take to the air, but finally he had torn himself from Rhaenys's Hill and circled King's Landing thrice. That was the Black Dread's last flight.
When the royal wain rolled up to the colossal wrought-iron gates of the Dragonpit, they were already flung wide; the Royal Family was met by an honor guard of Dragonkeepers. Grandfather, Father, and his brothers, who had ridden ahorse, were doubtless already within, and Aegon, spitting upon all proprieties and abandoning Grandmother with Gael, hastened after them.
On the floor of the Pit, strewn with sand and the bones of beasts, stretched from end to end, lay Balerion. He was still alive, but by all appearances, the strength in his once-mighty body barely sufficed to force his heart to beat and his lungs to expand and drive the air. Viserys was already beside him; pressing himself against the cheek of the monstrous reptile, he tried in a vain attempt to embrace him. Aegon, as if spellbound, approached closer and stopped only when his father laid a hand upon his shoulder.
"Stay," he said. "They must say their farewells."
Suddenly the floor vibrated, and a low, barely perceptible rumble rolled beneath the vault of the Pit. It seemed to Aegon that the Black Dread—a thing unheard of!—was trying to comfort his last rider: as if to say, 'tis nothing, I have tarried long enough, every living thing has its time. Immediately, from the very depths of the hill, an answering roar reached the people: Vhagar, Vermithor, Silverwing, and Caraxes, who kept Balerion company in the Pit, sensed the approaching end of their patriarch and the nearness of their riders.
"What is done with Balerion when... when it is ended?" Aegon asked quietly, though not counting too much on an answer. However, his grandfather heard him and deemed it necessary to explain:
"An interesting question. Since the Conquest, not a single dragon has died of old age—only on the field of battle, where none cared much for the body. If there was anything left to care for, naturally. In Old Valyria, dead dragons were left to the care of their living kin; our ancestors did likewise on Dragonstone before the Conquest."
"You mean... The dragons ate their dead?" Daemon marveled with an incomprehensible mixture of admiration and revulsion.
"Not all, and not always," Jaehaerys shook his head. "There are no clear testimonies to this—for obvious reasons, it was too dangerous there, and if anyone described the funeral rites of dragons, the records remained in Valyria. One can assert with certainty only that if a dragon's body is left amidst sated kin, they will surely burn it. But whether they will eat it..."
"Jaehaerys!" Alysanne pulled her husband up sharply, nodding her head toward a deathly pale Gael, who was trying to cover her eyes, mouth, and ears all at once with her hands.
"Forgive me, my dear."
Aegon snorted, unsatisfied with the breadth of knowledge obtained, for which he earned a light cuff on the back of the head from his father. The Dragonkeepers brought chairs from the royal box, and the Targaryens seated themselves before the first row of the amphitheater's stone benches, watching the saddest of tragedies the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen. Viserys, meanwhile, walked a circle around his dragon, stood for a long time leaning his forehead against its nose, as if teasing the Stranger Himself, then pressed his cheek to it once more. All this time the beast lay still; only rarely in the very depths of his immense bulk was a rumble born, rolling in waves through the Dragonpit and invariably calling forth an answering roar from the burrows beneath the hill.
Aegon quite lost count of time, his gaze riveted fast to the dying dragon. Grandmother, it seemed, dozed sitting up; Father and Grandfather silently thought their thoughts of state; Daemon sat like an idol; Gael fidgeted, clearly wishing to leave. Nearby stood the Commander of the Dragonkeepers, whose name Aegon did not know and had not bothered to ask, while his subordinates guarded the peace of the dragons and the Royal Family. From beyond the open doors of the Pit, the muffled noise of the great city drifted in; it lived its ordinary life, knowing not how singular a day this was.
Suddenly a wave of tremors rolled through Balerion's body; the mighty neck stretched forward and up, claws and wings scraped the floor, attempting to lift the body. Viserys barely managed to leap away from the agitated giant. Balerion, with visible effort, rose to his feet, and before the Dragonkeepers could rush to quiet him, he roared. It seemed that from this roar not only the walls and dome of the Pit trembled, but the hill itself, along with all King's Landing. In it were contained fury, and wrath, and might, and the thirst for life—everything that had forced Balerion's heart to beat throughout the two centuries of his life and that birthed the fire in his belly. There was pain in it too, the inseparable companion of the dragon's last years, and pity for himself, and shame at his own infirmity, and anger at it, and regret for days unlived. Balerion at that moment seemed to Aegon the most simple, understandable, and kindred creature of all living in the wide world, more human than many of his grandfather's subjects. Thick black smoke poured from his maw, weak tongues of flame flickered a couple of times, but the gust was already failing, and the roar turned into a wheeze, or perhaps a quiet rattle. His legs buckled under the weight of his body, and the dragon crashed to the floor of the amphitheater as if cut down. Heaving a last groan, surprisingly like a human one, Balerion the Black Dread closed his eyes, sighed noisily, and did not exhale again.
The silence that followed seemed almost deafening. It seemed that beyond the doors of the Pit, all life had ceased. Waiting a minute, Viserys approached the dragon, touched him with his hand in disbelief, and, restraining himself no longer, broke into sobs. Letting him weep out his grief a little, Jaehaerys, and then Father and Grandmother, approached the dead beast; Aegon and Daemon did not lag behind.
Up close, Balerion seemed simply of monstrous size; Maester Elysar said that an aurochs, or even a mammoth, could fit whole into his open maw, but only now, standing at the very tip of the Black Dread's nose, closer to a dragon than ever in his life, did Aegon understand of what magnitudes they spoke. Staring, he walked along the serpent's skull, skirting the protruding horns and spines, and unexpectedly caught himself counting his own steps.
One of Elysar's favorite mathematical problems, with which he had tormented Aegon at eight years old, were those in which one had to convert the size of some object, measured in steps, spears, or ox tails, into customary feet or yards. Not that Aegon liked sums and the Maester's problems, but he had become adept at solving them, and beside Balerion's body, a rare chance presented itself to apply the knowledge gained in practice. Aegon returned to the dragon's nose and began again; limping along the skull, he nearly slapped his forehead—his steps were too short and uneven for such work. In despair, the Prince looked around, and then it dawned on him.
"Hey, you!" he beckoned the nearest Dragonkeeper. "Come here!"
The guard cast an embarrassed glance at the Commander and approached only after his energetic nod.
"My Lord Prince," Aegon noted in passing that the guard was young, not much older than Viserys.
"I have need of you to measure Balerion's skull."
Lack of understanding was reflected on the guard's face.
"I beg pardon, my Prince? Measure... a dragon's skull?"
"Aye. In steps."
The guard and the Prince stared at one another: the first did not understand how he was to execute what was demanded of him, and most importantly, what the hell it was needed for; the second did not understand what was unclear in his words. Aegon sighed and nevertheless condescended to explain:
"I want you to walk your ordinary step along Balerion's head—may the Valyrian gods give him rest—count your steps, and tell me how many there are. You know how to count, do you not?"
"Aye, my Prince," the guard answered resentfully. "They do not take the illiterate into the Watch."
"Then count."
The man glanced at the Commander again, but he was occupied in conversation with the King and could help him in naught. With a heavy sigh, the Dragonkeeper set to measuring steps.
"And why have you need of this?" Father's voice sounded behind his back.
"Balerion is the largest dragon of all living," Aegon began.
"Was such," Daemon cut in.
"Was the largest dragon of all living. But in not a single book, neither here nor on Dragonstone, is there mention of his dimensions. All write that he is monstrously huge, but that is all. Not a single Maester risked engaging in such a trifle as measuring the Black Dread in length. Even Septon Barth knows it not, and he wrote a book on dragons."
"One can understand them—I do not think the Black Dread would have found it to his taste," Baelon remarked. "And you decided to remedy this lack?"
"Aye," Aegon nodded with all resolve. "He cares not now."
"Balerion, undoubtedly, yes. But Viserys?"
Aegon had no time to answer this question. The guard approached and reported:
"Ten steps, my Prince."
Quickly calculating in his mind, Aegon delivered:
"That means about eight yards. Excellent, now we must measure him in length entirely."
The guard sighed imperceptibly—as he thought. Measure Balerion in length. Easier said than done. Father turned to the Commander of the Dragonkeepers, that he might order the body straightened as far as possible. The Commander pondered, invoked the Seven Hells, apologized to the Queen, and ordered chains to be hauled. While the guards fussed with the carcass, Jaehaerys, Alysanne, and Gael left the Pit; Viserys, crushed by grief, trudged after, unable to watch what they were doing to the dragon; Daemon prowled here and there, hindering the Dragonkeepers.