Returning to Dragonstone, Aegon plunged into melancholy. Work on arranging the caves under the Mountain ceased to evoke the former enthusiasm in him, all questions with which Gerardys and the Dragonkeepers came to him were redirected to Lord Commander Baelor; he, by virtue of his new position, was generally familiar with the Prince's plans and uncomplainingly dragged the weight of construction not only on Dragonstone but also on Driftmark. There, after long and very tense negotiations with Cousin Rhaenys and the Sea Snake, the Master of Dragons managed to reach a decision convenient for all—under the walls of Driftmark, the old castle of the Velaryons, they began to hew caves similar to those dug in Rhaenys's Hill.
Observations of dragons did not gladden Aegon either; news that the Cannibal during a mating dance with the Jade Maiden—the only wild she-dragon who had not yet laid her first clutch—killed and ate his partner did not evoke special interest in him. Vermithor, reacting to the rider's mood, also became sullen and irritable; his faithful companion Silverwing once fell under the hammer, and the pair of dragons acquired several new scars.
Music-making did not work out, and the Prince simply sat in the gazebo in Aegon's Garden, thoughtlessly and senseless picking strings now of the harp, now of the fiddle. He still dreamt some fragments of songs and plays which he forgot almost immediately upon waking; gathering them together did not work out, nor was there any special desire.
The night spent in Little Pasture and conversations with its elder-priest would not leave his head. The events of but a few hours had stirred something in him, and now the Prince could find no peace. His own knowledge of the family's past and the traditions of his people, its values, an expert in which he considered himself, turned out far from all-encompassing as he imagined. The Targaryens considered themselves keepers of the heritage of Old Valyria, but it turned out all this was merely loud words and boasting, golden fringe on Viserys's black-and-red mantle—beautiful, but useless. Stung, Aegon cradled and cherished his resentment at the family that so foolishly went bankrupt in his eyes, himself, and the people who outdid their lords.
He felt that his own abilities, revealed in Oldtown, occupied their place in this whole system of half-forgotten traditions and knowledge, but no one could say what. Returning, the Prince ordered Dennis to bring him every such uēpiro (priest) that could be found; to Aegon's considerable surprise, not all of them turned out as old as Darion. However, not one of them knew anything more than words of appeals to gods, blessings, and funeral speeches memorized in youth, and no one did anything more than conduct a wedding ceremony according to ancestral traditions, or greet the sun at dawn with a piece of obsidian in hands. Only a couple had heard something about glass candles, but how to use them, no one knew.
Aegon felt sand slipping through his fingers as if in reality. The gift, and he no longer doubted it was a gift, seemed to him an uncut gem thrown out of pity to a dirty beggar, without explaining either what it is or how to use it.
Tired of sitting with folded hands, he gathered several shards of obsidian of different shapes and sizes and tried with them the same he did with the candle in the Citadel, but only spilled his own blood in vain. However hard he tried to evoke in himself those sensations that preceded the appearance of that otherworldly light, however diligently he pronounced "Dracarys", the stones did not wish to shine. When Dennis found him sitting on the bedroom floor with cut palms and blood-smeared shards of dragon glass, he exhausted his entire lexicon accumulated over childhood years in Dragonport, whimsically combining Andal curses with Valyrian obscenities.
"Gods, for what do I have such a suzerain?" the knight questioned the heavens, bandaging the Prince's hands. "Just as crazy a fool as his uncle—ready to bleed and shit himself for the sake of secret knowledge."
The heavens kept silence, but Aegon understood it could not continue so any longer. As soon as the cuts healed a little, he entered the cave at night where the reconciled Vermithor and Silverwing slept with intertwined tails, shook his dragon awake, and set off alone for the Citadel.
Passing three hundred and ninety leagues separating Dragonstone and Oldtown in a little more than three days, Aegon landed without invitation on the Isle of Ravens, nearly collapsing the time-tilted tower of the Rookery with Vermithor's wings. Ignoring indignant candidates and Maesters, he appeared at Uncle Vaegon's apartment, but found no one there.
"Where is the Archmaester?" the Prince asked a servant loitering in the courtyard of the house.
"Which one?"
"The one who is Archmaester of sums," Aegon cast irritably. "Archmaester Vaegon, my uncle."
"A-a-ah," he drawled. "Well, that, the Conclave is sitting. The Seneschal died three days ago, Father have mercy on him, so they judge who to be in his stead."
"And how long must they sit yet?"
"Why, until they choose," the servant shrugged.
Aegon in impotent rage kicked away a stool that turned up inopportunely with his cane. Conclave sessions could drag on for hours, and when they needed to elect a Seneschal, they might not take breaks at all—in this the Citadel was like its neighbors in the Starry Sept. To distract himself, the Prince picked up the first book that came to hand, picked up the stool, and immersed himself in reading; the treatise turned out to be Maester Nigel's comments on the solution to the problem of finding the smallest sum of distances between a point on a plane and the vertices of a triangle circumscribed around it. Scarce reading a couple of lines, Aegon grimaced painfully—mathematics never interested him sufficiently,—but to prove that he received the link for it not for nothing, began to wade through the lace of numbers, letters, and designations.
After some time, the entrance door creaked (evidently, without Dennis, Uncle forgot to grease the hinges) and an unwelcoming voice rang out:
"Whom else has the Stranger brought?"
"I am glad to see you too, Uncle," answered Aegon, straightening up and rubbing a stiff back. Maester Nigel's work returned to the stack of its fellows, not really understood by its last reader. Vaegon looked somewhat more exhausted than usual, but this could be written off to the endless Conclave session. "Whom did they elect?"
"So you are aware?" Vaegon processed to the dining table and tore a crumbling piece from a dried crust of bread. "Lupin."
"Is that the one..."
"Yes, yes, the bastard of higher mysteries. To listen to him, honey pours into ears. Useless piece of idiot. At dinner he drinks only red Reach wine, that sweet-sour trash."
"Pays tribute to his native land," remarked Aegon.
"If love for the Reach spoke in him, he could drink Arbor. Mark my words, nephew, nothing points to a man's essence more than the wine he drinks."
"How is your health, Uncle?" inquired the Prince in an innocent tone, changing the subject.
"Not dying yet, and glory to all gods," he snorted, drinking straight from the pitcher's neck. "Too early yet, I have plenty of unread books, unproven theorems, and stupid scholars who must be taught at least elementary sums so they eat their bread in their future lords' castles not for nothing. But you came not to inquire about news in the Citadel and my well-being?"
"No," Aegon shook his head and retold him the events in Little Pasture and his own attempts to establish the truth.
"I know not what to do," the youth confessed at the end. "It gnaws at me, and I know not how to be."
Vaegon, having managed to settle in his favorite armchair, crossed his legs, scratched a chin with whitish two-day stubble, and declared:
"You have two ways out, but if one thinks well, then one, and even that we have already discussed."
"Promising beginning," Aegon chuckled joylessly.
"Firstly, you can rob the Citadel and steal one of these Valyrian candles from us. Perhaps I would even help you, but we need someone physically developed and with normal legs, and you flew in so inopportunely without Dennis. Therefore this option falls away. Your own fault."
"Is it my fancy, or are you more upset than I?"
"I repent, Septon, I am sinful!" Vaegon raised his hands jokingly. "Wanted very much to shit on Lupin, and here such an opportunity... What a vexation."
"And the second option?"
"Beyond the Narrow Sea much more remains of Valyria than with us," the Archmaester remarked more seriously. "The Three Daughters, Qohor, Volantis, even Braavos and Lorath keep in themselves that very Valyrian heritage you want so much to find."
"Propose setting off on a journey?" clarified Aegon.
"Yes."
"I cannot. I am Master of Dragons, member of the Small Council. What you propose will take months..."
"I would say—years," corrected Uncle.
"Even years! My duties to the King will not allow me to be absent for long."
"And what do your duties consist of? Counting dragons? Guarding eggs? It seems a Prince of House Targaryen is not needed for this."
"We are building a Dragonpit on Driftmark..."
"I am sure Rhaenys is already a big enough girl to control everything and arrange Meleys with comfort."
"It is not so simple, it is politics!"
"With which your elder brothers will cope perfectly."
"Also we dig new tunnels and halls under the Dragonmont..."
"I am sure the Prince of Dragonstone, which, as far as I know, you are not, will appreciate your diligence according to its desert. Anyone can watch over construction. The Lord Commander of the Watch is capable of counting dragons and turning eggs. In the end, they did this for decades before you, and are now drilled by you enough that nothing will happen."
Aegon wanted to object, but realized Uncle was right. He wanted to become Master of Dragons to correct dangerous flaws; well, he worked on their correction not well enough, and there is little use from him now. If one thinks, Baelor is experienced enough to cope without a Prince behind his back, and if a rider's help is needed, one can always ask Daemon to look after dragons. The Small Council too can live without a twenty-year-old know-it-all; as practice showed, there is not so much use from him, and his requests only poured oil on the fire of internal squabbles. But the gift... The gift could not be left just so, it would be the worst of possible wastes, a spit on the grave of ancestors, on the altars of half-forgotten gods who for some reason gave Aegon such ability.
"Maybe you are right," admitted the Prince.
"Of course, I am right," Uncle nodded with dignity. "I would like to go with you, of course, beyond the sea there are plenty of learned men with whom I correspond and would be glad to speak in person, but... Someone must look after that blockhead Lupin, else he will not leave stone upon stone of the Citadel!"
The Archmaester's indignation was so sincere, and anger so righteous, that Aegon could not hold out and for the first time in long weeks laughed heartily.
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