The events of the evening did not go unnoticed the next day. At breakfast, served, according to custom, by noon, Saera met her nephew with a meaningful smile, Jaegaer jokingly saluted with a crystal goblet, and Maerys tried too hard to pretend he did not understand what had happened. Viserra came out last and, scarce bad she crossed the threshold, her mother inquired in the most secular tone, in which one usually asks about the weather or news:
"Well, daughter? Is the horse good?"
"I cannot say about the horse, but the dragon is beyond all praise," she answered calmly and gave Aegon one of her charming smiles. Her brothers choked on wine: the elder—from laughter, the younger—from embarrassment.
Contrary to Aegon's irrational fears, no reproaches or scenes followed, and the tension after the mutual sparring subsided, and soon the family conversed as if nothing had happened. After all, they were Targaryens and lived behind the Black Walls of Volantis—where, if not here, would such a thing be perceived without judgment?
After breakfast, Jaegaer dragged his cousin to the stables to boast of new horses he had bought literally a couple of days ago, and Aegon soon drowned in details completely unnecessary to him about breeding Essosi breeds, the necessity of periodically mixing the blood of Dothraki steeds into them, their differences from Westerosi breeds (exclusively positive), and the subtleties of breaking them. Scarce had he taken a small pause to pacify a frolicking stallion when the Prince dodged and cowardly fled. Now, however, he understood what it was like for others when he began to discourse about dragons.
In the house, Maerys intercepted him and dragged him to the library, begging him to tell more about Westeros and the royal kin. Especially the Order of Maesters and the Citadel surprised him: the fact that men of the most diverse origins gave up their former lives and dedicated their lives to science and serving lords and their subjects, and a certain organization prepared, taught, instructed them and conducted its research activities in parallel, could not fit in the lad's head.
"You understand, it is quite different with us," he explained for the umpteenth time. "If you like reading books—read, like writing—write, want to learn—learn, hire mentors or go to them as an apprentice yourself."
"By all appearances, your mother decided to save money and invited me for free," remarked Aegon maliciously. "The absence of a unified system of accumulation and dissemination of knowledge is a significant drawback."
"As is the concentration of all knowledge in one place. Who in their right mind puts all jewels in one cache?"
"In Westeros, every castle has a library."
"Mayhaps. But you have only one Citadel."
The Prince grimaced, admitting his cousin right; he himself took this for granted during his studies, but now the truth stung his eyes. Given that Oldtown stands on the shore of the Sunset Sea, and to the border with Dorne is nothing at all—scarce a week's journey, it is surprising how the Princes from Sunspear and their vassals did not arrange a great fire; and there were also the Ironborn, for whom nothing is and was sacred, except robbery and their Drowned God.
However, Maerys did not let him finish this thought and started a conversation about the sciences Aegon studied in the Citadel again; the story of the exam for a link of Valyrian steel aroused his keenest interest, and the Prince, yielding to the fire of burning, truly youthful curiosity in his cousin's violet eyes, told of how he lit a Valyrian candle.
"Do they do something similar with you?" he inquired.
"No, I never heard of such a thing," shook his head Maerys; however, this is not an indicator, Aegon decided to himself. Tilting his head to his shoulder, he thought a little and with a roguish smile proposed:
"Do you want me to show you?"
"And can you?!"
"Braavos paid me not only with money."
After these words, Maerys almost dragged his elder cousin by the hand to his rooms, where Dennis was ordered to extract the trophy from the cache and curtain the windows. The Valyrian candle, given by the Sealord, was not pure black, like the Oldtown ones, but dark smoky, with an ominously red tint. Ordering Dennis to guard outside the door (unnecessary attention in such matters always harmed), Aegon wiped the tip of the candle with a pinch, and then ran his finger along the obsidian curls on it; Maerys watched his sacred rite almost without breathing, with the awe and attention of a neophyte before whose eyes a miracle is performed.
The sacramental "Dracarys" sounded dully, the candle thought and kindled with that very otherworldly, gradually flaring light.
"Oh, Gods," exhaled the cousin stunned.
"The very same," nodded Aegon. "Much is written in the Citadel about what the Valyrians used such candles for, but I failed to obtain confirmations or trustworthy proofs. Perhaps simply several burning candles simultaneously are needed for this, but neither in Westeros nor in Essos have I met anyone who could repeat this after me."
"And can... can I try?"
"I think there will be no harm," decided the Prince after thinking a little. "Only disappointment. Today is definitely not worth it."
"Why?!" Maerys tried to protest.
"Because the candle remembers fresh blood for a long time. Now it burns because of me, but will yours light it? Uncle Vaegon could not, however hard he tried."
With great difficulty, Aegon managed to convince his cousin of the necessity to postpone the attempt to test himself and his blood for several days; with even greater difficulty, he managed to extract a word from him to be silent about this; there was little faith in the enthusiastic youth, so the Prince forced him to swear by fire and blood to keep the secret.
Meanwhile, guests for another of Aunt's receptions were already beginning to gather in the guest rooms, and Aegon, hiding his treasure, began to prepare for the exit. This time he ought to look more Old Blood than the noblest inhabitants of the Black Walls—since the plan with the Temple of the Lord of Light did not burn out, it was worth turning to the last possible source of all the oddities, gifts, and curses that had happened to Aegon for many years already. Something inside told him that he was, finally, on the right path and at the end, the long-awaited answer to all questions awaited him.
Already before the stairs, Viserra caught up with him, as always resembling a wondrous vision from Old Valyria.
"You know, this is all very similar to life at the royal court," Aegon told the Lady, retreating with her into a small alcove and burying himself in soft white-gold hair. "Receptions and feasts, politics and fashion..."
"And Andals..." sighed Viserra, leaning against the Prince.
"We have Valyrian blood too."
"Only three families."
"But..."
But she did not let him finish, shutting her cousin up with a kiss, and Aegon's head went empty again, and his heart—light. Scarce had they pulled away from each other when he tried to say:
"Viserra, I..."
"Viserra, tear yourself away from him already!" shouted Jaegaer from somewhere on the stairs. "Vassar has arrived—Mother needs additional charm!"
The Lady, under Aegon's stifled cursing, rolled her eyes and, hurriedly pecking him on the cheek, hastened down. Next time, decided the Prince and, sighing, went after; he wanted very much to step on the Triarch's foot or ruin his cloak with the cane, or somehow else vent his irritation.
Below, merriment was already in full swing: red wines of Volantis, sweet infusions from the Orange Shore, Tyroshi pear brandy, and Dornish sour swill flowed like a river. Musicians strummed their not too intricate motifs, merging with the noise of conversations into one almost monotonous hum. Aegon managed to acquire his own acquaintances and now respectfully bowed to various Old Blood, mentally choosing one with whom he could inadvertently start a theological discussion.
Aeksio Reinerro? No, he, it seems, is one of the few inhabitants of the Black Walls who believes in R'hllor, the Prince has already gone through this. Lady Ayra? No, this foolish hen knows nothing except her precious stones and slightly less precious kids. Aeksio Laegon? One of Jaegaer's frivolous buddies; the Prince was not sure if he had ever left the Old City. Lady Meleyra? Better, old enough to take such questions seriously and still in her right mind; unfortunately for Aegon, the elderly woman was already laughing drunkenly at a vulgar joke of the Triarch, so the moment was lost here.
"Whom are you looking out for, Prince Aegon?" sounded over his ear.
The Prince turned and collided nose to nose with Matalar Lentalis; this was a balding man of some forty or fifty years with piercing bright blue eyes; like Saera, he belonged to the "Elephants" and for one year even held the post of Bronze Triarch while Aunt carried the silver rod. Aegon knew that he had plantations of fruit trees on the Orange Shore, several workshops in Volon Therys, and a large smithy in the western part of Volantis—not too many assets against the background of other Old Blood, but noticeable. In upbringing and habits, Aeksio Matalar somewhat resembled a Westerosi lord, had he spent some seven years in the Citadel, so Aegon found his company quite pleasant.
"Looking for those who are not yet too drunk," joked the Prince. "They are easier to catch up with, if you understand what I mean."
"I understand," nodded the Aeksio. "It seems I am of their number."
"Then that is worth drinking to."
They picked up a goblet of Volantene wine each and, skirting the crowd, retreated to the window into the inner garden.
"They say you visited the Temple of the Lord of Light," Matalar mentioned as if inadvertently.
"Truly, only two things cannot be hidden: a needle in a sack and news behind the Black Walls."
"That is true, the needle, as a rule, is sharp, and it is too cramped with us for secrets."
Is this another subtle hint that the Old Blood knows more than Aegon would like? For instance, about the Valyrian candle? They surely have their own, but will they allow the existence of such a relic with a Westerosi? To get answers to his questions, Aegon had to answer the Aeksio's unasked question:
"Yes, I visited."
"And what say you?"
"From an architectural point of view—quite impressive. From a religious one—not very."
"Agreed," nodded the Old Blood, sipping from the goblet. "R'hllorians are only slightly more pleasant than Qohorik lovers of the Black Goat. A very strange cult—some parody of Valyria, but not too precise and not too respectful."
"And are there respectful parodies?"
"You speak the truth."
Aegon looked around—all guests were occupied with themselves, each other, and the entertainments offered by the hospitable hostess—and, sighing, rushed into battle:
"Tell me, Aeksio Matalar, may I ask you a question?"
"Of course, my friend."
"It is... very personal."
"In bed I prefer women, if that is what you mean," answered the Old Blood with a light smile.
"No, not that," grimaced the Prince. "In what gods do you believe?"
"Believe or worship?" clarified the Aeksio. "These are different things."
"One can worship anything and anyone, even a lamp, even a stick. I meant precisely faith."
Lentalis, pursing his lips, fell silent and looked away; it seemed he was suddenly very interested in the garden immersed in semi-darkness outside the window. Aegon watched attentively as a shadow of embarrassment ran across the thoroughbred face of the Aeksio, replaced by displeasure, and following them, everything was hidden by an impenetrable mask of false concern and friendliness, which Aegon had managed to see enough of in King's Landing.
"You are a good man, Prince Aegon, you have a sharp mind, a no less sharp tongue, and I foresee your great achievements," Matalar spoke quietly, forcing Aegon to come closer. "You remind me somewhat of myself in my youth. Therefore I shall answer your very immodest and very personal question. I believe in the gods of Old Valyria. As do very many of those present here. Not all, but very many."
"I would like..."
"Do not even think of it," cut off the Aeksio. "I shall not initiate you into this. And my advice to you, Prince: do not start conversations on this topic with anyone."
"But why?!"
"Because Westeros is too far from Valyria. Our gods do not see you, so far did your ancestors hide from the Doom. It is given to no one to return."
With these words, the man drained the goblet in a gulp, set it on the stone windowsill with a ring, and walked away impulsively, dissolving in the crowd without farewells. Aegon wanted to howl and smash dishes from annoyance; religion for Volantenes turned out to be a much more intimate question than love.
Aegon thought to pester someone else of the elders for the purity of the experiment, when suddenly Viserra slipped out of the crowd:
"Do not frown, it suits only stern old men. Come with me, Mother wants to announce dances."
"Oh yes, just what I need! I am a great dancer, after all!" grumbled the Prince, beginning to smile against his will, and allowed himself to be taken by the arm nonetheless.
"Do not be sarcastic. Do you want me to dance for you?"
"With Jaegaer?"
"It is not necessary to dance the Rakhnolion in a pair. So what? Do you not want to?"
"I want to," surrendered Aegon.
In Westeros, dances were for the dancers themselves a way to get acquainted and show favor; in Volantis, they danced not only for themselves but also for spectators, and not only slaves—the Old Blood themselves saw nothing shameful in getting pleasure from music, rhythm, and their own movements, and at the same time delivering aesthetic pleasure to friends, acquaintances, and neighbors.
Part of the guests had already gathered in one of the spacious halls—mostly the younger generation of Old Blood, peers of Aegon and his cousins, and a few elders who had not managed to leave or did not want to miss such a spectacle. Viserra, leaving the Prince, briefly spoke with the house musicians and went out to the middle of the room.
It seemed to Aegon that the whole house froze in expectant silence. The strings of a harp trembled, a dulcimer twanged, a slave's palms slapped a drum—a short intro, and then the cousin broke from her place and launched herself around the room, performing graceful steps. Spinning at once around the room and around herself, she clicked her fingers in time, and the long flowing dress created the impression that Viserra was not dancing, but floating on air.
The Prince watched her, holding his breath in admiration; several times he managed to catch her gaze, and he understood that the Lady was truly dancing precisely for him. Not for her mother, nor for her brothers, nor for the skinny pole Vassar, towering in the crowd like the Hightower over Oldtown, but precisely for him, Aegon Targaryen. The Prince knew that Rakhnolion was a couple dance, he had seen it more than once behind the Black Walls; the "dance of love," also the "dance of passion," reflected the courtship of a man for a woman and the courtship of a woman for a man in endless gyrations. It happened that it was danced alone too, but for the first time it was danced for Aegon himself. This excited, aroused, and inspired. If not for the damn leg and damn Daemon...
The music, gradually picking up tempo and volume, reached a climax and suddenly fell silent; the dance ended, and the spectators burst into applause. Viserra bowed gracefully and approached Aegon; not at all out of breath after her dance, she, shy of no one, took the Prince by the arm and, looking into his eyes, inquired:
"Did you like it?"
"Very much," he answered with all possible feeling. "I would sell my soul for one dance with you."
Only the gods for some reason do not hurry to respond to the call, finished the Prince to himself. While they cooed with each other, the attention of the guests was unexpectedly seized by Jaegaer, loudly arguing about something with Laegon.
"...And I say that you cannot!"
"I can! These are the best horses on the whole Rhoyne!"
"Ha! Certainly not better than mine!"
"What are they on about?" inquired Aegon with bewilderment. Viserra shrugged indifferently, trying to imperceptibly check the safety of amethyst pins in her hair, but Maerys, who managed to squeeze through to the noise, readily explained:
"They are arguing over horses."
"Over what else?" snorted his sister. "Jaegaer cares only for horses, swords, and whores."
Meanwhile, the friendly quarrel gathered momentum, and it seemed to Aegon that it was about to grow into a friendly brawl; fights at Westerosi feasts were a familiar matter for him, but here in Volantis he had not yet encountered such. Here disagreements were solved much simpler: either they tried to outdo each other with witty insults, or put up specially trained slaves for judicial duels, but most often took revenge in a big way. A rare major scandal within the Black Walls ended without a knifing outside them, when clients of Old Blood settled scores with clients of other Old Blood.
"Aeksios!" the Golden Triarch called to the disputants in a loud voice. To the Prince's surprise, the cousin immediately took two steps back and, breathing heavily, stared sullenly at Vassar. Great is the power of his authority. "Aeksios, to what end darken the evening with shouts and petty quarrels? Naturally, the question of the speed of horses is of paramount importance, but it cannot be resolved with loud words."
Now the Triarch stepped into the circle formed around Jaegaer and Laegon and undivided seized the attention of all guests.
"As is known to you all," he continued, sweeping his hand over those gathered, "next week we celebrate a great holiday—the Day of the Founding of our City. According to ancient tradition, respected by all Triarchs before us, on this momentous day chariot races are arranged, and the Black Walls themselves serve as the hippodrome. No one has deviated from this custom, nor shall we deviate this time. If the contradictions between the Aeksios are of the most fundamental and insoluble nature, then I propose they resolve them by means of a trial of their horses, whose merits they extol."
An approving hum ran through the crowd of Old Blood, the youth exchanged excited glances, the old men nodded importantly with knowledge of the matter, and Vogarro Vassar stood before his fellow citizens like Vhagar surrounded by young dragons and bathed in the rays of his glory as peacemaker.
"The only condition I would like to set before the noble Aeksios will be the requirement of personal participation. Let them drive their chariots themselves and urge on their excellent-in-all-respects horses themselves. The Gods and the Black Walls themselves will determine the one who was right today. Do the noble Aeksios accept my proposal? Do they agree with my stipulation?"
"Yes!" shouted Jaegaer with the heat of a gambling man.
"Agreed!" Laegon did not lag behind him.
The room filled with applause again.
"He will win, will he not?" clarified Aegon with his kin, feeling some vague anxiety in his heart.
"Of course," nodded Maerys, doubting not a whit, whose faith in his elder brother rivaled perhaps only his faith in Red Priests.
"It is Jaegaer," agreed Viserra, embracing the Prince.
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