By the time Aegon managed to surface from the absolute blackness of oblivion, the sun had long since passed its zenith and was dipping toward the horizon. He lay in the shade, leaning against something rough yet soft and hot; his thoughts flowed sluggishly, as if he had been generously plied with milk of the poppy, and the Prince did not immediately realize that his support was the flank of Vermithor. No sooner had he realized this than the dragon, sensing his awakening, arched his mighty neck and looked intently at his rider; in his amber eyes, Aegon saw naked anxiety.
"Beka iksan (I am yours)," he squeezed out, surprised at how weak and pitiful his voice sounded.
The Bronze Fury exhaled noisily: I see you are in one piece. The spiked head drew nearer, and the dragon gently sniffed the human, wishing to verify personally that he was in no danger. Aegon attempted to pat his winged friend on the nose, but his hand fell listlessly onto his knees; the dragon barked angrily.
"Lykirī (Calm down)," the Prince tried to wave off his excessive concern, but he had no strength to move again. Very well, all the better; he would simply lie here until he recovered, and Vermithor would stand guard.
"My Prince!" came an anxious cry, and Aegon winced; Dennis could be too loud at times. "Praise the Gods, we thought we would have to spend the night here."
The sworn shield had shed his leather jerkin and remained in his under-tunic, though it was rather cool; he was smeared entirely in dust and looked not like a knight, but a peasant. Something important, yet unexpressed, swirled in Aegon's head; it beat like a drowsy fly against glass, begging to be let out, but Aegon could not catch the thought by the tail. In the end, he merely moved his head, inviting the sworn shield to continue.
"We have almost finished, My Prince. It was not simple, but we have dragged almost everything over, down to the last pebble. I do not know, of course, how Vermithor will fly with such a load, and with us as well..."
"With God's help," Aegon rustled; the fly of thought found its way out; his things, he had asked to collect his things.
"With God's help, you remained alive," the knight cut him off sharply. "Prince, my Lord, I have served you for ten, nay, twelve years. I do not think that in this time I have given you cause to reproach me for negligence or disloyalty to you and your family. In the name of my many years of stainless service, explain to me, Prince—what, in the Seven Hells, happened?"
A good question, certainly...
"I know not," the Prince answered quietly. "I am not certain. I saw something."
"And this compelled you to rush about with a sword in your hands? You are not like your brothers, My Prince."
"Would you believe me if I said that the Gods spoke to me?"
Dennis, who had only intended to object, opened and closed his mouth, staring silently at his liege lord, evidently deciding whether the Prince had taken leave of his senses.
"We shall return to this conversation when you decide that I have not gone mad. Are we ready to fly?"
"Y-yes. Almost. But you will not keep your seat in the saddle..."
"A Targaryen fall from a dragon? Ludicrous..."
"You deign to jest? That means you are not entirely insane," the knight tried to grin; it turned out unconvincing.
"I like your qualification," Aegon felt a trifle better and tried to pull his legs toward him.
It went poorly—the left felt alien, and the right was pierced by such sharp pain that memories of the first days after his fall from the accursed stairs in the yard of the Red Keep surfaced in his memory. When the world brightened a little, Aegon exhaled through his teeth and spoke:
"I shall have saddle chains and you. If anything happens, you shall catch me, and Vermithor will fly himself. We fly as soon as you finish."
"As you wish, My Prince," Dennis bowed coldly and walked away, grumbling under his breath; he would surely be angry. Aegon remained by the side of the reliable Vermithor to recall and relive the recent events anew.
He remembered the red mist and the fiery abyss that followed it; he remembered how three voices spoke in a hundred tongues simultaneously; he remembered what they told him, and what they expected of him; he remembered that he refused to give what they asked of him; he remembered how he danced afterward, and the blade sang in his hands.
"Kony ademmilaksir iksis? (What is the payment?)"
And through the rustle of the wind chasing blades of grass amidst the dusty ruins, he fancied he heard something immeasurably distant, barely perceptible, on the very edge of hearing:
"Issa... (Me/Mine...)"
That meant the mad dance was no hallucination. But he had bared his blade before Maerys died... What was the cause, and what the consequence? To think on such things was too difficult; his head immediately reacted to all attempts to sort it out with a ghastly migraine, and Aegon decided to return to this later. Perchance, if he asked again, they would answer him.
The sensation of his own body was gradually returning, and the Prince tried, abstracting himself from the raging pain in his leg, to assess his general condition. When he felt a stinging and burning on his chest, he was not too surprised—evidently, someone had managed to strike him after all. Gathering his strength as best he could, the Prince pulled aside the collar of his shirt, expecting to see a sword cut, but instead, a Valyrian glyph carved somewhat crookedly directly above his heart presented itself to his gaze. Aegon could not believe his eyes: the barely bleeding lines were healing before his very sight—evidently, this was precisely why it burned; only when the cuts closed, leaving only rapidly paling pinkish traces, did he realize that the glyph signified "Dance."
Who dared touch the body of a Prince with a blade, and moreover leave no marks upon his clothes? Only he himself—surely the Gods did not deign to inscribe this personally? And with what did he do it? With bare hands? With his Glass Candle? A shard of stone?
The flow of questions was interrupted by the return of the still-grim Dennis, announcing that all was ready. The knight beckoned Jaegaer, on whose face a listless, detached expression had frozen, and together they raised the Prince to his feet. Vermithor solicitously offered his snout for support; from the contact with the hot scales, Aegon felt a little better: feeling began to return to his limbs, the pain dulled, and a much-needed warmth, transferred by the dragon's heart, kindled in his chest.
Climbing into the saddle did not happen at once, but in the end, both rider and dragon settled each in their place—the former in the saddle, and the latter beneath it. Behind the Prince sat Dennis, fastening the hooks of the chains to his belt, and behind him—his cousin, who knew not what to hold on to. The Bronze Fury rolled his shoulders, shook himself slightly, distributing the not-insignificant load, and, pushing off, took flight without a running start, as he had not done since Lorath.
In the air, Aegon felt lighter; they were flying again just as before, before this ill-fated foreign war. In his joy, he almost succumbed to the wild thought of burning Mantarys, cursed by all the Gods, to the Seven Hells, but quickly swept this idea aside: it was unlikely the local Triarchy possessed trebuchets, but now the Prince preferred to be cautious. The local grotesques were already offended by nature; let them suffer. Shifting the handles of the saddle, he turned the dragon west for the first time in a year and a half. Toward the direction where home lay.
Vermithor covered the hundred and fifty-five leagues separating Mantarys from Volantis not in a week, as the last time, but in five days; were there not a great burden upon him in the form of three men and their belongings acquired over a lengthy journey, he might have managed in three days, but Aegon had no wish to overstrain the dragon—after all, it was still far to the Dragonmont. They flew from sunrise to sunset, pausing for a couple of hours in the day to dine and rest briefly, avoiding populous settlements and sleeping in the fields, since no one had lifted the unofficial disgrace from Jaegaer.
The cousin himself exchanged scarce half a hundred insignificant phrases with his companions during the flight; he did not react to Dennis's chatter, and to the Prince's cautious attempts to speak of what had happened, he answered sparingly and reluctantly. Although Aegon understood that such things cannot be compared, it was evident that the death of his brother had made an even deeper impression on the Aeksio than the death of a friend; the Prince understood him well enough—had he suddenly lost Daemon or Viserys, he would have grieved for them far more than for Marlon and Adrian put together. It remained only to hope that his native home and the support of kin would allow Jaegaer to gather his strength and come to himself.
It was decided to arrive in Volantis at night, so that the dragon's silhouette would not be an eyesore to the Triarchy; furthermore, it was simpler to arrange the return of the prodigal son this way. The whole calculation was built on the hope that Aunt Saera would not be holding a reception that evening and would herself refrain from attending feasts.
Spending half the day in the fields far beyond the city, the travelers took to the air after sunset and, flying above the low veil of clouds that so opportunely hung over the entire lower Rhoyne, set off for the decisive meeting. Vermithor charted the path himself, orienting himself either by the stars, or by memory, or by his dragon instincts, and so, when the dragon abruptly dived into a cloud and began to descend, Aegon's breath caught. The Bronze Fury, a vast shadow, descended soundlessly right inside the Black Walls and landed surprisingly softly on the familiar hippodrome; it was foolish to hope that no one had seen them, so, wrapping the cousin in a cloak head and all, they hastened to the red-and-black manse.
Even at night, life did not cease on the streets of the Old City: slaves, ensuring the prosperity of their masters, toiled from dawn to dawn, regardless of whether the sun or moon shone overhead; the three travelers on foot managed to lose themselves in the general flow without particular problems—there are no strangers behind the Black Walls, and superfluous questions are not asked beyond the three gates. Music still drifted from some palaces and mansions, the laughter and voices of guests rang out, but for the most part, the Old Blood were already preparing to retire for sleep; in the understanding of most of them, this consisted of the necessity to labor well in bed. In the house of the disgraced princess and retired Triarch, lights still burned, but it was quiet, and Aegon exhaled in relief. On the porch, the Prince, as always, hesitated on the steps—the effect of "divine inspiration" had passed, as had its unpleasant consequences, and the old limp had returned; Aegon's best friend was once again his cane.
"Strange to knock at the door of one's own house," Jaegaer giggled nervously, throwing back his hood.
"Mayhaps," Aegon agreed in a whisper.
A narrow slit opened and immediately closed, locks rattled, and the door swung open. They were met by Tala, the head slave.
"I am glad to welcome the Aeksios," she greeted them, showing no surprise. "Lady Saera has not yet retired. Shall I order her informed?"
"Is she alone?" Jaegaer clarified abruptly.
"Yes, Aeksio Jaegaer. Only she and Lady Viserra are at home."
"Call both to my chambers."
And, waiting for no one, the cousin ran up the stairs; Aegon and Dennis, exchanging glances, followed him. Jaegaer's rooms did not differ greatly from those they had lived in themselves for the past few months, save that they were furnished according to the tastes of their inhabitant. Frescoes depicting great battles of the past, chariot races, and duels adorned the walls; where there were no paintings hung gifted swords, bows, and daggers, both jewel-encrusted and quite martial; there was even a pair of crossed Dothraki arakhs, by all appearances peacefully rusting for more than one decade. The cousin stood in the middle of the hall where he received close friends, greedily examining his domain.
"I did not think I would miss this so much," he said unexpectedly.
"To love one's motherland, one must leave it," Aegon delivered a banality worthy of Runciter. "Corlys the Sea Snake tested this upon himself."
In conversation, they did not notice the appearance of the mistress of the house herself, who appeared without unnecessary noise. Clad in a silken red-and-black robe, she paraded into the room with the air of a true queen:
"I always deemed the Velaryons narcissistic peacocks. They boast of Valyrian blood, but save for hoarded curiosities and their looks, they have nothing to offer, yet their arrogance is that of true Dragonlords."
"Now they have dragons," the Prince remarked.
"My dear, let us do without Westerosi politics," Saera grimaced. "Our own by day is quite enough for me, and from overseas affairs at night, my head begins to ache. But I see only three. Is Maerys already in his room? Unbearable boy, he could have at least greeted his mother!"
Aegon, feeling helpless, looked back at Dennis, but he only shrugged—your family, you sort it out. Jaegaer abruptly shrank, growing visibly nervous: his eyes darted about the room, if only not to look at his mother; he took a couple of unnecessary steps, clasped his hands on his chest, immediately hid them behind his back, then stretched them along his body.
"Well?" the Lady frowned. "What is it?"
"Mother... Maerys... Maerys is dead."
A terrible, oppressive, ringing silence hung in the room. It seemed to Aegon he could hear Aunt's heart plummet, and how violently it pounded in Jaegaer's chest.
"How dead? What nonsense are you spouting? Aegon, is he drunk?"
"I fear not, Aunt," the Prince sighed; well, evidently, he would have to take this blow upon himself too. "Maerys is truly dead. In Mantarys. We were ambushed, he was shot down. With a bow. There was nothing to be done. He did not suffer. I am very sorry."
Thus were they taught in the Citadel to break bad news to the kin of the sick: short, dry phrases, the most necessary and precise information, seasoned with restrained condolences. Later there would be time for questions, they would be asked the same thing several times over, the questions ought to be asked by the kin themselves, but first, they simply needed to be placed before the sad fact and waited upon until the shock and disbelief receded.
Saera's violet eyes gradually rounded as the meaning of what was said reached her. She cried out in a strangled voice, barely managing to clamp a hand over her mouth, as if fearing someone would hear her, and sank powerlessly onto the first divan she found.
"What?.. How?.." was all the Lady could squeeze out. "Jaegaer, is this true? Why are you silent? It is not true, is it? Jaegaer! Say that it is not true!"
"It is true," the cousin barely squeezed out, having finally lost all reserves of courage and self-control he had scarce acquired.
To Aunt Saera's credit, she behaved quite unlike what Aegon expected. Lady Saera did not weep, did not howl, did not moan, did not tear at her hair and gown, did not curse, did not send maledictions to the Gods, did not roll on the floor, did not thrash in hysterics. The Princess paled, dropped her head to her chest, walling herself off from everyone with a curtain of white-gold hair, and gripped the hem of her robe, clinging to it as a drowning man clings to any plank that stays afloat.
Jaegaer silently sank straight onto the floor and sat, hugging his knees. Aegon and Dennis, not knowing whether to leave or stay, exchanged glances in indecision. The Prince, naturally, shared the grief of his Volantene kin—over the few months spent with them, he had come to perceive Maerys as a younger brother; the feeling was unfamiliar, Aegon felt how others' expectations and delights in him burdened his shoulders, but the weight of responsibility proved pleasant. The death of the cousin darkened the delight that had scarce appeared from what happened on the temple hill, and furthermore, Aegon could not rid himself of the sensation that he was at least indirectly involved in the tragedy.
But then Saera convulsively drew in a breath and raised her head; her beautiful face seemed to lose all its youth at once, and the Princess began to look exactly her age, or mayhaps even older. Her face was pale, her eyes reddened, but she had managed to wipe away the tears.
"Where did you leave him?" she spoke raspingly.
"We did not leave him," Aegon hastened to assure her. "We committed him to dragonfire, according to the traditions of our House."
He held out a hand, and Dennis knowingly fished an egg-shaped urn from his satchel. Strange, but Aegon did not remember it at all; in the candlelight, it seemed matte red, with black and white veins and practically absolutely smooth; the scales were barely suggested. The Prince passed it to his aunt; she accepted it entranced and stared, examining it at arm's length.
"And this is all?"
"Yes, My Lady," Dennis put in. "The ashes are within. There is not much—dragon flame, after all..."
"A little ash... And this is all that remains of my son," she pronounced slowly.
Pulling the urn to her belly, she embraced it with her arms, pressing it to herself as if it were once again her womb. Throwing back her head, the Princess tried to stop the tears, but they flowed down her cheeks onto the robe and the stone egg regardless.
"Viserra, my girl, come in, your brothers have returned," Saera called suddenly.
From beyond the threshold came a stifled sob, and immediately the receding patter of bare feet was heard. Aegon started to go after her, but at the last moment, something stopped him; perhaps now was not the best time for his consolations. Meanwhile, Aunt could not refrain from a moan:
"Oh, Mother, for what?! This is my only child, the only child I wanted, whom I bore for myself! Three children, and you took the youngest!"
At these words, Jaegaer flinched as if struck; he himself had confessed that he was an unwanted child, but surely to hear it every time was as painful as the first, especially in such circumstances. However, with that, the painful impulse that had cut through the Princess's self-control ran dry; she mastered herself and lowered a heavy gaze upon her eldest son. Now her only son.
"Why did you not save him?" whispered Saera.
"It was an arrow. How was I to know?!"
"Why did you not protect him?! He went because of you!"
"He went because you allowed him!" Jaegaer snapped.
"Do not shift this onto me!" the grieving mother flared up. "Do not dare accuse me of this! He went because of you, to look after you, you idiot! He went because of your foolish races! I knew no good would come of them, I never liked them! Gods, why did you deprive me of reason? I should have stopped this foolish duel, thrown that Vassar out by the scruff of his neck, damn him!"
"Mother, I..."
"Silence! Silence! I do not wish to listen to you! Begone and let me weep for my son!"
Jaegaer stared at her silently, then slowly rose and went into one of his rooms. Aegon also wanted to leave when suddenly Aunt turned to him:
"You came to Volantis in vain, Nephew."
"Yes," he agreed. "In vain, perchance."
"If not for you, mayhaps there would have been no accursed feast, no quarrel, no races, no Mantarys..."
"Or mayhaps there would have been," the Prince objected; his own pangs of conscience were one thing, but when others accused him—he did not like such things.
"Mayhaps... You had better leave, Nephew."
"I understand. We need a ship; I do not wish for Vermithor to fly across the sea with a pile of junk."
"The whole harbor is at your service."
"If we manage to charter someone by day, we shall depart in a day."
"Good," nodded the Princess, who had almost managed to return to the former businesslike air of a seasoned politician. "It is better for Jaegaer to leave the city too."
"You do not wish to see him?"
"Not only that. I do not wish to lose two sons at once."
"Laegon's kin will not calm down?"
"They have calmed down," Saera pulled the urn to herself and began to rock it unconsciously. "We came to an agreement while you were away. The conflict is considered exhausted, but Jaegaer has been officially declared a bastard. Everyone understood everything anyway, but because of my position, they closed their eyes to it. He has been stripped of the rights of estate, he is no longer Old Blood, has no right to call himself an Aeksio, and cannot live within the Black Walls. The property I transferred to him upon his majority had to be given to Laegon's father as compensation. He is now as much a guest in my house as you."
"You wish for me to take him with me?" Aegon raised a brow. "To Westeros?"
"I want him to leave here with you. And further on, let him decide himself what to do."
"Will you tell him of this yourself?"
"Myself. Do you think I lack the strength or conscience?"
Aegon only shook his head to sign that he thought nothing.
"Your old chambers should have been prepared already. You must be weary," Saera remarked, making it clear they were dismissed. When the Prince and his knight exited, the simple melody of a lullaby that Aunt hummed under her breath drifted into the corridor after them.
Nothing had changed in the rooms, and from this, the sensation of the unreality of what was happening only intensified. Hastily swallowing a small supper brought by slaves and washing it down with local, too-sweet wine, Aegon retired to sleep, noting with bitterness that now they were no longer such welcome guests in this red-and-black house.
In the morning, Aegon sent Dennis to the port to seek a ship whose captain would agree to cross the Narrow Sea.
"We shall find no one in a day," the knight grumbled, pulling on his boots.
"I do not recall spending all my Braavosi money," the Prince remarked, sending a piece of cheese into his mouth.
"Very well, let us suppose we find someone. Urgent freight will cost several thousand; one need not be a prophet to understand that."
"Maerys was rich too, but does he need his wealth now? Money must be spent while there is opportunity."
"Money must be spent wisely, else one may go begging," Dennis objected out of pure contrariness, but then promised to manage by noon and left.
Aegon, dwelling in a mournful and melancholy mood, descended into the inner gardens of the house; his hosts did not show themselves. It was quiet and empty in the garden: the sandy paths were carefully swept, a miniature fountain murmured softly, the vegetation, though lulled by winter, still retained sluggish green foliage—in these latitudes of Essos, it falls only on the eve of spring.
On one of the marble benches, the Prince spotted Viserra. At the mere sight of the sweet image, his heart ached with tenderness, and the youth realized only in this moment how strongly he had missed her. It was not even a matter of vulgar intimacy (though, the Gods witness, that too), but of simple converse, of the soft smile and violet eyes, the melodic laughter and deft movements of the dance. Aegon realized he had neither the time nor the strength to delay a serious conversation.
"Greetings," he said, approaching closer. He wanted to embrace and console the girl, breathtakingly beautiful even in sorrow, but remembering their crumpled farewell and bitter return, the Prince dared no more.
"Greetings," the Lady answered likewise, barely glancing at him, but moved over nonetheless.
Taking this as an invitation, Aegon settled on the edge of the bench. For a time they silently contemplated the water pouring into the stone bowl from a dolphin's mouth, wishing not to begin the conversation first.
"I sent Dennis to the port; we must hire a ship," the Prince pronounced at last in as even a tone as possible.
"Is that so?" Viserra answered quietly; in her voice, the youth heard sadness and something else he could not fully recognize.
"Your mother hinted rather transparently that we had better leave as soon as possible. In truth, she said it plainly."
"I know."
"Jaegaer will leave the city with us. Aunt said it is part of your agreement."
Aegon fell silent, sighed, and decided finally—now or never:
"Viserra, I love you. I do not want to part from you. I thought to speak of this with Aunt, but did not meet her this morning, but it is even better so; I shall ask you first. I ask you to go with us, to go with us to Westeros. With me. As... as my wife."
"Mother, evidently, did not tell you everything," the Lady spoke quietly after a small hesitation. "When you left, everything was very difficult, very fragile. Laegon's kin thirsted for blood, the 'Tigers' raised their heads. We found ourselves in a difficult position. Mother was reminded of much: her past, her connections, her brothels, and her actions while she was Triarch. She had to make very great concessions to reach an agreement with everyone: she agreed to admit that Jaegaer is a bastard, though she always denied it; she agreed to his exile to save his life; she agreed to give me in marriage by Vassar's instruction, to appease the 'Elephants', though she swore she would not force me to such things."
She finished, and Aegon remained sitting, stunned and scarce understanding anything; this was not at all the answer he had counted on. Managing somehow with the "Whys" spilling over the edge, he suggested:
"If all is so difficult, then you can leave all together. Viserys will be glad of every kinsman; he values native blood."
"And what shall we do there?" Viserra asked sharply. "What shall we occupy ourselves with at this stifling Andal court of yours? Be hangers-on? What shall I do? Bear you sons? Embroider? And Mother? She is a trifle old for childbirth, and needlework has always repelled her."
"The position of the King's aunt opens much for her and for you."
"Will the King truly take into his Small Council one whom you all universally call a whore? Will her words truly hold weight? Will she truly become Hand, or whoever rules in the King's stead for you? Will I truly be able to take her place later and do what I want, and not what empty-headed Andal women want of me?"
"Unlikely, but..." Aegon tried to object, but was rudely interrupted:
"No. We shall sit in our stifling rooms and wait until they deign to visit us. Understand, Aegon," at these words Viserra took his hand, and despite the winter chill reigning in the garden, Aegon felt hot. "However lamentable our position in Volantis may seem, it cannot be worse than our possible position at your brother's court. Yes, we were struck, but we shall rise, gather our strength, and take vengeance. Mother is still young; she can fully well become Triarch several times more. And I have such a chance. To be Queen in all but name. And if there is power and privilege, is it so important what you are called?"
"You speak exactly like your mother," the Prince said with bitterness.
"Because my mother did not want to live as you suggest I live. And I do not want it either. What can be worse than living knowing that you are tolerated out of charity and propriety? Here we at least have a house, property, slaves, estates. I know that I am mistress here, but will I be a mistress there?"
There was nothing to answer to this. Aegon imagined the life of Westerosi ladies very theoretically. He did not know his mother; Grandmother Alysanne was a Queen, and, while health permitted, traveled much; Cousin Rhaenys was famous for her energy, truly Targaryen temper and fury—qualities considered reprehensible for Andal women; of the same dough was molded the Bronze Lady Rhea Royce, though the blood of the Andals and the First Men flowed in her. Aunt Gael was, speaking frankly, a simpleton, and Queen Aemma, having inherited the Valyrian beauty of her mother and the Andal morals of her father, seemed content with her life as mother of the royal family. The Maester half of the Prince understood perfectly that such a sample of types of behavior was highly mediocre; there were no Andal ladies in his circle—surely one could not count Alicent Hightower as an example?
Aegon understood his cousin's other argument as well. The King's younger brothers had no castles or lands of their own: all Daemon had, the Crown and his wife gave him, and Aegon until recently was too young, foolish, and devoid of ambition to care for anything save libraries and dragons. If one thought on it, he truly had no corner he could call his own; even Vermithor had a cave on the Dragonmont, which he had shared for many years with Silverwing.
"I can give you what not a single one of the Old Blood will give," the Prince decided to throw the last argument on the scales. "You can saddle dragons. Even Vhagar, if you wish—and Visenya herself flew upon her."
"The only dragon I want sits beside me," said Viserra, running a hand along Aegon's cheek. For the first time in the whole conversation, the former tenderness and former feelings were heard in her voice.
"Then why do you speak so?"
"Because I do not want to wither in a dungeon, fool. If you truly love me, as you say, then you will not allow me to die of boredom in a strange house. Why seek happiness across the sea, if we can be happy here?"
"Your mother showed me the door, and besides, these agreements of yours..."
"Mother will change her mind, and the agreements will turn to dust if two true dragons settle within the Black Walls. Stay, Aegon, and I shall become your wife. By the customs and traditions of Old Valyria."
To live here, with the woman he loved? To live with one with whom he could not talk enough and at the same time with whom it was not at all necessary to talk. To live with her day after day, share grief and joy, raise children with her. Strange, Aegon had never thought about his own children. The throne would not shine for them, of course, but... These would be his children. His and Viserra's. From these thoughts, it became light in his soul and hot in his groin. Yes, he could definitely imagine himself an Aeksio, could imagine his (and their) life within the Black Walls, a life happy, calm, and at the same time interesting—in a word, a dream.
One could not do without politics, of course, but here one need not hide behind the false piety of the Faith; here one could lead the life that generations of their ancestors led before the Doom and the Conquest. The Volantene Freehold had always been closer to Valyria than Westeros, and where if not here could one preserve that breath of Old Valyria that Aegon had managed to catch in Mantarys? Let us suppose he could bring out a couple of eggs from the Dragonmont so that their children would have their own dragons, and from them in due time a new generation would be born... Even with Vermithor alone, they would bring all the Old Blood, Triarchs, and Magisters of the New Freehold to their knees.
Aegon already wanted to announce to Viserra that he cared not where he lived, the main thing was to live with her, when suddenly a red lightning flashed before his mind's eye and a thunderous roar rang out:
"Rūnās! (Remember!)"
And he remembered. He remembered what he promised, remembered what he owed, remembered that he had already paid for it, and not with his life and not with his death. From Volantis, the divine will could not be fulfilled; the survival of one or two dragons would not suit the Gods; they clearly gave him to understand that Aegon must save everyone for the sake of their victory over the mysterious Enemy.
Feeling himself a traitor and a complete scoundrel, Aegon squeezed out:
"I... cannot. I must return. I have a duty I must fulfill, and I cannot evade it. I cannot be Master of Dragons in the Small Council of the King of the Seven Kingdoms, sitting in Volantis."
Viserra released his hand and pulled away.
"That means I do not want to leave, and you cannot stay," she spoke with unfeigned sadness in her voice. "Looks like some tragedy of Valralis."
"Is it a tragedy?"
"Yes, if we cannot be with those we want."
An unbidden thought came to Aegon's head, and words flew from his tongue faster than he could think:
"I told you that I love you. But do you love me, Viserra? Or did you love me?"
"I said that I want you. I proposed that you be my husband here. Is that not enough?"
"It is not the same thing," the Prince objected stubbornly, peering into her face in hope if not to hear the answer, then at least to read it so.
For some tiny fraction of an instant, something flashed in Viserra's eyes: confusion, shame, unwillingness to speak—this alone gave more than they both counted on. The Lady did not hurry with an answer, but Aegon no longer waited for it. His lips involuntarily parted in a crooked grin.
"Well then," he spoke, rising. "Then, I suppose, this is all?"
"Evidently, yes."
"You will not come out to see us off either?"
"Wherefore? We are already saying farewell," she shrugged.
"And what of Jaegaer? Do you also blame him for Maerys's death?"
"No. I shall say farewell to him separately."
Grunting, Aegon turned and took a couple of steps along the path, when suddenly he turned back and asked impulsively:
"Tell me, do you at least not regret it? All that has been?"
Viserra, bowing her head, was silent for a little and answered firmly:
"No."
"At least I did not become someone's regret," the Prince chuckled mirthlessly and walked away.
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