Tourneys had never attracted Aegon—at first they reminded him of what a tragic accident had deprived him of, and then wounded pride was replaced by lack of understanding—how people could seriously rejoice in this. However, the position of the King's brother and Master of Dragons obliged him to condescendingly observe the bouts from the royal box. Day after day he sat in his chair, sipping Dornish wine, glancing sideways at what was happening on the arena, but mostly entertaining himself by reading what he had bought in Braavos—Ser Bartimos was to be given his due; he delivered the books and gold in complete safety. His neighbors looked askance at him disapprovingly, but the Prince did not give a damn.
The only contests he watched attentively were those in which Daemon and Jaegaer participated. For the first, it was senseless to worry—Aegon knew perfectly well that a better swordsman than the wielder of Dark Sister was not to be found in the Seven Kingdoms—on the contrary, it was interesting how many men his brother would manage to send to the infirmary before he tired. For his cousin, this was the first tourney, and generally the first opportunity to declare himself and demonstrate his new coat of arms.
Viserys, who loved heraldry only slightly less than architecture, personally drew several variants for his Volantene cousin. Jaegaer settled his choice on an azure shield divided horizontally by a golden stripe into two unequal parts. In the lower, larger part, the waves of the Rhoyne shone silver, and above them, the Long Bridge of Volantis arched in three spans—Viserys, undoubtedly, implied precisely this when choosing a surname for his cousin. In the upper, smaller part, a golden single-headed dragon writhed, facing west—as a symbol that there was no road back for Jaegaer.
It was worth admitting, the cousin showed himself not badly at the tourney. In the jousts, he was knocked out third of his seven, and in the melee, he held out to the very end, laying low on the sandy arena among others the younger brother of Lord Tyrell, the young and bold Lord Reyne, and the old Lord Boremund Baratheon. In the end, Ser Ilileon remained the only knight standing on his feet, and conditionally combat-ready—the King awarded the victory to him.
Having assured himself that he had not given Remembrance into Jaegaer's hands in vain and had not miscalculated with a profitable bet on his victory, Aegon nodded to himself with satisfaction, and was about to return to the chronicles of the Lorathi theocracy in the Century of Blood, when suddenly a young Maester—one of Mellos's assistants—slipped into the royal box. The Maester made his way between the lords and, bending to Lord Otto, whispered something hotly in his ear. To interrupt the Hand at the height of the celebration was possible only for a very important reason, and the Queen's labor, begun at dawn, was one of them—the Prince guessed the reason even before Hightower passed it to the King in the same whisper, before Viserys, hesitating only slightly, rose from his chair and headed for the exit.
Passing Aegon, he lingered literally for a moment to say:
"Stay with Rhaenyra."
"Perchance I..." the Prince tried to object.
"Stay with Rhaenyra. It is an order."
Aegon leaned back on the pillows in disappointment and cast a glance at the Princess. Entranced by the spectacle, she, fortunately, did not notice her father's departure, though she knew her mother's waters had already broken—praise the Gods, the attention of twelve-year-old girls is easily diverted. The Prince involuntarily met the gaze of Lady Alicent sitting beside her friend; she too noticed both the Maester and the agitation of the elders, and therefore only barely perceptibly nodded to Aegon—I understood everything, I shall help.
Time passed, knight clashed with knight, and there was no news. Ser Gwayne Hightower, the Hand's son, knocked Ser Jaegaer Ilileon from the saddle, but lost to Daemon himself. A light dinner was served in the box, and still there was no news. The satiated public was entertained by jesters and mummers, jugglers, sword swallowers; a small menagerie was brought onto the arena, demonstrating the inhabitants of the jungles of the Summer Isles to the Westerosi lords and ladies. The sun was already dipping toward the horizon, and still there was no news.
Already at the very end of the tourney, another Maester, older than the previous one, grew at Aegon's shoulder.
"My Prince, the King asks you to appear immediately in the Red Keep."
The cane scraped on the Myrish carpet covering the boarded floor of the box; fortunately, Alicent proved nervous enough to turn at the sound; they nodded to each other again, confirming the agreement, and Aegon hastily walked away.
Galloping up the Hook to the summit of the Conqueror's Hill, the Prince thought about how bad things might be. Let us suppose Viserys called him to demonstrate his newborn son. Let us suppose all went well, but then why call him alone, and secretly at that? No, definitely matters were foul; the question was only how great the dimensions of this foulness were.
The Red Keep did not resemble the disturbed hive it had been in the morning, when the court rode out to the tourney, and the Queen prepared to give birth. Maegor's Holdfast was plunged into a tense, anxious silence; servants glided like shadows along the walls, yielding the way to the Prince and the sworn shield and Maester following him. The closer they approached the Queen's chambers, the louder the terrible screams of the woman in labor, filled with pain, reached them.
"Well?" was all Aegon said, throwing open the door.
His gaze first rested on the Maesters standing in a tight bunch around Mellos and Viserys, and then involuntarily fell on the bed. There, on sheets wet with sweat, convulsively gripping the midwives' hands, Queen Aemma writhed in agony. Her face was covered in perspiration, her soft silver hair was matted into a single dirty tangle, her skin had not just paled, but become almost transparent—beneath it, bluish threads of vessels and veins showed through. Her enormous belly had swollen even more, and a bright scarlet bloodstain had bloomed on her nightgown between her legs.
"Aegon, praise the Gods!" Viserys looked only slightly better. Tormented, worn out, powerless, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms rushed to his younger brother as to a last hope. "Aemma... They..."
"Matters are very bad, My Prince," the Grand Maester reported in a gloomy whisper. "The child is too large and lies wrongly. It cannot come out on its own. We have tried everything, save the last measure."
"Forceps?"
"Will not work," one of Mellos's assistants shook his head. "We will tear off its limbs that way."
"Only one way remains. We explained everything to His Grace... That there are cases when... a terrible choice falls to the father: to save one or lose two..."
"They want..." the King bleated somehow completely helplessly.
"To cut," the Prince finished for him.
"Yes."
"We explained to His Grace what can be done to save the child."
"But he asked to wait for you."
Aegon cast a glance at the King—he looked at him, utterly miserable, helpless before that over which he had no power, hoping that the brother who had studied in the Citadel would come, say that everyone could be saved, and save them. The Prince, pushing everyone aside, approached the Queen's bed. The fit had ended, and the cousin had fallen into a heavy doze. Her eyes either rolled back or opened wide, but saw nothing through the veil of tears. Aegon carefully touched the protruding belly; beneath the damp fabric of the gown, the skin burned, but her forehead and hands were icy; Aemma only moaned weakly at his touch. The child did not move.
"I shall not decide this question for you, Viserys," spoke the Prince.
"Say something at least!.."
"How long ago did the labor begin?" instead of an answer, Aegon inquired of the midwives.
"Before dawn even, My Lord Prince," answered one, fat and red.
"Well before dawn, at the hour of the bat," another chimed in, adjusting the pillows behind the Queen.
"That is, it has lasted the whole day," spoke Aegon, returning to the Maesters and the King. "They are both very weak. There is a probability that we shall save no one."
"The risks are very great," Mellos nodded in agreement. "I am inclined to believe that we are no longer in power to help the Queen."
"That means only waiting remains?" Viserys spoke in a crushed voice.
"Perchance there was a chance to save the child, but this decision needed to be made earlier. Now it is already too late. All is in the hands of the Gods."
Scarce had the Prince said this when their whispers were drowned out by a new scream from Aemma, the strongest of all and the most terrible; the Maesters rushed to the bed in a crowd, and Aegon, seizing Viserys by the arm, literally dragged him into the corridor by force. The door slammed shut behind them at once, and the King, like a cornered beast, rushed about along the walls; the Prince pushed all his irritation deeper, and tried not to block his way. He was powerless to help either him or Aemma.
Half an hour or several hours later, the screams turned into a single prolonged howl, which cut off abruptly. A few moments later the door flew open, and one of the midwives ran out of the chambers, pressing a red, squealing bundle to herself, and a pair of Maesters slipped out after her. One of them deemed it necessary to linger:
"It is a boy, Your Grace, congratulations. Alive. But the Queen... I fear she is passing."
Viserys let out a strangled sob and, shoving the Maester aside, rushed to his wife.
A few minutes later, Queen Aemma Arryn died.
The sun had not yet managed to hide behind the Godsgate when the newborn Prince Baelon, having scarce managed to receive a name, died as well.
. . . . .
Aegon wanted madly to sleep. It was the accursed hour of the owl, and the sitting of the Small Council simply could not begin; the fact that he was not the only one suffering from this was little consolation. Lord Otto had ordered the councilors gathered as soon as he was notified of the death of the Queen and the little Prince, but to discuss anything without the King was impossible. Viserys, however, had not emerged from Aemma's chambers, remaining beside his wife's bloodless body, even when the Silent Sisters came for her.
The heavy duty of telling Rhaenyra of her mother's death Aegon took upon himself. The girl, naturally, did not believe it at first, then burst into sobs; having stood embracing her for a time, allowing her to weep into his formal black doublet, the Prince carefully passed her into the care of Lady Alicent—the Princess's friend had lost a mother herself, and so knew the necessary words of comfort.
It began to seem to the Prince that all this happened a year, two, three ago or even a century, and he himself had been sitting at the table in the company of nodding lords for an eternity. To bring the King to the meeting with his Small Council turned out not so simple. Viserys chased away the guards led by Ser Harrold, and did not want to listen to Lord Lyonel Strong. Lord Otto and Aegon, after a small dispute, agreed that if the Hand did not succeed, then the turn of the King's brother would come. Inwardly, the Prince was already preparing for a difficult conversation, constructing arguments, inventing excuses, but, to his considerable surprise, Viserys appeared on the threshold of the Chamber of the Small Council after all.
His face had greyed and elongated, as if the King had managed to lose weight in a few hours. He walked with the unsteady gait of a man who sees not the road for tears in his eyes. The King had managed to change into all black—Aegon involuntarily thought that the colors of their House were exceptionally practical in this regard—and now the hems of his robe, hanging carelessly on his elbows rather than shoulders as was proper, caught on chairs, the table, the guards, and the hem swept the Myrish carpets. Everyone stood, greeting the Sovereign; while he sat in his place at the head of the table, the Hand announced:
"We are gathered in a heavy and dark hour, My Lords. Her Grace Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon Targaryen have passed away. Allow me to assure you, Sovereign, that all members of your Small Council grieve with you."
Everyone muttered something comforting, about loyalty, support, the necessity to be courageous and trust in the mercy of the Gods.
"However, even in this tragic time," Lord Otto continued, after a respectful silence in memory of the deceased. "We must remember our duty—service to the Seven Kingdoms and their ceaseless protection. Now, in the absence of an obvious heir to the Iron Throne, the realm finds itself under threat."
An unpleasant silence hung over the table. Viserys was lost in silence, and the other members of the Council feared to take the floor. In the absence of other brave souls, Aegon cleared his throat and said:
"I suppose, My Lords, what remains unchanged is that I am still at the very end of the line."
Lord Corlys snorted, but, to give him his due, remained silent, and did not begin to remind everyone of his wife's trampled rights with foam at the mouth. This looked rather amusing than threatening, since Cousin Rhaenys herself, it seemed, had managed to reconcile herself to the fact that neither she nor any of her children would have to sit on the Iron Throne.
"My wife and my son lie in Maegor's Holdfast, wrapped in shrouds," spoke Viserys in a hollow voice. "Their bodies have scarce cooled, and you have already gathered to decide something. Is this how you show your respect for royal grief? Vultures..."
"I fear, Your Grace, it is necessary," Lord Lyonel took the floor. "The absence of an obvious heir presents a threat to the succession, almost greater than in the days of King Jaehaerys."
"Do you propose to gather a new Great Council?" clarified Robin Massey. "Well, this can be done right here—most lords are already in the capital, and if dragons are brought into the sky or to Dragonstone, then the Pit can be used for sessions."
"To what end is this?" asked the Sea Snake mockingly, ostentatiously sipping wine. "Speaking frankly, I do not understand why My Lord Hand even raised such a question. By custom and law, established at the Great Council at Harrenhal, the basic principle of the transfer of the crown and throne is established. The Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne remains Prince Daemon Targaryen."
Grand Maester Mellos grimaced as if he had been offered rotten meat for supper:
"Let us be honest, My Lords. Prince Daemon is not the best candidate."
"Besides him, there is only Prince Aegon, and he has already spoken his word."
"Prince Daemon will be a new Maegor!" Lord Otto cut off the Admiral. "He is cruel, greedy, ambitious, and power-hungry! Remember this mob law he perpetrated the other day. Have you forgotten this bloody slaughter? Imagine what he will do to the Seven Kingdoms if they end up in his hands!"
Despite the general fatigue from the long day, which had turned from a triumph of wealth into a tragedy of loss, Aegon could not endure and giggled.
"You find it funny, My Prince?" the Hand asked strictly.
"Yes, My Lord, funny," nodded Aegon, now not hiding the smirk. "It has always surprised me why you attack our brother so aggressively, accusing him of all mortal sins."
"Because he is their living embodiment."
"I have been thinking: the first of the Usurper's wives was from your House, and, they say, she sincerely desired her husband. Were you not a pious widower with a whole brood of children, I would think, Lord Hightower, that with your comparisons to Maegor you are trying to seduce Daemon."
All shocked gazes converged on Aegon. Only the Lord of the Tides chuckled into his short white beard.
"Laugh, Lord Corlys, but remember—the Gods laugh last," the Prince spoke with a shadow of the former smile.
The Hand inhaled, evidently to give a worthy answer to the witticism, but Viserys managed to shut him up with a short gesture of his hand.
"What do you propose, Otto?"
"I allow myself to remind Your Grace that you still have a daughter, Princess Rhaenyra."
"In other words, you want me to make a choice between a brother and a daughter?" clarified the King.
"I fear it is necessary, Sovereign."
"And do you all here think the same?"
Mellos looked at Beesbury, Beesbury—at Strong, Strong—at Massey, and Massey—at Velaryon. The Sea Snake continued to thoughtfully spin the lapis lazuli sphere on its stand and keep silence. To say anything, as Aegon understood, was unprofitable for the Lord of Driftmark: to support Daemon was comparable for him to a final capitulation before the decision of the Great Council, and Velaryon was too proud to reconcile himself with it; to support Rhaenyra was senseless for him—she only pushed Rhaenys and their children even further from the Iron Throne.
Seeing the general passivity, Viserys inquired:
"Where is Daemon now?"
"Likely on the Street of Silk," said Ser Harrold. "Washing down his victories."
"Why is he not here?"
"Because the Council was gathered by your Hand, brother, and not you."
"Otto?"
"The Commander of the City Watch of King's Landing has no place in the Small Council of Your Grace," Hightower answered in the dispassionate tone of a man of law.
"I see," Viserys nodded to himself and turned to the youngest of his brothers. "What say you, Aegon?"
The time for witticisms and jokes had ended—the time had come to carefully choose words and precisely weigh each of them. A niece or a blood brother? Aegon suddenly saw with horror the abyss that had opened before them with the death of Aemma and Baelon; whatever decision Viserys made, whomever he appointed heir—a party of the offended and discontented would form anyway. Uncle Vaegon had warned of this—Gods, how long ago that was! six years and a whole eternity ago!—and lo, they were again at the same line as in Harrenhal. Aemon and Baelon. Rhaenys and Viserys. Rhaenyra and Daemon.
"You know my opinion, my brother," sighed Aegon. "I wish to read and rewrite books, fly on Vermithor, and care for the dragons of our family. The more people separate me from the throne, the better for me."
"Very cautious words, My Prince," Otto intervened. "However, we have not heard your opinion, and the King needs to make a decision..."
"I shall not choose between a blood brother and a blood daughter!" Viserys barked, jumping up and knocking over his chair. "Gods, is there no heart in you?! My wife is dead! My son is dead! The son I waited for so many years! Their bodies have not even been committed to the fire, and you want me to decide something?!"
Scarce having finished speaking, he almost ran out of the Chamber, slamming the door loudly. Ser Harrold sighed and went out after the Sovereign, and the remaining councilors were left exchanging silent glances.
"We are all weary, My Lords, and most of all—our Sovereign," remarked Corlys, rising from his place and putting his admiral's sphere of lapis lazuli back into the bowl. "To choose now is useless, and a few hours will help no one."
"You forget the Gold Cloaks," reminded Lord Beesbury, but followed the example of the Master of Ships nonetheless. "This little army..."
"Is now drinking, carousing, and tupping whores together with its leader," remarked Aegon. "Do not fret, My Lords, there will be no coup until Daemon sobers up. Let my brother mourn his loss."
The Hand only grimaced:
"Naturally. But a decision will have to be made regardless."
"Yes, Lord Otto. Fortunately, it will not be you making it."
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