Prince Aegon Targaryen
That the Cannibal was dead, there was no doubt. However mighty the dragon, even he could not survive a fall from height onto stones: his weight played against him, and ribs and spine broke upon collision with the Dragonmont, the neck, with a piece of flesh missing, bent several times at unnaturally sharp angles. Aegon, bareheaded, in breeches alone, stood over the remains of the bloodthirsty creature that had terrorized dragon young for many decades, and could scarce believe his eyes. Did they truly kill a dragon?
The Prince had spent the whole night before in the chapel, kneeling or sitting on the bench, begging the gods to give him an answer to the question: can he intentionally kill a dragon? Will this not make him a Maegor who destroyed Quicksilver? Will this not be a retreat from his vows, will this not be a violation of his oaths? He promised to keep dragons, after all, not destroy them...
He offered prayers to Vhagar, Mistress of Just Retribution, that she might turn her righteous wrath upon the criminal dragon and punish him for the murder of kin. He asked Meraxes, Mistress of Mercy, that she might turn her gaze upon her offspring and shield them from the monster. He prayed to Balerion, Patron of Battle and Lord of Death, that he might send destruction upon the Cannibal. He addressed each of the gods and all at once, that they might give an answer to his questions.
Aegon expected something similar to the Mantarys revelations, thought he would see the fiery nothingness again, but this did not happen. However, the gods did not leave his prayer unanswered. In the morning, Aegon emerged from the chapel with the firm conviction that he must set foot on the warpath, since punishing the murderer of his kin is necessary, be they dragons or men. To tell the truth, he was glad that Dennis showed willfulness and asked Daemon to fly in—his help in battle with the creature greedy for kin blood truly proved invaluable. However, about one murderer the Prince deemed it best to keep silent: his brother's hand is hot, he is quick to anger himself, and King's Landing is not Pentos at all, to scatter corpses of murderers about.
Nevertheless, it was the elder brother who did all the work, especially when the vile bastard bathed him and Vermithor in his flame. This turned out to be closest to that very Mantarys revelation, and when to their own surprise they flew out of the fiery cloud unharmed (if one does not take into account the lost robe), Aegon needed some time to come to his senses. Even when he already stood by the Cannibal's body, dark red flashes still danced before his eyes, and his ears hummed from the monster's roar and the roar of the flame.
The high, exultant clucking of Caraxes landing nearby rang out, then the crunch of stone rubble.
"Idiot!" Daemon flew at him. "What the Hell!.. What the devil were you doing climbing in there?!"
"Eh?"
"I thought he fried you!"
"As you see, he did not succeed very well. Though a pity for the robe."
His brother wanted to give him an angry lecture again, but instead only sighed raggedly, swore, and grabbed Aegon in a bear hug. The latter, pressed against the leather doublet, chuckled awkwardly and patted his brother on the back.
"I am fine, lekia (brother). Let go already."
Daemon, as if reluctantly, unclenched his embrace, but did not let go of Aegon, continuing to support him by the shoulder.
"So, did he truly croak?"
"Through your efforts. Caraxes mauled him notably."
"Indeed, gripped with a death grip," chuckled the brother, clearly pleased with the recognition of his and his dragon's merits. "And what, will he be here now and rot?"
"No, of course not," shrugged the Prince. "I want to fulfill one childhood dream."
"Open up a dragon?"
"Yep. Now no Viserys can be insulted. When he begins to rot—we shall burn him, so we must hurry."
Having said this, Aegon finally freed himself from Daemon's grip and went to Vermithor, feeling a strange lightness in his whole body. The first few steps he attributed this to euphoria and the feeling of satisfaction from victory, but the shadow of doubt quickly increased, and the Prince realized something was wrong. Only stopping for a moment did he realize that the pain in his leg, his eternal companion for the last seventeen years, which had retreated after Mantarys but was not defeated finally, had disappeared, died as the Cannibal died.
It took Aegon several moments to realize this. Turning, he raised his gaze to Daemon, who, apparently, also began to understand something, and laughed from relief and happiness.
. . . . .
The whole island celebrated the victory over the Cannibal. In Dragon's Haven, bonfires were lit on the main city square of the Five Dragons, and on Sea Street to the very port townsfolk set tables and feasted, regardless of rank and wealth. Aegon did not tire of marveling at how their victory over an opponent whom the common people scarce noticed until that day became almost the main event of the year. Folk ballads and songs were already being composed about the battle over Dragonstone, though not one of them pleased the Prince.
"So compose your own, you know how," shrugged Daemon, bathing in the rays of popular love; it was him, as Prince of Dragonstone, whom human rumor made the main hero and victor. Aegon's inner ambitious man scratched his heart displeasedly with a sharp claw, but the Prince quickly managed to cope with him—to take a moment of glory from his brother was base, and the gods had already given him the best gift.
Festivities had not yet died down when Aegon drove the Dragonkeepers led by Baelor to the Cannibal's carcass, and with their help proceeded to the implementation of the long-planned scheme. With the help of hooks and chains, the corpse was straightened as far as stones and the steepness of the slope allowed, measured, Maester Gerardys made several sketches with graphite, and after proceeded to autopsy. Despite the fact that several days had passed since the dragon's death, the body was still warm, and the not yet drained black blood—liquid, emitting barely noticeable steam; Aegon connected this phenomenon with residual manifestations of the internal heat of the dragon's entrails.
Anatomical works, complicated by the dimensions of the dissected creature and the thickness of its hide, took more than one week. During this time Baelor and his men separated the Cannibal's head from the torso; picked off several horn plates and scales from the belly, sides, and back; drained gastric juices, from the acidity of which stones melted, and climbed into the womb, extracting several bones of the dragon's last victims from there; with great difficulty extracted his huge heart, scarce resembling the hearts of other animals; climbed even into the cloaca and made sure the deceased lizard was a male. Aegon, coupled with Gerardys, used up several stacks of paper in these days, making notes and sketches of every process, leaving not a single trifle without attention.
However, like everything in the world, this experiment came to an end; by the end of the first week, a corpse smell appeared, which by the beginning of the third became completely unbearable. Reluctantly, Aegon ordered the Dragonkeepers to return with the obtained samples and received records, and at sunset saddled Vermithor and committed the mangled Cannibal to dragonfire.
The remains burned long, smoking mercilessly, but the north wind carried the acrid smoke up the slope of the Dragonmont, where it mixed with fumes from the vent. Watching the funeral pyre from the side, Aegon peered into the flame and therefore flinched from surprise when Dennis standing behind his shoulder took it into his head to cough. As always in the case of the knight, this cough was not accidental. The Prince knew his sworn shield was not too pleased with his escapade during the battle, as well as with the fact that he himself had to sit it out together with everyone on the ground, but in recent days they diligently skirted this topic: Aegon was too busy dismembering and studying the dragon, and Dennis himself only frowned and accumulated resentment.
"I suppose you expect apologies from me?" sighed the Prince.
"No, My Prince, I do not," answered the knight. "I only wanted to say that rushing into that attack was extremely presumptuous. That creature could have fried your arse."
"He tried to do it, but the gods, evidently, have other plans for me."
Dennis clicked his tongue displeasedly.
"No one likes show-offs, My Prince. Especially gods. Especially the Lord of Death."
"And what do you want to tell me?" flared up Aegon. "Should I have sent my brother to certain death, and remained on the ground myself?!"
"No, My Prince. I only ask you not to rely too much on luck and be careful. The gods love to joke very much, who if not you should know this."
The Prince, frowning, kept silent, but denying the obvious truth was foolish. That he had been in dragonfire might not mean he would be the gods' favorite forever. To tell the truth, when a red fiery cloud surrounded Aegon from all sides, he was thoroughly frightened, but fear quickly receded into the background, giving way to admiration; from inside, dragonfire turned out simply unthinkably beautiful, multifaceted, and multilayered—how separate tongues superimposed on each other, overlapped one another, folding into patterns and pictures, mesmerized. Until the moment Aegon realized what these pictures showed.
"Dennis?" although they were completely alone, not counting the dozing Vermithor and the burning remains of the Cannibal, the Prince beckoned the sworn shield closer.
"Yes, My Prince?"
"Can you kill a man?"
"What a question, My Prince? You saw me in action—in Lorath, and in..."
"I speak not of that," interrupted the knight Aegon. "Anyone can kill in battle, unless he is a complete cretin. I speak of... another killing."
"My Prince, I shall fulfill any order of yours," answered Dennis without delay and hesitation.
"Good. I, of course, should have guessed this myself, now it seems obvious. Luckily for us, the gods were so kind as to hint to me that there are no coincidences, and enemies are better sought in dirty mirrors. Calla did not stumble. She was killed by order of Pentoshi remnants."
"Are you certain?"
"It is a logical step on their part," shrugged Aegon. "Considering that at the same time the Magisters tried to exterminate the rest of the Carlaryses, they must have tried to sever the connection between them and our House. Their plan, of course, failed, but they killed Calla."
"Did not Prince Daemon already fry all those dissatisfied with King Callio's rule?"
"Fried. But do you truly think the Magisters would have gone across the sea themselves to execute the sentence?"
"And who dirtied his hands for them?"
"Ser Larys Strong."
Dennis stared at his liege stunned.
"Lord Lyonel's son? The son of the Master of Laws, who is sort of your ally?"
"Yes, only Lyonel has nothing to do with it. Calla's death gives him nothing—he is loyal to the Iron Throne, and he voted for Daemon to remain its heir."
"Do you think Ser Larys did this alone? But why?"
"Only the gods know what games he plays," Aegon cast out angrily, not hiding irritation. "They did not wish to reveal this to me. Maybe the Pentoshi simply bought him? Or blackmailed? In the end, Confessors cannot have cleaner underwear than others."
"Clubfoot has not had clean underwear since swaddling clothes," chuckled the knight joylessly. "Do you think a woman?"
"Maybe a woman, maybe a man, what difference does it make? Maybe he released someone he shouldn't have or, on the contrary, condemned an innocent. The result is one—he killed my sister-in-law."
"And must die himself," said Dennis semi-affirmatively. "How to do it?"
"I do not want scandals. Lord Lyonel is a useful man, far from a fool, furthermore, his conscience is in place, and this, it must be admitted, is a rarity. If his son is accused of high treason, he will immediately resign so as not to blacken the Small Council, or even climb into a cell himself along with his son. No, this cannot be allowed. Therefore let everything be quiet and unnoticed."
"An accident?"
"Something like that."
"And when?"
"In a couple of days we shall return to King's Landing, and thence I shall fly to the Smoky Valley. You can catch up with me after."
"It shall be done, My Prince."
A sheaf of sparks burst from the burning remains of the Cannibal, coloring the night sky, and Aegon peered into the flame, hoping to see something else in it, and twisted the cane in his hands. Although pains in the maimed leg never returned, to abandon his faithful companion throughout almost his whole life was beyond his strength. The Prince tried walking without it at least in his chambers, but to his own shame did not know where to put his hands. Furthermore, the right leg still lacked a couple of inches of length, and Aegon feared he might not keep balance at an inappropriate moment and fall. As life showed, a mere trifle was enough to die at the royal court.
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