The sky above the Gullet was high, inexpressibly blue, and absolutely cloudless; the bright sun reflected off the seawaters, casting such glare that even from the height of a dragon's flight, it was painful to look down. Even the southern wind, which usually blew from the ever-gloomy Stormlands, had shifted, yielding to a soft eastern breeze. In a word, the fair weather was the complete opposite of Aegon's mood. The rider's irritation was felt by both Dennis, sitting in the saddle behind him and maintaining silence the entire journey, and Vermithor, who strove to fly faster.
The Prince gripped the saddle handles until his hands ached, unsuccessfully attempting to prepare for the conversation with Daemon. Sensible thoughts refused to come; instead, Aegon returned time and again to the thought that Viserys, striving to mend his own life, had shattered theirs.
He could only remain angry at his stubborn brothers until the smoking Dragonmont appeared on the horizon. After the revelations of Mantarys, Aegon had begun to see omens in many previously mundane phenomena, and whether the smoke above the volcano should be perceived as one such sign was a fair question. In the end, the Prince decided that the mountain's activity signified its hot interior, which was good for the hatchery, and thus good for House Targaryen as a whole.
Already on the approach to the island, Vermithor—and through him, Aegon—noticed a blurred shadow glide like an elusive bolt of lightning at the very edge of the surf, rapidly receding eastward along the shore. By the color and span of the wings, the Prince identified the dragon as Grey Ghost—a cautious and unbroken loner; evidently, with the death of the Cannibal, he had grown bold enough to encroach upon the territory of the bloodthirsty beast. The Ghost himself also had particular preferences in food, though not as dangerous: he preferred fish to any meat, swallowing it mostly raw.
Passing Dragonstone's port, Aegon spotted several more dragons in the sky above the hatchery—young ones, no older than five years. At Vermithor's approach, the clamoring tangle hovering in the sky unraveled and hastened to take cover in the caves; it had not been too difficult to accustom them to staying close, but the Prince suspected that when they grew larger, evicting them from the stone halls beneath the castle would be no simple task.
They landed near a rock fissure into which the Bronze Fury had moved from his old lair after Silverwing abandoned him, carrying Laena Velaryon to Driftmark. Nearby lay the exit from the hatchery, and the seventy-five-year-old dragon appeared a true giant against the backdrop of the hatchlings. As midgets might gaze upon a giant, the cowardly little dragons stared at Vermithor from a respectful distance, ready to bolt at any moment.
Aegon paused to appraise the younger generation. For the most part, they had hatched from the clutches of Dreamfyre and Silverwing—this was evident from the shapes of their skulls and wings, the placement of barely emerging and undeveloped crests and horns, and the color and pattern of their scales. On the black rocks of volcanic stone, the hatchlings sat like multicolored blots—blue-azure, silver-grey, and yellow. There were no red ones, nor were there any greens. Aegon considered little Alyssa's she-dragon to be the only offspring of Meleys, and the late Cannibal, seemingly, had developed a taste for Vhagar's progeny, having almost entirely exterminated it; only a pair of eggs with emerald and spruce-colored scales remained in the hatchery's incubator.
Closest of all to the Prince crawled a small dragon with dazzlingly bright gold scales and silver horns. It was a young male, no larger than a hound, a mere boy.
"Skorio jaelan?" (What do you want?) Aegon inquired of him.
The little dragon let out a ringing trill in response, baring small, sharp teeth, and then spread his wings with membranes of soft pink, like the sky at dawn, and shook them rapidly.
"Ānogar iksan daor," (I am not a female [blood]), the Prince laughed, scratching the show-off under the chin. "Yn sīlāvose gevie iksā! Issa, gevie, hae ñāqien harrī kiōho. Hae ōños vēzo." (But you are wildly beautiful! Yes, beautiful, like... [poetic comparison]. Like the light of the sun.)
Vermithor, who had already managed to climb into his fissure, poked out his snout, upon which displeasure was clearly legible, and gave a stern roar, admonishing either the youngster who thought too highly of himself, or his own rider. The dragon brood vanished as if blown away by the wind; only tails flashed between the stones.
"Jealous," chuckled Dennis, who had been observing all this from the side. The Bronze Fury blew smoke from his nostrils just as angrily.
"He holds the same opinion of you," Aegon shook his head and continued on his path.
"We have lived soul-to-soul for how many years now! We have eaten many a goat together, after all."
"He sulks because you spend more time with me than I do with him."
"Well, forgive me, My Prince," the knight spread his hands. "For some reason, dragons cannot stand watch outside bedchamber doors. And if I have bored you so, you may take a White Cloak for yourself. Cole is over there, at least."
"I fear Ser Criston risks becoming the personal shield of my niece. The elder one, of course."
At the gates, they were met by Ser Viselor Teltaris, who confirmed that Prince Daemon and both Princesses were currently in the castle.
"Were there letters from the Red Keep?" Aegon asked only to clear his conscience, to rule out the infinitesimal probability of a chain of tragic accidents devouring the ravens bearing letters time and again.
"There were, My Prince," the Castellan sighed. "Maester Gerardys took them to Their Highnesses, and they but read them, laughed, and burned them."
"So, they found it amusing?"
"Yes, My Prince."
Aegon ground his teeth. Daemon's reaction was explicable, but a father should not be a laughingstock to his daughter.
"And where are they?"
"In the Garden of the Conqueror, My Prince. All three of them."
The garden laid out by the castle ought to have been named the Garden of Aenar the Exile or the Garden of Gaemon the Glorious—father and son had more to do with it than their more famous descendant. It could have been called the Garden of Visenya—the eldest of the Conquerors spent the last years of her life on the Stone and walked here often, while she was able; however, the rider of Vhagar preferred once more to honor the memory of the husband and brother who never loved her as she loved him.
Walled off from the rest of the castle, it was one of the most secluded places on the island—quiet, damp, smelling of pine needles and wild roses. There were only three gardeners at Dragonstone, and their tasks were to maintain the garden in as wild a state as possible, to cut flowers for the suzerains' table, and to gather cranberries for pies and sauces. Scarce had they approached the wicket gate leading deeper inside than nostalgia washed over Aegon with new, unprecedented force: he remembered living on the Stone with Grandmother in his childhood, how they, both lame and aggrieved at the whole wide world, sat in the garden while he played the fiddle or harp for her. She, already hard of hearing, distinguished only every third note, yet invariably praised him and asked him to play more.
Now, towering by the wicket gate, stood Ser Criston Cole, impeccably white in his armor, shaved to the blue. At the sight of the Prince, the guardsman drew himself up and straightened, striving to show he was not idling.
"Ah, Ser Criston, there you are," Aegon addressed him with a smile. "We had already lost you."
"Yes?" he asked again, his voice hoarse. "My Prince, I am no deserter! Princess Rhaenyra ordered me..."
"We gathered as much," the Prince hastened to assure him. "The Small Council, of course, did not rule out such a possibility, but Ser Harrold defended the whiteness of your cloak so zealously that he convinced us all you could not have done such a thing."
"It is a great honor."
"How do you find Dragonstone? You have surely never had occasion to visit here?"
"No, My Prince, I am here for the first time. It is a very... Valyrian place."
"The most Valyrian on this side of the Narrow Sea, you may believe me. Did my brother say nothing to you?"
"No, My Prince. Prince Daemon only said that I must be very brave to risk flying from the capital astride Syrax, and in armor at that."
"It is good for her to carry weight," Aegon nodded. "It promotes growth and develops endurance."
With these words, he glanced at the guardsman, and the man, hesitating for a moment, stepped aside to let him pass. Ser Viselor made to follow, but Dennis held him back by the shoulder; the perceptive sworn shield knew when his suzerain wished to speak without witnesses.
Aegon's steps—measured and even—rang out loudly on the stone slabs of the garden path, echoed by the click of his cane. Treading between tall juniper bushes, the Prince heard voices, at first indistinct, but becoming clearer.
"Daorun kesan hēdrȳ naeno, yn nyke umbinna ēlio…"(I will not [quote from poem], but I wait for [quote from poem]...) a Valyrian recitative drifted to him.
Curious. Geylar of Tyrosh? It was not so long ago they were recalling him... Meanwhile, the path veered again and led him to a gazebo of volcanic stone; a stone dragon spread its wings, preparing to take flight, and beneath their canopy, Rhaenyra sat upon a pile of pillows, chin propped on her fist, listening spellbound as Daemon recited sonnets of a long-dead poet of the Old Freehold in a decent baritone. Nearby, a rocking cradle creaked, also fashioned in the likeness of a dragon embracing an egg with its wings; judging by the silence issuing from within, one could surmise that her father's voice acted just as enchantingly upon little Alyssa.
Waiting for the verse to end, Aegon applauded, though not too loudly so as not to wake the youngest of his nieces; the elder joined him with an ovation.
"An artist died in you, lekia(brother). In Volantis, the skill to recite poetry well is prized scarce less than the skill to compose it well."
Daemon bowed, sweeping the ground with his wide sleeve. In a loose shirt, unlaced to the middle, with hair gathered in a simple tail, he looked surprisingly domestic. In his hands, his brother held an ancient scroll, another of those brought by Exarch Aenar and his children; Aegon's maester half immediately felt indignation that a priceless relic had been taken from the safety of the library.
"Praise from the lips of an honorary Volantene is doubly valuable," Daemon returned the compliment.
"I confess, I am surprised by your choice," the younger Prince remarked. "I do not recall you having a particular interest in 'The Hundred and Fifty-Four Sonnets on Sentiments.' The love lyrics of Geylar are quite unlike the 'Stratagems' of Narareon or the 'Art of Victory'."
"Tastes change, valonqar(little brother)," his brother answered in an even tone. "And the castle library proved remarkably rich and varied. Only after settling on Dragonstone was I able to appreciate it properly. Besides, the girls like it when I read to them."
"I do not doubt it of Alyssa. But I taught Rhaenyra the old script of the High Tongue myself—she is capable of reading these sonnets on her own, should she so desire."
"Nyra says I have a beautiful voice, and I wished to please her."
"Naturally. Everything for oneself, and nothing for the worried parent."
"Father scarce cares for me and my upbringing now," Rhaenyra put in.
"He wrote to you, riña(girl/child)."
"And what of it? He only called me to his wedding with that... with that whore! Ow!" The pommel of the cane tapped her lightly on the crown of her head.
"Were you not taught to choose your words, riña?" Aegon inquired softly.
"He is right, Nyra," Daemon said conciliatorily, settling onto the pillow-strewn bench so that his niece ended up by his feet. "We cannot always say all that we wish."
"But you do it yourself!" she was indignant. "And you called her a whore yourself! Did you not?"
"I did. The difference is only that I can answer for my words, and you cannot."
"I have Syrax!"
"Leave Syrax in peace, she has naught to do with this," Aegon grimaced. "Why did you not answer your father?"
"I did not want to, so I did not answer! And anyway, let him write letters to his... Alicent now. I do not wish to know them, neither of them."
"He worried, riña."
"I don't care."
"How, in your opinion, did it look from the outside?" The Prince decided to approach from another flank. "A Princess of House Targaryen flees the Red Keep late at night with a Kingsguard knight and flies off to parts unknown. What was your father to think?"
"I don't care."
"Be that as it may, I shall tell you. At first, we thought you had taken offense and flown to Lady Jeyne. But you were neither in the Eyrie, nor in Duskendale, nor in any castle north of the Blackwater. Simultaneously, a Kingsguard vanishes—handsome, young, brave, a skilled swordsman. What would it cost him to handle a girl? To throw her from the saddle? To put a dagger to her throat and force her to land? To take her by force?"
"Nothing of the sort happened," Rhaenyra snapped, but the confidence in her voice waned. "I ordered him to follow me myself. You taught me yourself that White Cloaks must accompany us everywhere, so I took him with me. I have no sworn shield of my own like you, Uncle, so I had to borrow from Father."
"It gladdens me that I managed to put at least a grain of sense into your head," Aegon sighed.
"You lament in vain, my brother," Daemon put in. "She has learned much from you."
"I am not here to conduct an examination. Rhaenyra, my brother and I need to talk."
Daemon placed a hand on the shoulder of the rising Princess and sat her back onto the pillows.
"Stay, Rhaenyra," he said quietly but firmly, his hand moving protectively to the curve of her shoulder and neck. "This is a family matter, is it not? Then speak to everyone at once. We can even keep Alyssa."
Aegon only snorted. Of course, he would have preferred to try speaking with Daemon first: one could make a proposal to a brother and discuss it with him. Rhaenyra, however much he had educated her, remained a capricious adolescent whose familiar world, which had always fallen at her feet like a ripe apple, had collapsed overnight. She could be understood, but her behavior could hardly be predicted. In her grievances against her traitor-friend and lecher-father, she might go so far as to sabotage the negotiations. But if Daemon wished it so...
"Very well, let it be," the Prince nodded and sat at the other end of the bench. Between him and Daemon were both nieces—one sleeping peacefully in the cradle, the other seated on the pillows. Symmetrical, but on his side was only an infant, while Rhaenyra sat too close to the master of the garden, the castle, and the island.
"So, with what did Viserys send you?" Daemon nudged the conversation to start.
"With the same thing as last time. He apologizes and acknowledges your title as Prince of Dragonstone and his heir."
"What a coincidence. Last time we ended with the same. Do you not find it amusing?"
"Hardly does this situation please me more than it does you."
"So you admit that Hightower simply wants to sit even more firmly on our brother's neck?"
"Hightower is an inveterate schemer," Aegon admitted. "Today before my flight, he was turning me against you."
"And?" Rhaenyra gave voice.
"He sang like a nightingale, but sang desperately false."
Aegon had decided while still in the sky that he would not recount the conversation with Lord Otto to his brother, at least not in detail. The aggrieved Daemon might perceive new information in the most unpredictable manner: if the rumors were true, he might accuse Aegon of conspiring with the enemy, and if the rumors were merely a fiction of the Hand, the lie would insult him even further. On the road, the Prince tried to convince himself that omission is not lying, and he almost succeeded, but his heart was heavy nonetheless. After all, there was a logic to Otto's words, even casting aside his enmity with Daemon; if Hightower had thought of it, his brother would think of it too—he was anything but a fool.
Daemon threw his head back with a pained groan and stared at the skillfully carved minute scales on the inner side of the dragon wing shielding them from the sun.
"Our brother wishes to take a new wife, and yet still continues to call me his heir," he spoke with understandable anger. "Wherefore? So that later, when a son is born to him, he may strip me of domains and title? There is no better way to humiliate me than this. Is it so surprising that I do not wish to be humiliated?"
"There can be no talk of humiliation," Aegon assured him. "Viserys is no fool..."
"One wouldn't say so."
"...and will not give promises only to break them later. He is too honest for that, especially when it concerns family. Furthermore, he is stubborn. As you see, he decided then that you would be his heir, and he holds to that line."
"But then the new Queen will bear him a son, another..." it was felt that Daemon wanted to repeat old careless words, but he checked himself in time. "Another Prince Baelon. And what then?"
A good objection. If a son is born to Viserys, it will put old agreements in jeopardy: the Andal law, by which a son inherits from the father before an uncle, will be recalled instantly. They will recall that King Viserys Targaryen is the second of his name, and the first was murdered by his uncle Maegor the Usurper, just as he had killed Aegon, the second of his name, before that. Aegon the Clubfoot had himself had a hand in ensuring the elder brothers of their grandfather were considered lawful kings, and look where it led...
"But a prince might not be born. How many times did Aemma try to give him a son?"
"Father tormented her with childbirths," Rhaenyra threw in with the same anger as Daemon.
"It is so," the Prince agreed. "In the absence of sons, septons blame the sinful mother, a portion of the Maesters agree with them, but some believe the fault may lie with the father."
"A seditious thought even for the Citadel," Daemon chuckled.
"And yet this theory has a considerable number of adherents. They suppose that if a husband is incapable of having children, then even a young and fertile wife will not bear him an heir."
"Viserys is neither impotent nor a eunuch."
"For that, one need not be either the one nor, save us Meraxes, the other. One can quite... know all the joys of life and yet not be capable of giving life to a son. In other words, Alicent may never bear Viserys a new prince."
"But you cannot know for certain," his brother drawled.
"I cannot. But in fifteen years of marriage, Viserys obtained only Rhaenyra. If the matter lies with him, then in fifteen years with Alicent he may obtain only daughters or obtain no one at all."
"The Hightowers have always had many children," Rhaenyra grimaced. "She told how she missed her cousins. I envied her a little: I grew up alone."
"In other words, we cannot rely on this," Daemon summed up and, stretching, spread his arms along the back of the bench. "A weak argument, valonqar, I do not accept it. Nyra, are you not cold?"
Paradoxically, in the Garden of the Conqueror it was always fresh: neither summer nor the heat of the Dragonmont could banish the dampness and chill from the mossy, semi-wild thickets. Cold radiated from the stone slabs, and the pillows were needed not only for softness but also to avoid catching a chill—Aegon had verified in his boyhood that it was a simple matter. Rhaenyra first shook her head at her elder uncle's question, and then, after thinking, nodded and moved to his side.
"Very well," Aegon nodded compliantly. "Then listen further. Why did Viserys become King?"
"Because the Great Council chose him. You were there."
"No, the Great Council did not choose him as King. The Lords recommended our grandfather to appoint Viserys as heir, and he followed their counsel, proclaimed his grandson Prince of Dragonstone, and we all swore fealty to him. Before that, Jaehaerys chose our father as his heir, and the lords also swore to him as the future King. King Aenys named my Uncrowned namesake as his heir, and when Queen Visenya left the feast, the lords swore to the new Prince of Dragonstone. Do you follow my thought?"
"I am trying," Rhaenyra admitted honestly.
"Clarify," Daemon requested.
"A Prince does not become King solely on the basis that he is his father's son," Aegon smiled.
It had taken him several weeks of studying family chronicles, meticulously reading the protocols of the Great Council, and corresponding with Uncle Vaegon to arrive at this conclusion—only to him could the Prince entrust the verification of his logic. In those days he slept little and, according to Dennis and his brother-King, became utterly unbearable with his sarcasm, but the final result seemed not bad to him.
Naturally, Aegon realized that this solution was no alchemical tincture for all ills. Assessing it objectively, he admitted it was highly controversial and, if one set such a goal, one could summon a couple of good counterarguments that could not be deflected: take for instance Uncle Aemon or King Aenys himself. The problem lay in the fact that both his elder brothers were worth one another: one was a noble mule, the second—an ambitious obscurantist, and the veins of each burned with the fire of the Fourteen Flames. Because of the two of them, the House of the Dragon was even closer to schism than in the days of the Council of Harrenhal. No good solutions that satisfied everyone remained—one had to choose from measures of varying degrees of lousy, and creating a dangerous precedent was no better than the rest.
"To become King, a Prince must pass through two ceremonies," he continued. "Firstly, the current King must name him his heir—after this, the Prince, in his new status, swears fealty to the King. Secondly, after this oath, the lords of the Seven Kingdoms swear to the Prince as their future sovereign, acknowledging the indisputable transfer of the crown to him in the future. You already have all this, Daemon. You are the lawful heir of Viserys and the future King."
"For now," the other inserted. "You said the King appoints the heir. What prevents Viserys from stripping the title from me later and making his son the heir?"
"Viserys flew Balerion but once, yet that sufficed to inherit his stubbornness. Daemon, he has already recognized you as his heir, he gave his word then, and swears to keep it now."
"What prevents him from breaking this word? Or changing his decision?"
Aegon sighed and, leaning forward, peered into Alyssa's cradle. The little princess slept, arms flung wide, and at her feet lay the Red Dancer, curled into a ball. Neither one nor the other cared a whit for the problems of adults, and it seemed to Aegon they dreamt the same dream: of flying together over sea, land, and clouds. Smiling, the Prince lightly touched the crib, and it began to rock again.
"Viserys can change his decision, you are right. Only he will never do so, otherwise a King's word will not be worth a copper groat. Viserys understands this perfectly, therefore he will hold the title for you now and later, even if he has sons. He understands that if he does this, he will inflict a terrible, mortal insult upon you, and that is the last thing he wants, Daemon. You cannot imagine how highly he values us, how he treasures us, the fact that we stand by his throne, sit in his Small Council. Gods, he loves us merely for being his brothers. Simply for that. And therefore he will never dare to humiliate you so before all Westeros."
The Prince looked point-blank at his brother. Daemon was not joking, not smirking, not making a scene, not turning the Garden of the Conqueror upside down, not hacking it to splinters with Dark Sister—a rare degree of seriousness for him, but this could be understood. For him, this question was greater than the choice between life and death; his entire future was at stake, and Daemon himself was not the only one making the decision. "Perchance this frightens him most of all—the inability to determine his own fate, the dependence on others," Aegon decided for himself.
Rhaenyra, of course, also understood the importance of the situation. Leaning against her elder uncle, who played thoughtfully with her hair, she looked back at him with anxiety and expectation in her gaze, nervously wringing her fingers. Something in her look seemed strange to Aegon. Hardly did she look at him so. Unless... Something in the look of her dark violet eyes reminded him of the staircase in the red-and-black house of Aunt Saera in Volantis, the hope, expectation, and the beautiful Viserra. Was Rhaenyra like her great-aunt? Save for the Valyrian eyes and hair, hardly. At least the niece's feelings seemed sincere. Though the Prince had considered Viserra sincere too...
"Viserys does not make decisions alone," Daemon finally spoke.
"Alone," the Prince objected. "Only before making a decision, he listens to others. Sometimes they give him useful counsel, sometimes not..."
"Otto and useful counsel are two incompatible things!" his brother snorted. "It is like an Andal on a dragon. Even worse!"
"You will have the opportunity to ensure that Viserys is given only useful counsel. The King wishes to appoint you Hand."
Sincere surprise flickered on Daemon's face.
"Truly? Not ten years of his reign have passed. Whence such an honor?"
"Someone reminded His Grace that the last three heirs of the Old King were not only Princes of Dragonstone but also his Hands."
"Who could that be?" Daemon drawled with a thoughtful squint.
"I know not," Aegon lowered his eyes in feigned embarrassment. "But I deem it a good tradition, reinforcing the status of the heir and teaching him to govern the realm."
"You mean to say I need to learn?"
"If you accept Viserys's offer, it would not go amiss. So? Heir and Hand now, and King later."
"Otto must be removed from court," his brother cast out sharply.
"In a couple of weeks, Otto will become the King's father-in-law. Viserys cannot throw him out immediately after the wedding—that would insult the Hightowers and all the Reachmen. For a time, you will have to coexist, resign yourself."
Daemon rolled his eyes with a sigh, as if to say, we shall see.
"What of Rhaenyra?" under the crossfire of two uncles' gazes, the Princess only lifted her chin higher.
"Your father regrets that his decision caused you pain, riña," Aegon spoke softly. "He asks your forgiveness and hopes that someday you will be able to understand him. To understand what it means to enter into a marriage with one you love. He swore not to choose suitors for you and not to force you to marriage with anyone. He gives the same oath to you, Daemon. As King, father, and brother, he will accept any choice of yours and will not object. As he said himself, now he has no right to do so."
"What say you, Nyra?" asked Daemon, tossing one of his niece's braids from her back to her chest. "No suitors, or do we continue to sulk?"
Gods, did he place the entire agreement in dependence on the decision of a girl? Aegon nearly howled from vexation: so many words and efforts might prove wasted if a foolish adolescent continued to be stubborn! But Rhaenyra sat silently twisting her mother's ring on her finger.
"No suitors," she nodded at last. "But I will not call Alicent 'Mother'!"
"And no need. So, Daemon? Are you content? Is the King forgiven?"
"Yes," the other simply nodded. "Nyra, I think you should write to your father. Calm your old man."
"Stop counting everyone older than you as old men!" Aegon grimaced.
Rhaenyra pursed her lips in offense but obediently rose from the bench.
"I shall tell him you call him old," she said vengefully.
"The main thing is not to mention the whore."
The Princess snorted and withdrew with head held high, sweeping the path with the hem of her dress. Daemon followed his niece with a mocking gaze, in which admiration was also clearly legible.
"I see you have become a great admirer of beauty," Aegon remarked sarcastically when Rhaenyra vanished from sight.
"As I said, Geylar proved quite not bad..."
"I speak not of sonnets, lekia."
"And I speak of them," the insolent violet eyes looked point-blank.
Fortunately, at that moment the Red Dancer yawned and shifted in the cradle, waking Alyssa; the little princess began to whimper displeasedly, and her father immediately scooped her into his arms and began to rock her, humming something soothing under his breath. Evidently, the wet nurse's lessons had not gone in vain, for the girl very soon calmed down and fell asleep again.
"Rumors crawl through the Red Keep, my brother," Aegon spoke softly. "Courtiers whisper that Rhaenyra did not flee to Dragonstone to her uncle for naught, and that he is not called the Rogue Prince without cause."
"You know no worse than I that this is all the handiwork of Otto and his agents," Daemon answered with annoyance, laying his daughter back in the crib. "What have I done for this nickname? Cut down all the scum in Flea Bottom? Chopped off the hands of rich embezzlers? Thrown into dungeons those who, beneath the walls of the Red Keep, gave not a groat for the King's law? That is my duty as Commander of the City Watch. Fucked half the whores in every brothel on the Street of Silk? I am certain Ser Gwayne used the other half. Only Otto had the wit to blacken what many do, and idle gossip will be picked up by anyone not too lazy, and if one pays for it besides..."
"You seem to fuel them actively yourself."
"For 'tis useless to fight them, and the moniker is no worse than many others," his brother shrugged. "I even like it."
"Let us assume you do not care, but Rhaenyra..."
"There was nothing between us," Daemon cut him off harshly and peremptorily. "Nothing. Ser Criston follows at her heels, all night he stands watch at her bedchamber. I gave not a single cause to doubt her... virtue. Do you believe me?"
Aegon thoughtfully tilted his head to the side. His brother's answer was too sharp, and in another situation, the Prince would immediately have doubted the speaker's sincerity, but this was Daemon, and he had never lied to him (childish pranks were not taken into account)—even in his thirst for the throne, he was unbearably honest.
All these signs of attention which he supposedly unobtrusively showed Rhaenyra clearly went beyond the ordinary relations of niece and uncle; at least, Aegon himself would not have permitted himself such. On the other hand, what are ordinary family relations for Targaryens and Valyrians?
In any case, had something truly happened between them, Rhaenyra would hardly have behaved so reservedly, even before Aegon. The niece had inherited the hot temper of the Targaryens; she displayed all her feelings stormily and knew not how to hide them: be it joy, anger, or hatred—emotions immediately reflected on her face. Had there truly been something between them, she would surely have behaved more wantonly with Daemon, and hardly could the presence of another uncle have embarrassed her.
"I believe you," Aegon answered after reflection. "But do not play with her, lekia. It may harm her more than you."
Daemon only chuckled and turned away. "All Targaryens are great in pride," the Prince recalled Grandmother's words. "And Daemon is no exception—too proud to retreat, too proud to confess."
"Well, since you wish to speak no more, I shall go," he said aloud, rising from the bench. "Vermithor scared the young ones—I need to calm them, else they will shy away from every shadow. And I must check on Syrax..."
"Stay, Aegon," Daemon let fall hollowly. "I want you to convey something to Viserys."
"Do you ignore the existence of ravens on principle, or do you have a personal enmity toward them?" Aegon inquired sarcastically.
But his brother scarce paid attention to his wit. He turned to him with the most resolute and uncompromising expression on his face and declared in a deadly serious tone:
"Tell Viserys that I will bend the knee before him as Prince of Dragonstone, his heir and Hand, I will acknowledge his marriage and the new love of his life," irony flickered in his voice like a sunbeam through a break in thunderclouds, and vanished at once. "But I swear to you by all the gods at once, by the ashes of our ancestors, curse it, I swear to you by fire and blood, by my own death, that I will no longer tolerate rats and sheep by the Iron Throne! If they continue to shit in Viserys's ears with their shitty counsel, if they so much as stutter about who should be heir and who not, I will twist a rope from their guts and hang their heads upon it from the walls of the Hightower. And the opinion of our brother will be the last thing to concern me. Tell him so."
Aegon measured Daemon with an attentive gaze. That he was not jesting was not to be doubted, so the Prince bowed ceremoniously and said:
"As My Lord Hand wishes."
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