Archmaester Vaegon
All things in this world find their end: both the life of a man and the length of a weary road. After more than two months upon the way, Vaegon had almost come to believe that both ends would coincide. To be sure, he had made the journey from Oldtown to King's Landing before, but he had been ten years younger then, more hale of body, and the company had been far more agreeable. The Archmaester had thrice and four times cursed the day and hour he deemed it a fine idea to bring along someone with a great number of silver links. Marlon had proven himself a far more boisterous and fretful companion than Aegon and his knight-servant had been in their time; moreover, he was far more pedantic, principled, and vexatious. Throughout the entire journey, he guarded Vaegon's health as a sodality of septas guards the virtue of a highborn lady: because of him, the Archmaester had not tasted wine nor eaten anything more succulent than boiled capon for over two months.
They were fortunate to reach the Blackwater during the last fair days of the season. In the Stormlands, the damp, biting breath of autumn was already felt, and as they passed through the Kingswood, a thick fog became their constant companion. Vaegon even feared that the moisture might damage the library he transported, but all was well.
The crossing of the river claimed half a day. The Archmaester left Marlon to command the right bank: of the six maesters accompanying him, only he inspired sufficient trust, to say nothing of the brood of novices. Vaegon himself crossed the river first and watched intently to ensure that every wagon of his caravan, with its priceless contents, safely reached the walls of King's Landing.
Only well after the midday meal did the train enter the capital through the River Gate, where they were met by a detachment of the Gold Cloaks. The captain of the gate greeted him so respectfully that Vaegon could not restrain a comment:
"Hath my nephew finally seen to the breeding of his men?"
"My house hath always held the Citadel and the Order of Maesters in great esteem," the man answered with a courtly bow.
"And what house might that be?"
"I am of House Hightower, Archmaester. My name is Ser Gwayne Hightower."
"Hightower?" Vaegon snorted. "Marlon, have we missed a turn somewhere and returned to Oldtown?"
Marlon, taught by experience, held his peace and preferred to look out another window—he was entering the capital for the first time. Ser Gwayne, however, blinked in bewilderment, his face reflecting the agonizing labor of thought. Pitying the poor wretch, the Archmaester let out a short chuckle, meant to signal that all he had said was a jest, and, rapping on the side of the wagon, drew the curtain shut.
The wagon lurched and began to crawl up the Hook toward the Red Keep. A short while later, the clatter of hooves was heard alongside—evidently, Ser Hightower had overcome his surprise and decided to escort them. Vaegon succumbed to curiosity and pulled back a corner of the cloth. Aegon's High Hill had not changed overmuch: the same manse-houses of the courtiers, with a sigil or standard upon each. His eyes soon began to dazzle from the variety of colors, and the Archmaester returned to the tranquil gloom of the wagon.
"Think you Aegon shall recognize me?" Marlon inquired.
"You have not grown so portly that you cannot be known, and he hath not aged so greatly as to forget faces."
Marlon, who despite his maester's vows had not forgotten he was a Manderly by birth, let out a resentful huff. His lord father, according to rumors, already resembled a barrel of ale more than a man in these years, but the maester had been slightly more fortunate: the gods had blessed him with great height, thanks to which he was merely stout rather than obscenely fat. The meeting with his friend from the novices' bench, if it did not frighten him, certainly troubled him; he fretted that the disparity in their stations was now too vast. Vaegon did not believe his nephew would give himself airs, but he did not attempt to persuade his brother of the Order—let reality surprise him pleasantly.
Meanwhile, they passed the main gates, entered the Outer Ward, and stopped at the Great Hall. Vaegon slid his golden mask over his face just in time—a lackey flung open the door and helpfully offered the Archmaester a hand.
"I am not falling to pieces from old age!" he snapped, and scrambled out into the yard of his ancestral home.
"I am right glad to hear it, Uncle," a familiar mocking voice rang out.
Aegon, with his accustomed caustic half-smile upon his face (Vaegon preferred not to think how much it resembled his own), met them at the very steps of the Hall. The nephew's ruby "third eye" gleamed upon his brow, reminding Vaegon of Alyssa's love for such baubles. Then his gaze fell upon the thick braid of silver hair carelessly tossed over his chest, and Vaegon had to blink twice to chase away the image of his father. It was a blessing that the cane, the Valyrian tunics, and the silhouette of Dennis looming behind his shoulder marked the Prince as himself.
"Archmaester Vaegon," Aegon said, finally remembering proprieties and offering a ceremonious bow. "Welcome to the Red Keep. Viserys and I have awaited you since morn, but you were delayed—and the time of kings is dear, as you well know."
"Of course, let me go to the Seven Hells (Peklo) then," Vaegon grumbled.
"You would be cast out of there soon enough for your bitterness. But we are glad to see you in health. Is that not so, Dennis?"
"Indeed, my Prince," the knight nodded.
It was then the Archmaester noticed how his nephew's eyes widened with recognition.
"Marlon?"
"Indeed, my Prince," the modest fellow, who had managed to climb out of the wagon, bowed, making his chain clink.
"Uncle dragged you along as well?"
"The Archmaester..."
"I feared boredom upon the road," Vaegon interrupted him loudly; it would not do for this fool to tell of his ailments before the whole court. "I knew well whom to take as a traveling companion."
"Half the Citadel?" Aegon nodded toward the wagons continuing to enter the castle yard, bearing the symbols of the Order of Maesters. He had surely marked the maneuver but preferred to support the change of subject.
"This is an official delegation of the Citadel, arrived for the royal festivities. Taking this opportunity, we would also wish to make copies of those books you brought from Essos."
"My library is at your full disposal."
"Excellent. Marlon, close your mouth—no one shall put food in it. Better you see to your duties and find a place for our goods."
"The King hath commanded that your old chambers be given to you, Uncle," Aegon came to his aid. "I think your brothers of the Order may find lodging there as well. The servants shall show the way. I hope you shall release my friend afterward?"
"I am no septa to keep watch over him," the Archmaester waved him away. "Take him to a brothel for all I care. But for now, let us walk."
If the nephew was surprised, he gave no sign and made an inviting gesture. Vaegon began to rap his golden staff against the cobbled yard, while Aegon's cane clicked beside it. Somewhere behind them, Marlon and Dennis remained to converse—the absence of the princes would surely loosen the tongues of old friends; well, let them wag their jaws behind the dragons' backs.
"A white raven arrived this week," Aegon announced as they skirted the Great Hall.
"When I departed, the Conclave was still in doubt," Vaegon remarked, maintaining the courtly chatter. "Evidently, they have decided."
"Should you not have voted alongside them?"
"My absence doth not affect the quorum."
"And how fares Cadwyl?"
"He drinks."
"Preserving his own liver in spirits?"
"Something of the sort. I heard you now have two brothers who are kings? Are you not envious?"
"Ah, you speak of our new family tradition of returning from beyond the Narrow Sea with a crown upon one's head? No, I am not envious. I have my own circlet, likewise of Valyrian steel, and I can do without a kingdom. I have no need for these squabbles and intrigues; I have seen enough of them. And I have played my part, not without that."
"I always said you would have fared better in the Citadel."
"Untrue," Aegon smiled. "We both know it."
Vaegon held his peace. Yes, perhaps he was wishing for what was not. Aegon was like him—no more, but no less. Alongside the scholarly nature that united them, he had the spirit to fly over half of Essos, entangle himself in a pair of wars, and dive headlong into the pool of vipers called the royal court. Vaegon did not envy him, but he could not fail to respect him, just as he could not fail to miss him.
However they might bicker over trifles, he had grown accustomed to his nephew during the years of his study. Without him and Dennis, the Archmaester's rooms seemed uncommonly quiet and stale. The rare visits of the Prince—who had obtained a dragon and, with it, nearly limitless possibilities—gladdened Vaegon too greatly for him to ignore his own loneliness afterward. Perhaps Vaegon was simply growing old. Perhaps Vaegon simply could not purge the Targaryen from within himself.
They stepped beneath the canopy of the Godswood, and the Archmaester recalled their first proper conversation, which had taken place in this very spot. The feast in honor of his father's Golden Jubilee, some minor scandal he had scarcely marked himself, and a lonely nephew, too wroth with the whole world and too clever for his age. Had sixteen years truly passed?
"So, it seems you are to wed," Vaegon drawled as they moved from the red castle walls deeper into the garden.
"I am to wed, Uncle," the nephew agreed easily.
"Life is looking up."
"You have no idea! Viserys promised to grant me a fief for my wedding and hath kept his word at last."
"What, are you now the proud possessor of some rock in the Stepstones?"
"Oh no, better! He hath granted me Harrenhal for my wedding."
"As I recall, it already had masters," Vaegon frowned. To be sure, much could change in the ten years since the Great Council, but not to such a degree...
"The Strongs are nearly extinct. Lord Lyonel was greatly broken by the loss of his kin, and the death of his son and heir was the final stroke. His uncle, Simon Strong, refused to accept the inheritance for himself and his two grandsons. Would you believe it, he crawled at Viserys's feet, begging him to strip him of the castle. He claims to believe in the Seven, yet he is terribly superstitious."
"Doth he fear Harren's Curse?" the Archmaester snorted.
"To death. He says that even before he learned of Lyonel's death, sores appeared upon his shin. As soon as the raven with the ill tidings arrived, he rushed here, though he could scarcely sit in a saddle. He claims he doth not wish to die such a sinful death, and without him, the boys shall perish. He says the castle shall be their undoing, that Harren the Black himself hath come for them, as he came for Maegor Towers. He, too, died in his tender years."
"And do you not fear it?"
"No, I do not fear it."
The Prince silently lowered himself onto a stone bench—whether it was the same one they had sat upon sixteen years ago or another, who could say in this godswood? Folding his hands upon the pommel of his cane, the nephew glanced around quickly and, ensuring they were alone, spoke softly but with great earnestness:
"Balerion (The God) comes to Harrenhal to liberate it for the Targaryens."
Vaegon blinked twice in bewilderment before he realized that Aegon spoke not of the Black Dread, the Conqueror's dragon, but of the god of their ancestors.
"Did he tell you this himself?"
"I asked him myself. I flew to Dragonstone then and lit three candles..."
"You journeyed there and back only to pray?" Vaegon was astonished; somehow this surprised him more than the fact of his nephew's communion with half-forgotten gods.
"In the Red Keep, it is difficult to find a place where one may ask help of the gods of Valyria," the other snapped. "It is nearly the same as appearing with a burning glass candle in the Starry Sept!"
Vaegon snorted; he would not have made his own life more difficult—it had become complicated enough of late.
"So what did Balerion answer you?"
"By the grace of the Patron of Battle and the Lord of Death, my famous namesake took Harrenhal, but short-sightedly refused such a gift. The gods love not when their gifts are used by others, therefore not one of the houses granted that castle hath tarried in it for long. Rhaena, the Black Bride, lived peacefully in Harrenhal for seventeen years, though not very happily, it must be admitted. Yet in that there was neither her fault nor the fault of the castle. Harren's Curse shall not touch our house."
"And is that why you agreed so calmly?"
"Yes."
"A little more and you shall be deemed a fanatic, nephew," the Archmaester shook his head.
"A pagan," the Prince corrected calmly. "It is not the same thing. In any case, Harrenhal now belongs to me. Truth be told, Viserys and I thought that a Prince of the House of the Dragon cannot be the master of a castle bearing the name of an irreconcilable foe of our dynasty. It had to be renamed: now I am the Prince of the Dragon's Heart and Warden of the Smoky Vale."
"And a vassal of the Tullys, I presume?"
"Under no circumstances. The Tullys helped us greatly during the war, and my brothers and I are most grateful to them, but a Targaryen cannot be a vassal to a Great Lord. Viserys bought out the seignorial rights to the entire fief for a hundred thousand gold dragons, and the Strongs were granted lands in the Stepstones in exchange, along with the portion that would have gone to Harwin. They shall build a castle there no worse than Driftmark."
"And Lord Tully shall raise walls of pure gold for himself?"
"And Essosi jewels shall shine upon the towers, yet he is still displeased. And, in fairness, he is not alone: as the whisperers report, Lord Borros Baratheon fears that the Iron Throne shall demand he yield the entire Kingswood. The dispute over hunting rights hath already occurred, so his fears are not entirely groundless. Another matter is that Viserys hath little need for those wilds. In short, I now have a fief and soon shall have a wife. Have you not begun to envy me, Uncle?"
"Oh, indeed," the Archmaester announced sarcastically. "All that is young rejoices in life, breeds, and multiplies, while all that is old dies."
"You are seven-and-forty; fear the gods, what old age?"
"Not old age, but death nonetheless."
Vaegon sat beside his nephew and pulled the mask from his face, leaving it dangling at his neck. The cool autumn breeze playing among the branches pleasantly chilled his skin, which had grown sweaty beneath the metal. The Archmaester nervously rubbed his chin, gathered his courage, and confessed:
"Marlon will blab it out anyway, so I had best tell you myself. I have come to die. I have a growth in my belly. Only do not think to pity me! I have heard enough of others' lamentations; I am sick to the teeth of them!"
The nephew opened and closed his mouth like a fish pulled from the water. Surely he immediately began to sift through everything that had not yet vanished from his student years. The mournful shadow that had begun to cross his face quickly receded; his brows knit in a businesslike fashion upon the bridge of his nose, and his lips tightened into a thin line.
"Who hath examined you?" Aegon inquired.
"First Ronnel, you should remember him. I felt a pulling here," Vaegon explained and, inhaling, cautiously touched his belly on the left, slightly below the kidneys. "The probing caused pain, but not the fires of the Seven Hells (Peklo), of course. Not to be compared with those that tormented you before; I well remember how you suffered. I asked Marlon to re-check, and he agreed with the diagnosis. He insisted on a conclave headed by Cadwyl. Six agreed with Ronnel, but that half-wit Uthor deems I have merely problems with my stomach. He hath done everything but taste my dung! Though, Hell knows..."
"And what do the others say?"
"Nothing of sense. Death is inevitable, but I knew that much already. The Healing of Seventy-Seven Ailments advises cutting out the growth, but Cadwyl said that would kill me faster than the growth itself. The Valyrian scrolls advise applying pouches of sulfur and hot ash, mixed in a ratio of three to eleven. The ancient Yi Ti-ish recommend drinking an infusion of ginseng daily and eating simple fare, but they recommend that to everyone who wishes to live to a hundred years. Marlon regularly plies me with that foulness and treats me to boiled vegetables and boiled chicken."
"Will you permit me to examine you again?"
"What, right here?" Vaegon inquired acidly. The nephew answered with a reproving look and did not support the jest. "We shall see how you behave, boy. But clearly not today. I am weary."
"Shall I escort you?"
"I am not going to die this very moment, Aegon," the Archmaester cut him off, rising from the bench.
The words, perhaps, sounded a bit sharper than he would have liked, but he could not master his accustomed tone. He moved toward the exit of the godswood, and the nephew remained sitting, hands folded upon his cane. The hem of his grey robe rustled along the path strewn with river sand; the autumn wind hissed through the leaves. A throb started in his belly again, and Vaegon, grimacing, pressed a palm to his stomach, hoping thus to quiet the "second heart" that had awakened in an improper place.
It would be a fine jest if he died on the very first day of his return, and in his old nursery room at that.
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