They returned to King's Landing in different moods: Aegon consoled himself that an old knot had finally been untied; Dennis looked excessively thoughtful; Vermithor was upset by the forced separation from Silverwing. To Driftmark the three dragons flew together, and over the island itself, it cost the Prince great effort to keep the Bronze Fury on the old course—so strongly did he not wish to leave his mate.
Scarce having arrived at the Red Keep, Aegon hastened to present himself before the King to give a report. In time free from affairs of state, Viserys carved a model of the Valyrian City from limestone in his chambers; the table on which stood turrets, palaces, arenas, and their blanks was covered in a thick layer of white dust, the waste of production; here his brother trusted the cleaning to not a single living soul, and in the evenings one could observe a marvelous picture: the King of the Seven Kingdoms, armed with a rag, personally brushing dust from his little houses, whilst servants armed with brooms swept it from the floor.
This time Aegon discovered his brother in the same place; Viserys sat without a crown, bareheaded and wrapped in a silken robe before his creation, fixing his gaze upon it, but scarce noticing anything. In his hands, he twisted Aemma's ring, which fit perhaps only on his little finger.
"Viserys," the Prince called to him. The other started and nearly dropped his small treasure.
"Ah, Aegon. Returned?"
"As you see. I have fulfilled the Crown's obligation to the Velaryons."
"Is that so? And whom did you give them?" the King asked with indifference.
"Silverwing."
"Grandmother's dragoness."
"Yes. She is smaller than Vhagar, far less dangerous, and peaceful as much as a dragon can be peaceful. This is a good way out of our situation."
"Good, well done," nodded Viserys, turning back to the table.
Aegon stood behind him, pursing his lips for a time, thinking whether this could be considered permission to withdraw. Were the King not his brother, all would be obvious; fortunately, all was the opposite, and the Prince asked bluntly:
"If you are mourning Aemma and Baelon, I shall leave."
"No, wait," it seemed the other waited for these words. "Stay, I need advice. The advice of a smart brother, not a smart councilor."
Aegon walked deeper into the room and climbed with his feet onto a convenient ottoman; adjusting the pillows, he tried with his whole appearance to demonstrate readiness to listen. Viserys did not begin immediately.
"Why did no one tell me it is so hard?"
"What exactly? Being King?"
"Making decisions. Choosing. Choosing between the realm and family. Choosing between a brother and a daughter."
"Because in making correct decisions lies your duty," answered Aegon, after a short silence. "In this lies the whole essence of power—in making decisions."
"I sent Daemon to the Vale. Is this a correct decision?"
"I do not think he was glad of it."
"Oh no."
"But it was inevitable. Many heard rumors of... his words. And who commands the Gold Cloaks now?"
"Formally he does. Actually Ser Harrold."
"A white cloak with gold lining?" the Prince chuckled. "A beautiful combination."
"Everyone expects that in three months, when the mourning ends, I shall name the heir. Exalt one relative and deprive another," Viserys smiled mirthlessly. "Now I understand why Grandfather gathered the Great Council."
"He wished to avoid responsibility," nodded Aegon. "You understand that if you gather it again, in the eyes of the lords we shall look weak? The second King in a row summons his vassals so that they themselves decide who will be heir to the Iron Throne. For a dragon, there is no greater folly than asking the opinion of sheep. You do not intend to do this."
"No."
To hear this was gratifying to Aegon: it was not the first time they spoke of this, not the first time they discussed the Great Council at Harrenhal—no longer from the point of view of a claimant and his party, but from the point of view of the King and his councilor, from the point of view of the existing order of rule. That meant Uncle Vaegon's conversations and letters sent to the elder nephew had done their work.
"But this does not mean I know whom to choose," Viserys cast out irritably, dropping one of the turrets onto the table. "What would you have done, were you in my place?"
Aegon nearly told him he would not have exhausted his wife with childbirths, but bit his tongue in time.
"Fortunately, I am not in your place," he said instead.
"That is not the answer I wish to hear."
"Because I have none," shrugged Aegon. "Daemon is a man, a warrior, rider of Caraxes the Blood Wyrm, who participated in battles when we still shat in swaddling clothes. He is popular in the capital—whatever your Otto says, the smallfolk love those thanks to whom they live more calmly, and Daemon thinned out the bandits well. You and I know him like no other: Daemon is smart, though he is not smarter than me, and wrathful, though he is far from Maegor, whatever Otto sings in your ear. He is willful, ambitious, narcissistic, and wants a place that would be worthy of him."
"He aims high," said Viserys dryly.
"Not without that. But remember yourself six years ago. Did you aim high at Harrenhal?"
"And Rhaenyra?"
"Rhaenyra is a girl. The Harrenhal oath, age, and the duty of a wife to submit to a husband play against her. Her age and the fact that she is a girl play for her. It is easier for her to charm lords, she is but twelve—she can still be taught to rule. With Daemon this is useless, you know. He will listen to no one unless he wishes it himself."
"You mean to say she is not so hopeless?" Viserys drawled doubtfully.
"Almost. Lords will be confused by her sex, saying it is not fitting for a dragon to spin. Daemon, despite all his flaws, is a far more understandable figure. Albeit not the most convenient, but remember with what margin you won at Harrenhal."
"Twenty to one. Tell me, as a man of law, tell me: who has more rights?"
Aegon laughed briefly and straightened the hems of his doublet:
"I am no man of law, my brother. In my unclosed chain there are more copper links than steel."
"And yet you received a link for laws."
The Prince sighed heavily. Only the Gods knew how much he did not want to answer this question and how much he tried to avoid it.
"Strictly speaking, I do not consider the decision of the Harrenhal Council binding you to choose something. Grandfather promised in advance to recognize the lords' choice, but he could have not done so, because the appointment of an heir is the King's prerogative. Lords cannot decide for him, else it would be a usurpation of royal rights, but they can advise. The Council said its word, and Jaehaerys took it into account. He could have not taken it into account: the royal will, expressed in proper form, is law for all his faithful subjects. Do you understand me?"
"I am not stupid, Aegon," Viserys took offense.
"But what if? As for the sex of the heir, here Grandfather followed established tradition. Aenys named Aegon the Uncrowned his heir, and not his sister-wife Rhaena, though she was older. From the point of view of law, Aegon the Second was succeeded by his brothers, not his daughters. Jaehaerys himself did not recognize either Princess Aerea or his own daughter Daenerys as his heir, and after Uncle Aemon's death, without any Great Council, named Father heir."
"Then what hindered him from acting likewise with me?"
"Old age," shrugged Aegon. "Old age and indecision."
"That is, you consider that I should name Daemon heir?" the King asked again gloomily.
"I consider that you cannot so casually deprive Daemon of his hereditary rights just because he took it into his head to blurt out something wrong while drunk."
The brothers fell silent. Viserys still twisted his late Queen's ring in his hand, and Aegon calculated in his head how to smooth over the conflict brewing between the brothers. Initially, the question of choosing an heir did not stand: Viserys was ready to name Daemon Prince of Dragonstone again, but these foolish, drunken, careless words about an heir for a day spoiled everything. If one thought on it, herein lay the whole nature of the middle brother: not to care what opinion is formed of him, not to care for others' words, as well as for his own. Scarce had the Prince thought of others' words than a thought came to his head, now seeming obvious to him:
"Remind me, and who spoke of the heir for a day?"
"Daemon," Viserys cast out gloomily. "You heard yourself."
"That is just it, no. You and I did not hear this."
His brother shifted a heavy gaze to him:
"He said this before a dozen captains and sergeants of the City Watch."
"And who reported to us?"
"Do you think I remember?"
"So let us ask. It is never too late to conduct one's own inquiry. Summon Jaegaer, say, Harwin Strong and someone else, for certainty. Ask what they heard and in what circumstances."
For the first time, the brothers looked into each other's eyes so seriously. It was hard to dissuade Viserys from something he sincerely believed, but the further Aegon reflected, the more this whole story seemed distorted and invented to him. Finally, the King nodded grimly, summoned Ser Harrold, and charged him to bring three Gold Cloaks.
While the brothers sat in waiting, neither uttered a word. Viserys finally paid attention to the tools lying before him and returned to carving toy Valyrian houses. Aegon, leaning back on the pillows, thought. If Daemon's words were distorted, it means Viserys will not have the main reason for the quarrel—the insult to the little Prince Baelon. Perchance then he will manage to separate personal tragedy from the pressing question of succession, and will make a decision as befits a King: with a sober head, detached from all emotions, proceeding from the best good for the state. If Daemon truly said those very words, then this too, in the end, will contribute to the resolution of the crisis—Viserys will finally be convinced that the Rogue Prince is truly rogue, and Lord Otto and his minions are right calling him a new Maegor. For some reason, at the thought that Lord Otto would prove right, Aegon shuddered.
Time flew quickly, and a knock came at the door of the royal chambers.
"My Sovereign, they have arrived," reported Ser Harrold.
"Let them enter one by one," ordered Viserys, setting aside the chisel.
"And let them leave through different doors," Aegon hastened to add.
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard nodded, went out, and entered again with Jaegaer. The cousin, in armor and with a gold cloak over his shoulder (evidently, he was stopped while going out on patrol), appeared before them with an air extremely wary and distrustful. The former Volantene Aeksio undoubtedly noticed the stern royal expression on Viserys's face and, orienting himself in time, offered a bow:
"Your Grace. My Prince."
"Greetings, cousin," it was worth admitting that a strict sovereign came out of Viserys no worse than a gracious sovereign. "We wish to ask you a question and expect to hear an extremely honest and detailed answer. I promise, your answers will not reflect on your fate and place at our court."
"I am at the Sovereign's service," nodded the Ser.
"Tell me then, where were you on the night after Prince Daemon's victory at the tourney?"
"Together with him. On the Street of Silk, in some brothel. I do not recall the name, but I can find it. A young Lyseni keeps it. Mysa, it seems."
"Mysaria," corrected Aegon, who had heard from his brother about the successor to Nerra's business.
"Yes, Mysaria."
"And were you there long?"
"Until dinner, Your Grace."
"How did you learn of my son's death?"
"Toward morning a guard from the Red Keep found us. He told Cousin... Prince Daemon that Queen Aemma had passed away, as had Prince Baelon."
"And what did our brother do then?" clarified Aegon in the calmest tone.
"He gathered us all in one room and ordered cups raised to his nephew."
"Are these his exact words? Are you certain?" Viserys leaned forward.
"A-almost, My Sovereign. 'Let us drink in memory of the heir with whom the Gods gifted our King, albeit for one day.' Something like that."
"In what tone did he say this?" asked the Prince. "Joyful, sarcastic, gloating?"
"No, My Lord. Prince Daemon was grim of face. And, if I may..."
"Speak all as it is."
"I have not known him too long, but... I have never heard him speak ill of any of the kin, save perhaps the Bronze Bitch. Forgive me, I meant to say..."
"We also consider her a bitch, do not fret," chuckled Aegon. "So, it means our brother mourned his nephew?"
"Yes, we all drank a toast to his memory."
Viserys dismissed him with a silent nod and, scarce had Ser Harrold closed the second door behind him, inquired:
"Do you truly believe him?"
"I believe," Aegon admitted honestly. "You would not believe how scrupulous Jaegaer is in matters of brotherly relations. Furthermore, there is no sense for him to shield Daemon—he received the place, of course, through his patronage, but, let us be honest, I secured the place at court for him. If you do not believe him, let us ask Ser Harwin."
But Breakbones too, not too embarrassed by royal attention, repeated Jaegaer's version, save perhaps in other words. Ser Luthor Largent, though he remembered that day poorly—the wine was strong, and the whore marvelously skillful—confidently declared that even dead drunk he would have managed to recognize a malicious joke of the Commander:
"How many of them I have heard, Your Grace! In Hell you hear one, and still you laugh. Tear out my tongue if I lie, but the Prince did not gloat."
Having heard all three witnesses, Viserys pondered.
"Do you still doubt?" clarified Aegon.
"They were all drunk."
"And was he not drunk who told you of this? By the by, who was it?"
"Otto. No one else had the courage to tell me of this," said Viserys joylessly.
"And you truly believed him?" the Prince was sincerely surprised. "He cannot abide Daemon. Furthermore, he knows this from others' words."
"He said it was a reliable man."
"Well, that means not very reliable. Either they lied to him, or he lied himself, and I, frankly speaking, do not know which of this is worse. The first betrays incompetence, the second reeks of treason."
"Otto Hightower is our faithful servant," Viserys rapped out. "He was presented with incorrect information. Someone, likely, heard of his enmity with Daemon and decided to profit from this. Everyone makes mistakes, Aegon. This is not an indicator."
"Yes, my brother, everyone makes mistakes. Even Kings."
The Sovereign sniffed irritably; few know how to admit they are wrong, even harder is it for Kings to do so. Aegon knew that inwardly Viserys was glad that this turned out to be mere slander—the brother loved Daemon, and discord between him and a trusted advisor, almost a friend, was unpleasant to him.
"And what do you propose I do?" muttered the brother displeasedly. "Send him a raven? 'Forgive me, I realized you were slandered'?"
"If you do not wish to write—do not," said Aegon conciliatorily. "It would not hurt you both to cool down and think everything over with a cold head. But do not forget to send him a raven when you decide to name an heir. Especially if he is the heir."
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