Hi guys! Sorry I kept you waiting for the second chapter, but here it is eventually! I do hope you will enjoy it, feel free to leave reviews if you have anything to say. Please, if you have an FF account, review with it so I can answer you directly, it is much simpler (: I'd like to apologize for chapter 1, which was quite plain, but I had a problem with the italics... This one should be easier to read — maybe not, I don't know, so tell me!
About chapter 2 itself, I found it quite hard to write through Aegon's point of view, as Martin described him through Jon Connington's. I hope you will understand the choices I made, as I made with Sansa in chapter 1. Hope you'll enjoy it!
THE CONQUEROR
«How much longer will I have to wait?» Aegon asked. Only silence greeted his question. Jon Connington remained quiet, standing on the threshold of his chambers. The boy wondered wether he had no real answer for him or did not want to tell it was still too early. Did it matter, anyway? Aegon knew he would have to go on hiding from the rest of the world while Jon and the Golden Company were winning battles. It felt so strange: weren't they supposed to fight in his name? He had been the one to turn them toward Westeros when the only thing Jon had in mind was Meereen...and Daenerys.
I am no beggar. Aegon thought about Tyrion, and wondered what the dwarf had become. Somehow he knew he was still alive — dwarf luck, it seemed — but where was he? The boy would have needed Tyrion's counsels right now. But the only person he could speak to was Jon, and the griffin was far too stubborn for a proper argument. Aegon already knew what the knight would say when he ask about revealing his true identity, or at least just be allowed to follow him into battle: «Too dangerous.» But what kind of man will I become if I have never fought? Will anyone want to swear allegiance to a green boy?
Aegon sighed. He looked over his shoulder to the door, but Jon had vanished. Even when they were still Griff and Young Griff, there had been no real talk between the two of them. Aegon had grown accustomed to it: the knight was one of the best with a sword, but he found words much harder to handle. So the boy had learned to keep his questions for himself, or seek Lemore for answers. Lemore had always been there for him. Though she was a queer septa, she was the closest thing to a mother he had ever had. Her words were wise and comforting, and she understood him. Aegon wondered what kind of past was hers, but she would always avoid talking about it so he knew better than to insist.
Suddenly the warmth of the chambers was more than he could bear. Crossing the room with long steps, he went to the window and pushed the shutters wide open. Light and wind along rushed in more violently than he had expected. Putting a hand over his brow to allow his eyes to adapt to such brightness, he leaned upon the window. The sky was heavy with huge white clouds, promising snow for the days to come. Aegon felt thrilled: he had never seen snow. He had asked Lemore and Duck about it: how big were snowflakes? did snow have a taste? Somehow he felt stupid asking all those questions, but his curiosity was never quenched. There was no place in Essos where the weather could be that cold, at least where they had been with Jon. All he had ever experienced was crushing sun, constant dampness and pouring rain. But this was completely different: he could never have guessed how it felt to be clenched into the freezing fist of the wind, or how delightful a warm fire could be after a day out in the cold. And there was no better place for this than Storm's End.
From his window, Aegon could see the whole camp beneath the castle. There were thousands of tents, all of them lined up in rows and separated by graveled alleys. A moat had been dug all around, and as if it was not enough, stakes had been raised across it. It had not been easy, as there was no nearby forest: the stormlands were only hills and stone cliffs beaten by a constant wind rushing from the sea. But as Harry Strickland had insisted, a hundred men had left with what remained of boats and elephants to seek for wood in the nearby forests. Aegon wondered if they had left any forest behind them, regarding of the innumerable stakes that surrounded the camp...But at least Homeless Harry had stopped asking about more defense, so it felt worthy.
Amongst all the men of the Golden Company the boy had met, the captain-general was the one he liked less. Maybe he had been influenced by Jon, who appreciated the man no more than he did, but Harry Strickland seemed far too cautious for a leader of such a company. He had it for him that his caution had kept him alive for many years, but Aegon thought of him as a coward more than anything. He had learnt that the man's favorite word was wait, and that was something neither him or Jon could do. Surely because they had been waiting for sixteen years... Now was the time to act.
The rest of the day went by, but not with the least sign of sun peering through the clouds. Night fell upon Storm's End, along with the evening wind coming from the sea: it was an even stronger one, damp and heavy with the smell of salt. It rushed inside the castle walls, howling like a hundred ghosts and blowing every single candle. From the camp rose the sound of thousands of banners flapping noisily. Men gathered around what little fire they managed to feed, clothed in layers of fur to keep both cold and dampness at bay. Aegon himself donned a thick doublet of black wool showing a three-headed dragon. He felt pride fill him as he looked at his reflection in the mirror. The blue dye he had been using for years to conceal his silvery hair was entirely gone by now, and without the crushing sun of the Rhoyne, his skin had become almost bone-white. It seemed as if his eyes had also turned more purple, once rid of the heavy mass of blue hair upon his brow. The prince smiled. No one could deny him being a Targaryen.
A big fire burned inside the hearth inside the great hall, smoke rising toward the darkened roof. Trestles had been raised but the benches were empty, except from those upon the dais where Jon Connington and the captains of the Golden Company were having dinner. Aegon noticed the lord-chair had remained free, the black-and-gold cushion on it untouched. He stared at the griffin, not entirely sure the place was meant for him, until the knight waved a hand towards it. That gave him confidence, so he sat. Aegon VI Targaryen, Lord of Storm's End, he thought, a thin smile spreading across his lips. But instantly a voice inside his head corrected: King of the Seven Kingdoms. Strange how it sounded exactly like Jon... The smile faded, replaced by a clench of jaws. King of the Seven Kingdoms, he repeated mentally. How could he possibly feel content with one castle, lost in the middle of an inhospitable land? He had to keep in mind that he was the one true heir to the Iron Throne. He was the only son of Rhaegar Targaryen, even more legitimate than Viserys had been as children went before brothers. His was the blood of the dragon.
But would he be able to stand proudly under such a heavy burden?
«My prince?»
Aegon emerged from his tormented thoughts and turned to face Jon. The griffin seemed to notice the sprinkles of distress in his purples eyes, and frowned as if asking if something was amiss. As the boy managed to produce a smile, the knight went on:
«I believe it is time for us to decide which way to choose.» His voice was deep and solemn, a voice to fade laughter in the happiest minds. «We won Storm's End when it was known to be impregnable. We shook Stannis where he thought he would be safe. Victory walks with us, and I say we act before she decides to leave. Where will we strike next?»
A score voices bursted around the table, each man talking to the ones next to him. Aegon heard the words sellswords loved most, battle, victory, blood, gold, along with hundred names of cities great and small. Some said Summerhall had to be next, for it had once been a Targaryen castle; others argued about Blackhaven, bolder ones about Ashford. The great hall had become a giant hive, with what seemed a thousand voices echoing on the walls, until Jon cut through with his impressive voice. «Enough.» he said, and every single sound faded. Aegon could not help but admire such presence. All turned to listen to the griffin.
«I can understand how eager you are to return to the battlefield. But we have not come back all this way to fight and plunder until a rich house decides to hire the company. What we are about to do is completely different: we will raise a king.» With those words, Jon stared right into Aegon's eyes. The boy felt his heart bounce in his chest as growls of approval rose amongst the sellswords. «The stormlands were just the beginning. As we speak, the Lannisters are losing the Iron Throne: soon the Usurper's Queen will be sent on trial to answer for her crimes, and I received words that the Kingslayer was nowhere to be found. Once they fall, Stannis will be too weak to rush to King's Landing, leaving only the Tyrells in the capital.»
Homeless Harry cleared his throat: «But what about the boy king? He might be the fruit of some disgusting incest but I doubt the Tyrells will abandon him. Knowing he is married to the rose's daughter, they would not give up a chance to rule the Seven Kingdoms in their stead...»
Feeble Harry Strickland, thought Aegon. The captain-general would sooner have them all back to Essos, hired by some wealthy triarch in Volantis, he knew. Or maybe he considered that too dangerous as well.
«The Tyrells will surely want to rule, but without the Lannister boy.» The self-confidence in the griffin's voice left no choice for Strickland but to stop talking. «They will sit the Iron Throne, until they are forced to leave it or let Highgarden be taken.»
All around the table men exchanged confused looks. Aegon knew none of them would dare speak against Connington, fearing they might seem craven. But attacking the major city of the Reach was hazardous: House Tyrell had numerous allies, fierce and loyal bannermen who would not hesitate to raise arms to defend their lich lord — and they were ten thousands sellswords. The prince found himself thinking about how many men from the Golden Company would turn their cloak if defeat was upon them. The uncertainty frightened him, so he tried to focus on something else.
But what? His whole life was being planned right now, and hardly had a word to say about it. He had thought about taking other cities in the Reach, though never Highgarden. It seemed to him that all this was about killing time until Daenerys eventually came back to Westeros, but they had been waiting for months already... Aegon had learned about her disappearance, and often wondered where she was. He had been told about her incredible beauty, the strength in her voice and the unending list of titles she had. But somehow he did not desire her anymore: they had been delaying their wedding for years, and it was slowly vanishing in his mind. He would surely never marry his aunt — but he would be the first Targaryen to wed someone else than a dragon.
«What about Dorne?»
Aegon's determined voice cut through the noise like a dagger through silk. Everyone stopped talking, and two scores eyes stared at him. The boy glanced to his right, waiting for Jon to say something, but the griffin only frowned.
«Would you have us attack Dorne, my Prince?» Homeless Harry asked. «Your mother —»
«I do not want to raise arms against the Dornishmen», he said before the captain-general could say more. «I have not forgotten who my lady mother was, therefore I suggest that we seek allies in Dorne. I have no doubt my uncle Prince Doran will be most pleased to hear about me. If our informers can be trusted, he had sent his own son Quentyn to Meereen, but Quentyn died, burnt by Daenerys' dragons.» He paused, enjoying the sparkles of curiosity that enlightened his audience's eyes. «Daenerys refused to marry my cousin, so he made an attempt to tame one of her dragons. He was a fool, but Daenerys was even more foolish not to accept an alliance with Dorne. Now that Quentyn is dead, I doubt my uncle will be eager to talk terms with her again. That will be our chance: Doran will never deny me being Elia's son, and if he does want to avenge her, he will not hesitate to support our cause. House Martell and Dorne will be with us.»
Silence greeted his speech. Men gnawed on it, their inner self torn between the glory they would recover with this alliance and the obvious loss of time the travel to Sunspear meant. Aegon was thinking about finding something else to say to convince them, but it was surprisingly difficult... The green boy arousing the grown men with promises of a harsh journey toward a potential ally. How ridiculous was that?
As he was about to speak, Jon smashed his cup on the table, spilling wine all around him. «Aegon is right.» His fierce blue eyes ran over the audience. «We cannot wait any longer for Daenerys to turn up with her dragons. Victory will be with us if we move now. Dorne will be our destination: Doran Martell will be delighted to learn that his nephew is alive, and even more to learn it means he will not have to deal with the woman who caused his son's death.» The griffin turned to face Aegon. Could he possibly be smiling? «Our prince has more of Rhaegar in him, when Daenerys has more of Mad Aerys. The Martells will not deny it.»
Cheers echoed all over the great hall, as the boy's heart pounded wildly in his chest. He could feel the blood beating against his temples, excitement raising gooseprickles on his neck. A moment later every single man around the table was shouting his name, two scores of deep and powerful voices calling Aegon, Aegon, King Aegon. How was it possible that he was this boy they were all so eager to die for? Somehow he felt as if he was watching the scene with stranger eyes, and he wanted so desperately to sing along, to cheer this king-to-be. It could not be himself. He was not worth all this, not worth their lives. It could not be himself.
Aegon felt a strong hand squeezing his shoulder. Jon was leaning over him, his lips curved upwards in what meant a smile for the griffin. Sparkles enlightened his blue eyes, a blend of joy and inspiration and most of all, pride. Pride in what his Yound Griff had turned out to be. Pride in the Aegon he was little by little raising to be the king. The boy bit his lower lip. He felt torn between the delights of the adventures to come — long travel roads, battles, the clamor of steel against steel — and the obvious burden Jon was gradually putting on his shoulders. He wanted so dearly to keep this pride going, but could he? Would he be tasting failure sooner than he had expected? Would those blue eyes be tainted with disappointment then?
Somehow it was more than he could stand for the night. As the captains were enjoying a newly-opened cask, Aegon left the hall, half walking-half running toward the back door. When the voices became no more than whispers behind him, he rushed through the galleries, down innumerable stairs, turning around unknown corners, until finally he reached the exit. It was obviously a servant doorway, plain and massive, such a heavy thing Aegon had to smash his shoulder against to open it. The cold seized him unannounced. Then the wind came blowing along, with terrible howls and the flapping of a thousand banners. The boy walked from the door, no more than a few steps, clutching his doublet helplessly to keep the cold at bay. White mist rose with each breath and swirled quickly away. Again he walked, but faster. His steps became quicker, his heart beat wilder. By the time he reached the moat, he was not cold anymore. A strange warmth was rising inside his chest, creeping up his neck to his face, and filled his mouth whenever he breathed. It felt so comfortable, like a nest of furs or a mother's embrace would be. He didn't know about the last one, and would never... But there was no sadness in his mind right now. Right now he enjoyed the fire spreading in his lungs. Right now he wondered what it felt to be a dragon, and thought he was not far from it. Then it occurred to him: he was a Targaryen. He was a dragon.
Suddenly something lightly touched his cheek. It was too short for him to understand, but it had felt cold. He looked to the pregnant sky. That was when he saw it: snow falling over the castle. Thousand snowflakes pouring without a sound, swirling along the fickle wind and melting on the muddy ground. All so very silent. All so very delicate.
It was all Aegon could do not to laugh. He laughed loudly, freely, like he had not been laughing for years. Lifting his hands over his head, he tried to catch snowflakes, but they melted between his fingers. He did not care. This moment was just too wonderful to ruin it with disappointment. He went on, laughing and running across the yard, snow gathering in his silvery hair. Had he ever feel so light and free? Free from all the responsibilities the others were so eager to give him?
A crystal-clear laughter echoed behind him. Aegon turned around abruptly, half ashamed he had been seen enjoying the newly discovered snow. But it was no stranger face: only beautiful Lemore, all clad in her white robes. The cold had turned her cheeks red, but she looked as if she did not care. Aegon smiled, and the septa smiled back, enlightening the yard with her only presence.
«I felt the same the first time I saw snow,» she said, «maybe even more excited! I ran through Oldtown until my feet hurt so much I could not walk any further. The older septas looked for me all day long, and when they did found me, I was smacked so hard I bore the marks for days. But I didn't care, I had seen snow.»
The boy opened his mouth, but found no words. He had not known about Lemore's childhood. He had always wondered what kind of past was hers, but had always been afraid to ask. And suddenly she was talking about it so freely it felt queer somehow. Did the snow moved her as much as it did him? Did it uncover memories the way a hand sweep dust from an old book? Oldtown. Aegon had seen it on the maps he had been studying for years, and wondered what it looked like.
«Will you take me to Oldtown when we return from Dorne?» he asked.
Somehow her face turned solemn. «It won't be necessary,» she said. «I will not be the one to take you there, for Oldtown will be yours, then. The Seven Kingdoms will be yours. A king does not ask a septa to guide him through the tortuous alleys of Oldtown.» Then her smile crept back across her lips. «Even less a septa like me.»
Aegon smiled. But sadness had settled between Lemore and him. She was — like all the others — reminding him of what awaited him in the horizon. He looked at the heavy clouds above their heads, and the snow falling lightly over Storm's End. There was no time for such untroubled moments of simple happiness. He wasn't Young Griff, enjoying fishing in the Rhoyne, training with wooden swords. Not anymore. He was Aegon VI, true heir to the Iron Throne, and every one would be reminding him of it in case he forgot himself.
Aegon VI Targaryen, the only son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. How many men had died for his father? How many for him? How many would die to allow him through this game of thrones?
Morning came without the sun. Only a feeble light stretched through the shutters when Aegon woke up, tired and weary, with not even a memory of climbing back from the yard to his chambers. He jumped from the bed to the window, and let the light in. Down below the camp was stirring: tents were being folded, wains were being filled with weapons and sacks and casks. Men already clad in armors walked all around, shouting and rushing to get prepared in time.
Aegon did not understand immediately what it meant. The only thing he could think about was the snow the sellswords had been stamping since dawn, leaving only mud where a soft white carpet had been.
The door opened violently behind him, making him start. Jon appeared on the threshold. For a moment they both look at each other in silent and incomprehension.
«You are not ready,» the griffin said. Aegon wondered if it was a question.
«Why are the men leaving?»
«We are heading for Sunspear, my prince,» he said in a very solemn voice. Aegon hated it when Jon spoke to him this way. He considered him his father, not a liege lord... «As you suggested so wisely last night.»
The boy could not hide his surprise. He had not expected to be leaving so soon. He wanted to say something, but found nothing clever. «Alright,» he stuttered, «I... I will get prepared.»
«Fine. Join us in the yard as soon as you are ready.»
Jon vanished as quickly as he had come. Aegon sighed. His future was close, and there was no way he could escape from its embrace. The burden would soon be upon his shoulders, he knew.
He donned a woolen doublet, high riding boots and a heavy black cloak with dragon-shaped clips. It would be a long journey through the Reach, and the weather would not be clement. Somehow he wondered if it would be the same in Dorne. Did it snow in Sunspear at this very moment? He doubted it, but he had been told this winter would be like no other one. Anything could be expected...
When he stepped through the main door to the yard, there were only a few tents left where thousands had been. A young lad came closer, bowed deeply and lend him the reins of a huge black stallion. Aegon looked at the horse apprehensively, then climbed on the saddle hoping it would obey. He was afraid to look a fool atop such a beast, but he found the stallion queerly easy to ride. Spurring it lightly, he trotted to Jon and Homeless Harry supervising the departure. From the hill Storm's End was onto, they could see the road unfolding, and the men who had been leaving sooner to scout ahead. A few rays of sun stretched from behind the clouds, enlightening the grey landscape. Aegon breathed deeply, his heart bouncing inside his chest. All around him men in armor were waiting for the signal to leave, standing in lines and holding the banners of the Golden Company. It was too soon for the Targaryen banner, he knew, but the time would come when the three-headed dragon would fly above his army. The time would come when, like Nymeria, he would unleash his dragon and be called the Conqueror.