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A Dragon in Chains

Chapter 7

Three months later…

He was coming back with a quarter of his people either dead or incapacitated. That had been the harshest war the Golden Company had fought ever since he had unofficially taken the lead from Bittersteel. Actually, he wasn't sure whether it had not been the harshest war since the very founding of the Golden Company. Those blasted Myrish had somehow caught wind of Tyrosh and Pentos' plans to unite against them and had managed to make a contract with both the Second Sons and the Bright Banners. The Golden Company surpassed by far both of those but it could not take them both at the same time. Actually, the fact that the fallen and wounded ones were only a quarter of his army was the best testament to Haegon's military genius. He should feel damned proud for saving so many of his men.

He didn't.

In the bright Essosi sun, he was cooking in his armour. His head throbbed. Fortunately, his helmet muted the curses and moans of his men. Still, each time he removed it to cool his face, they thundered at him, making him feel guilty and weak for bringing this upon his people.

Was it possible that it was what he was born for? Haegon Blackfyre… Haegon Targaryen, he should have been. He should have been enjoying now the comforts of King's Landing, leading victorious wars for the Seven Kingdoms' glory, instead of engaging in small but never ceasing skirmishes that bled his men. In these long days of riding back to Tyrosh, his hatred for those at King's Landing grew: the coward Aerys, the sorcerer Bloodraven, the kinslayer Maekar. One day, he would lead an army against them and crush them, as they should have been crushed twenty-five years ago, at Redgrass Field.

But it would take time. And now, he had to deal with moans and groans, and reforming of the men he still had left. In this moment, the task seemed monumentally hard. The worst thing was, even many of his officers didn't realize that they were lucky to have escaped with so many of their people alive and even winning some minor battles. The discontent within his ranks grew. He could feel it with his body. It was a real miracle that Pentos had managed to wield some support from a fourth sellsword company at the last moment.

When he saw the high spear of the Bleeding Tower in the distance, Haegon gave a long sigh of relief. They were finally home. As much as he detested it, as much as he told himself that his home was Maegor's Holdfast, he felt like going home – to Tyroshi's greed, to Bittersteel's nagging, to the bright colours that could make one's eyes ache. But it was home.

And Daella was there.

He had arranged in advance to have a few buildings fitted for the wounded ones' needs. Priests and women were already waiting to tend them. Those who could walk went there on their own. For the others, there were stretchers. The wounded, though, there were so many of them that a couple of hours passed before everyone could be taken inside. By then, the stretchers had turned red from the blood of all men they had supported. He stayed until he made sure that everyone had a pallet, a blanket and a jug of water. And left before a new wave of screams arose when the harsh treatment began. He had no desire to look at the maimed bodies, the severed limbs and those who needed to be severed now, before the rotting spread further in the bodies.

Terribly tired, Haegon headed for the structure that served as his home and the Golden Company's barracks. He wished for a hot bath and a night of decent sleep. He didn't even care about the meal.

"No," he said impatiently when he finally reached his chambers. "Leave it like this. You can finish the cleaning tomorrow."

The maid-servant who had been dusting off the things in the bedchamber promptly turned away to leave. The last rays of the dying sun fell across her profile, accentuating the chiseled features. Her hair hang in dirty locks but it was as dark as night. Haegon startled, recognizing her.

"Come here," he said.

Reluctantly, she did so, holding her head high. Haegon took in her dress of coarse beige linen, the gaunt face and the film of dust covering it, the limp hair, the darkening of her forearms by explosion to the sun, the corns on her hands and fingers. In fact, she had not been toiling harder than the other handmaidens, it was just that her inexperience had given her lots of small injuries that were hard to heal because she could not stop working. And the corns looked too visible against the overall smoothness of her previously pale skin. Anger and fierce protectiveness overcame him.

"Who dared?" he snarled, stunned and ashamed.

She laughed scornfully. "Can't you guess?"

He blushed. "I'll speak to Bittersteel, my lady. Meanwhile, you can have a bath and your finery. I will…"

"What about my aunt?" she interrupted. "What about my ladies?"

What has been happening here while I was away, Haegon wondered, furious. What has he been doing? He spun around.

"Wait," Daella called out.

He turned back. By now, he knew better than expect any gratitude of her. In her eyes, he was probably guilty about her current conditions, too: had he not decided to marry her, Bittersteel would have not tried to break her. "Yes, my lady?"

"They say…" For a moment, her voice faded. "They say my uncle is ill. Is it true? Do you know?"

"Is your father to become King soon, you mean?" he asked.

The young woman stared at him uncomprehendingly and Haegon startled. She cares about him. This coward, this weak semblance of a man – she loves him anyway.

"They say he's dying," he said bluntly.

Her head went back, as if he had slapped her. Her face went white. "They've been saying the same thing about Ser Aegor for years, yet he's still lingering," she shot back but there were tears in her eyes. Her grief panged him like very few things had ever done.

He left to make things clear with Bittersteel, thinking that he'd never know what he needed to do to see this concern in Daella's eyes when she was thinking about him.


The room stank of death. It was strange how Aelinor never noticed it in the long hours, days sometimes, that she spent here but when she left, even for an hour, it washed over her like a wave at her return. Maybe I've just become used to it, she thought. Sometimes, she lost count of the months and weeks since Aerys' illness had started progressing to the last stage.

There were a few candles left but they did little to diffuse the twilight in the royal bedchamber. Aerys was in his bed, half-propped against pillows, for he could not take breath otherwise. Even without looking at him, Aelinor knew his face was waxy. His arms were hidden by the bedcover – he was always cold now, despite the fact that it was so hot in the room that Aelinor immediately felt her blood rising in protest. Maekar was just placing a hot stone near Aerys' feet before returning to the chair he and Aelinor had been sharing for the last weeks. Aerys would never say it but it was clear that he felt better when it was one or the other of them attending him, so they took turns, from supporting his head to drink to helping him remove his nightclothes for his natural body functions.

Aelinor came near the bed. Each step was a torture but she tried not to show it. "It's too dark," she said. "Do you want me to light more candles? You cannot read in this darkness."

Aerys shook his head, very slightly. Her heart fell to her heels. Aerys not wanting to read? The end was so, so very near. She sat down on the bed and took his hand, unwilling to make Maekar rise from his chair to give it to her. Then, she looked at him. "Go to sleep," she said. "Or you will fall asleep in your saddle tomorrow."

"I am fine," he said but he did not sound convincing because he wasn't.

Usually, candlelight was benign to people but not to him. Not tonight. The faint light illuminated the lines around his mouth and eyes, the slack skin of his face, the dulled glow of his violet eyes, the dark bags under them. The tension and lack of rest were claiming him. Aelinor shivered. We're getting old, she thought. They were, with all pains and sorrows of old age. Once, Maekar had been able to go on a couple of hours of sleep every night for weeks and then be completely adequate and in control in the day and even fight a battle but it was no longer so. Sure, he was still strong and vigorous, but he grew tired more easily and his strength and power of endurance were not what they had used to be. Blue veins protruded under his fair skin. Aelinor closed her eyes and suddenly wanted to weep. He would leave tomorrow to lead an army against the Greyjoys – and she was scared that he would not be up to it. He could lose. He could die. For the first time since he had started taking part in battles, she doubted his ability to pull it through. For the first time, his death looked like a real possibility.

"Have a rest," she said softly. "You don't look good. And you need every bit of strength you can muster. I'll take it from here."

He hesitated. Aelinor could only assume what a sight she was if he was so reluctant to let her resume her attending of Aerys.

"We heard from Tyrosh today," Maekar said and she listened intently. "Haegon returned. Daella, Daenerys, and the rest were given a bath immediately and their own gowns back. He's quite insistent that she marries him immediately."

Aelinor sighed with both relief and concern. She was pleased that her niece was finally getting a proper treatment and she was scared of what Haegon might do. She knew that Maekar shared her fears. He would not say it because somehow, that would make it more real and besides, their most immediate problem were the krakens. Daella has to wait, was all he had said that first and only time. Still, he needed to talk about her and Aelinor was always willing to listen, give him the little help she could. Not that it would assuage the guilt he was feeling, of course…

Finally, he rose from his seat. "I'll go to my chambers now," he said. "Will I see the two of you tomorrow?" he asked, although he knew Aerys would be sleeping under the effect of the milk of poppy.

"Most certainly," Aelinor said. In Aerys' absence, it fell to her to see the army off.

That was not what Maekar was asking, though. She pretended not to understand. She merely didn't have the strength to bear a bid of farewell right now and he didn't press her.

"If I don't see you tomorrow," Aerys said, "don't forget to bring a kraken if you come across one. The children will be thrilled."

Maekar smirked. "None of the children is named Aerys, as far as I know."

The King chuckled weakly. "You've caught me," he admitted. "Still, bring me one if you can. I've always wanted to see one."

"I will," Maekar promised and leaned over. Painfully, Aerys took his hand out from beneath the cover. The two hands – one so frail that it looked like it would break any moment now and the other strong, capable of killing with a single blow – touched.

"What a shame we were born in the wrong sequence," Aerys murmured and closed his eyes in an exhausted slumber.

Aelinor started to rise to see Maekar off to the door but he shook his head. "Stay where you are, for the Mother's sake," he said. "Don't overstrain yourself with caring for him while I'm away. Have someone help you. I'll come back as soon as I can."

"Just come back," Aelinor replied, not sure that she would be able to take it if she had to suffer one final loss. Because they both knew Aerys would die long before Maekar came back.