YOUNG GRIFF
On the morrow of his seventh nameday, when the roots of his Tyroshi blue washed away in the water of the Rhoyne, Griff once told him, "You are the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. Prince Aegon of House Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Elia Martell." In the murky waters of the river, Aegon saw himself for what he was. A Targaryen. An exiled Prince. And an orphaned boy.
Fom that moment he believed he would havep ursue his destiny, rally lords of Westeros, and launch a war against the Usurper. For his birthright. For his family. It seemed such a daunting thing to do but he always thought that he would be prepared once he was a man grown. Now, however, it seemed that his destiny decided to come first instead and untimely so, knocking be damned, barely with a warning beforehand.
He must admit to himself that he was anxious, sitting in his cabin like a minor lordling, instead of the Prince that he was meant to be- as Griff had repeated to him time and time again.
The crew of the Shy Maid had returned from their little scouting and reported sightings of a fairly large 'Andal' looking party flying two distinct banners, a golden rose on a green field and a gold spear piercing a red sun on an orange field. Two great houses. Two of eight. He wouldn't be so worried for his mother's house if it weren't for- no, it couldn't be-
"Stop fidgeting, Your Grace," said Griff, apparently, to little avail since he had to continue, "You are their rightful King, you must not grovel before them. Remember what I said to you."
"I most certainly do. But to be fair, before the missive, you cared not to mention that there could be any questions about my legitimacy, from my own family, no less." It wasn't fair toward Griff, he knew deep down. But he was still angry that it never occurred to him before.
Griff- Jon sighed tiredly at his words. Aegon refused to look away- growing guilts be damned. "One day, Aegon, you shall be King. From the sands of Dorne to the barren hinterland that is the North. People will see you as their King. Their beloved King. As it is only meant to be. I only pray that I could remain by your side by then. Yet it matters not. For the fulfillment of my promise to your father. To the oath I swore on his grave. It is you that matters. Not me."
"And what is it that's meant to be? A King will not be one with his legitimacy in question. What if Prince Oberyn doesn't recognize his kin in me? At best we will be left without the only two great houses that might be willing to support us with tens of thousands of swords! At worst-"
"The Golden Company is the best fighting force there is in all of Essos and Westeros, my prince." Beneath the roots of his red brows- shrouded in the remnants of Tyroshi blue, Aegon could see that Griff's eyes were not so bold as his words were.
"The Golden Company is a sellsword company. A foreign sellsword company that also needs a large fleet to be on Westerosi soil in the first place."
"Aegon, my prince, I apologize that I haven't prepared you for this as much as either of us wanted. But the moment of truth has come, here and now, and I swear this to you, Your Grace. I will die before they ride away without promising their allegiance to you."
"No! You will die when I command you to. And that is not today, Griff. I am sorry… I know that it's been difficult for you, too." And that's the truth of it, for those who inhabit the Shy Maid- little and few as they are, have been thrown into a frenzy- a madness of frustration and distress after the… news of the unexpected visit.
"My Prince," he nodded at him. Griff took his leave with the words, turning on his feet- muttering excuses and apologies as he claimed to need to seek Haldon, for matters Aegon knew not. It seemed that Magister Mopatis or one of Griff's men had insisted that the Tyrell-Martell party make an encampment at the agreed location nearby the ruins and sometime later 'stumble' upon their encampment a little up the river that was now being set up by their faithful crewmen.
"Griff!" he called out to the man just as he stepped below the doorway. The red-haired man halted in his steps.
"My Prince?"
"I….." want to tell you that I- "It's nothing."
"Then I shall take my leave. Your Grace," he bid him yet another goodbye, this time with a bow.
"You're selfish," he told the man. The words blurted out of his mouth all of a sudden. Aegon could hear the wooden floor of the ship creak at the stopping footsteps, the exact moment when it did. Jon's eyes were questioning. "What you said before. When you told me you wouldn't care whether you'd be by my side or not, so long as you fulfilled your promise to my father," the father I've never known- unlike… you, "You're selfish. You might not care- but I do. I care. I told you that you'll die when I commanded you to. That's not today. And that won't be. Not ever." Aegon loathed the wavering of his voice, yet he would loathe more to see Jon's face in reaction to his weakness. I am a Prince, I shall not be weak.
As if by the grace of the gods- in the shrouding shadows, Aegon couldn't make out the man's face. "I… apologize, Your Grace," he said. And then he left. And Aegon sat alone in the cabin that they had shared for countless nights.
He was young. But he was no fool. Griff had dressed himself in a lord's clothes. And himself, in a Prince's. Yet underneath the conviction that Griff desperately portrayed to him, Aegon knew he was as anxious as he himself was. He saw them- the little fidgets that Griff made, his eyes assessing him. Do I look like my father? Does he believe in me? Or does he see me… and disappoint?
Aegon's eyes lingered on the book sitting in the corner of his room. Rhoynish lores. Yet he had spent his life- most of his sailing up and down the Rhoyne. He was tired of it. And so he rose from his seat, his steps carrying him outside the little cabin that he called home for twelve… thirteen years?
The Rhoyne smells like home though, he thought. There was none on the deck save for Yandry, climbing atop of the roof, the rest working on the river's shore. If Aegon squinted, he would be able to make the shadowy figures of the ruined Ghoyan Drohe. The crumbling towers and roofless domes. A formerly proud city of the Rhoynar- until it was destroyed by the dragons. By Valyria. The blood of his mother… and that of his father. Aegon thought it was quaint, how the two went to war to such great extent in the past- with the Rhoynar ultimately perishing upon the Second Spice War. Yet now, their blood was inside him, both the Rhoyne and Valyria. His mother's and his father's. Should that- should he indeed… be true.
Aegon never recalled his mother. Or his father. Or his sister. All dead. All three lie beneath their graves. One slain on the bank of the Trident. And two… slain in their own chambers. I shouldn't be here, in all likelihood. Aegon didn't remember them. He only knew the stories- the words that Griff- Jon- no- Griff would tell him on a restless night of cloudless dusk. But Aegon would like to think that he knew them. That he dreamt them.
He didn't remember the Red Keep, either. Stronghold of impeccable defense built by the Targaryen Kings of Old. Griff would tell me that Maegor's Holdfast is impenetrable. But Aegon knew not that to be the truth. Lest he wouldn't be a boy- alone in a raggedy boat for all his life, far away from the land that he would like to call home. Land… of which he will reclaim for his family. I must, and I shan't falter. But he did dream of them, all the same. Of red bricks and red walls. He dreamt of dragon skulls. The dragons are dead, Haldon would chastise him. That to dream of dragons would be to reach the unreachable.
He dreamt of… a cat. Black cat. Poor, ugly, dirty little thing. One-eared, with the other torned. Filthy-faced. Often times the cat would hiss. And in the dark corridors, those eyes were seemingly red as blood. Yet just as often, the cat would come to him. To his fingers. Aegon didn't know why he dreamt of such things. Septa Lemore would tell him that dreams are gifts- yet also trials, sent by the Seven. A mystery to guide those who remain faithful, those who passed the trials. Haldon would tell a different story. He would tell that his ancestors survived the Doom of Valyria because of dreams. Griff, meanwhile… Griff would tell him of his father. His father and his prophecies. Aegon could see, could taste the distaste that dripped down Griff's words when he spoke of them. After a while, the dreams didn't leave- but he didn't tell. He kept them to himself. Much like the dream that he had the night before, a dream of green. Green light, black night. He told none of it.
Returning to earthly matters, he recalled information on the Westerosi party and the regions that their houses ruled, the information that was passed to them by the magister. Mopatis, Jon told him. His missive emphasized how crafty and daring was the stunt they pulled on the meeting with the Pentoshi merchant, a stunt worthy of tales. Two men from two houses with historical enmity, two men with enough ground for personal enmity, working together to make such a powerful man as Illyrio Mopatis to arrange a meeting with a hidden prince, the rightful King, the meeting with him.
The words regarding his uncle Oberyn were quite what Aegon expected. What he imagined of the man. The Red Viper of Dorne all the way, just like anyone who heard tales about him would expect him to act. Willas- Lord Willas Tyrell, however, was a figure he hadn't heard anything about before, save his heirly standing and crippled state, caused by the aforementioned Red Viper, no less. Yet the magister's letter brought an abundance of information on how Lord Willas's new ship designs and able politicking helped the Reach become ever richer and House Tyrell more powerful. He even said that the two had visited the Archon of Tyrosh just before coming to Pentos and expressed suspicion of the meeting being not strictly trade-related. A tale for another day.
And, of course, there were also Princess Arianne and Ser Garlan coming. His cousin and the brother of Lord Willas respectively. The latter is said to be squired for and knighted by the famed Blackfish. Tully. Together with the squireship and knighting of another Tyrell brother, Ser Loras- at the hands of Renly Baratheon, brother to the Usurper, they made an unnerving picture, he would admit to himself. For it raised a tangible concern about just how reliable House Tyrell could actually be. Griff would tell me the Tyrells are grasping opportunists, yet here they are- and not the others.
Griff would speak of the Tyrells with distaste. He would tell him that they were unfaithful- Mace Tyrell's claim of the only victory over the Usurper be damned. Aegon didn't know what to make of it. He agreed that Lord Tyrell's strategy was obviously flawed and shared some bitterness over the fact. But he thought that they wouldn't be able to afford to bargain. They mock my Uncle, the Beggar King… yet what difference stands between him and me? Beggars shan't be choosers… Haldon once told him- thank the Gods for sending an honest man to his small retinue. And at that moment, with the winds of the wetness of Rhoyne passing through his face- Aegon never felt more a beggar than he had ever been. For he would- could not afford to bargain. Not when two Great Houses came knocking and no one else.
No use to fret now. Breath in and out, like Griff liked to say, breath in and out. He must present himself a prince, no, the prince, the heir to the Iron Throne, the one who is owed fealty by their houses.
He wasn't feeling as confident as he wanted to but needs must, as they say. It turns out he has calmed himself just in time. He could see a shock of green and gold, orange and red in the distance, moving at a smooth pace. He drew a last breath in and out before jumping off the Shy Maid to go inside the compact pavilion the magister has provided and the crew has set up.
"Nervous, lad?" He heard a voice called out.
"Yandry," he greeted the man atop the roof. The old man with a warm smile. Aegon thought it was nice to see the raggedy, kind face of Yandry. "Of course I am. You see them, do you not?"
"Aye, a magnificent sight, I must admit. Green and gold and red and orange. Mother Rhoyne will be pleased. Ghoyan Drohe… alive again." Yandry was an Orphan of the Greenblood, coming home to the lands of his ancestors- the Rhoynar. He would speak of the wonders of the Rhoyne- of the Palace of Love and the sprawling cities. He would speak of Mother Rhoyne, and how she would look- forever and always upon her children, from beneath the water that surrounded them.
"I'm sure she will."
"You are unsure," Yandry told him, as if Aegon didn't know it himself. He knew more than any other of himself. Of the failure that threatened to overtake him. He thought of them with a clenched fist. "Look at the water. Tell me, what do you see?"
It was a queer thing, yet Aegon did, nonetheless. He leaned to the riverside, finding the water of the river flowing ever calmly. Aegon saw a boy of four-and-ten. The blood of the dragon, but a boy all the same. The purple eyes stared back at him. And in the leaden water, the purple seemed almost blue, a deep, dark shade of blue. It was a handsome face, Aegon must admit. Silver hair and purple eyes. Legacy of Old Valyria. His eyelashes jutted out from beneath his silver brows- they were long. Eyelashes that Duck had been gleeful enough to tease, for they made Aegon look like a girl, he had said. A pretty one. My eyes are purple and my hair is silver- I am the blood of the dragon- yet half of the Lyseni possessed the same look. So much for the tales of the fabled blood of the dragon.
Aegon looked closer. The face in the water did the same. Is this the face of a King? He asked, to whom he did not know. Aegon had seen no kings in his life. But he dreamt of them. Of Aegon the Conqueror- his namesake and the foremost of his forebears. The man had united a squabbling realm of Seven Kingdoms into one. Six, whispered the Dornish part he treasured inside. He forged for him a realm of fire and blood. And from the ashes of his Dragonfire, rose a realm so great and mighty. Westeros. That was what awaited him. Across the Narrow Sea. A Kingdom to forge. A Kingdom to unite.
"A Kingdom waits for you, Young Griff," Yandry told him amidst his musings. "Griff told me that it will be your destiny. Why do you hesitate?"
"I…. am a boy. How can I be a King if I am still a boy, Yandry? An orphan boy."
Yandry laughed at his question. "I am an Orphan of the Greenblood… coming home to his Mother. It kept calling me. The sea to home. And so I did. I crossed the sea that Nymeria crossed a thousand years ago. The wait is long, but I do return."
"So I shall wait? Is that it?"
"The Mother looks for her children. So long as the water flows, the water sees. This is not your home, lad, you know it in you. Beyond these ruins, beyond these desolations, there is a greater fate that awaits you."
"How could someone know their home if they never even know it?" Aegon asked the man.
"They couldn't," he answered, chuckling at his own words. "You will just need to see. There is a place for everyone in this world, lad. Good and bad. You will just need to find yours." Aegon nodded, only for Yandry to ask again. "Do you know who you are?" I am Prince Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar and Elia. He voiced it inside, but Yandry seemed to hear it even so, for the captain of the Shy Maid smiled at him. "Good. And I only pray that Mother River will guide you so."
"I hope so…" He inclined his head. "I shall go then."
"Good luck and show them what a good lad you are, Aegon. You have a good heart, always remember that." They almost never use his name but when they did, it was empowering, causing him to smile, just like now.
"Thanks, Yandry."
"When you're King!" he heard the shouting from behind him. "Never forget that kindness, you hear me?" Aegon didn't stop to turn around. But a smile did appear on his face. He nodded, not overly but enough that Yandry would be able to see. And with a fulfilled heart, he continued his steps.
Later on, he would take his place inside the pavilion, and after a firm pat, Griff went outside to greet the party. He had half a mind to ask the man, "Do I look like my father?", but he chose not to in the end. The fruits and refreshments were there, as adequate as they can be expected to, he hoped. They will certainly owe Illyrio a position in the Small Council should he indeed buy them the Golden Company's services. Another debt to pay, and I am not even King yet.
Griff waited for them outside. He stood there, clad in armor of plain silver, covered with a jet black half-cloak, clasped with a dragon brooch of dragonbone. Duck, meanwhile, stood by him, in leather-jack, unassuming, while donning a cloak of crimson red over his shoulder. He had the same wide smile plastered over his face as always. Aegon smiled back. It was small… a little thing, yet it meant much for him- for he found himself smiling back at the knight, a smile just as wide.
And then the horses were there, eight of them. He saw through a thin lace veil- the three men and one young woman descending from the beasts with the distinct bearing of high nobility. When greeting his foster-father and invoking the guest rights, cousin Arianne wore a thin smile upon her face. Prince Oberyn's and Lord Willas's expressions were almost half-serene, half-emotionless. This does not bode well. And yet, Aegon didn't see the supposed Tyrell Knight, the brother- Garlan.
The company, led by Griff and followed by two knights in the Tyrell and Martell livery respectively, smoothly approached the tent. They lifted the veil and entered.
"His Grace, Prince Aegon Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Elia Martell. The rightful heir to the Iron Throne. The rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. And the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms," cried out Griff- Lord Jon Connington, from his side, while his guests were looking- studying Young- Aegon intently.
His foster-father told him to wait for their greeting but he forsook that advice to avoid stretching the silence for too long.
"Prince Oberyn, Princess Arianne, Lord Willas, Ser Garlan, I bid you all a good day. I thank you for seeking me out and meeting me in these humble condi-"
"I had heard you were dead," were the first words that Prince Oberyn- his uncle, the man in the Dornish garb of orange hue, said to him. His voice was that of a jape. Yet the darkened look upon his face said otherwise.
Aegon didn't falter. "A necessary mummer, Uncle. For the Usurper's spies are always close. And with them, comes the dagger in the dark." Was that flowery enough?
"Prince Aegon. Or so you claim yourself to be. Yet I do not see a crushed skull upon your head. Tell us, then, how ever did you manage to survive the enormity that is the false knight, Gregor Clegane?" spoke the man with the cane and in the elegant green dress. Lord Willas.
He didn't hesitate. If the Tyrell thought of himself as clever, then Aegon would be happy to comply and play. "It was a tanner boy in the Pisswater Bend. His father sold him for a jug of Arbor Gold. A Pisswater Prince. In the deception, Lord Varys spirited me across the Narrow Sea, into the hands of-"
"Jon Connington… as I live and breathe," drawled his Uncle, interrupting him. "Healthy and hale. Very much so alive. Was the story of how you drank yourself to death your idea, Lord Connington?"
They are baiting us. They are testing me. Us- Jon, too.
"It was necessary," his foster-father answered in his gruff voice. "They remember gallant exiles with noble ends. But they forget those who drank themselves to death."
Willas Tyrell jumped to answer, this time. "Is that so? Very well, then. Far be it from us to question the words of such an honourable knight. Although, I must confess… I am no knight, myself."
The silence lingered on. Prince Oberyn's eyes were upon him. Hawk's upon its prey. They were searching, Aegon realized. Does he see my mother- his sister, in me?
The Tyrell was fidgeting, restless, he spied, hand running along the length of his cane, seemingly in anticipation. To his right, his cousin- Princess Arianne stood ever regal. She wore yet the same thin smile he had seen upon her at first sight. When Aegon looked around, he saw the same look- restlessness. The time ticks down. Yet his Uncle's eyes remained.
"Come, boy," suddenly spoke the Dornish Prince as he strolled over to where Aegon stood. Griff had his hand on the pommel of his sword, while Duck had unsheathed his entirely. The others followed- and soon, more swords were drawn, songs of steels rising against their scabbards.
The Tyrell raised his hand, placating them. So did Aegon, sending a glance to his companions. Jon and Duck relented, their hands finally settling back to remain by their sides.
He stepped forward, letting himself be closer to the Dornish Prince. His Uncle.
Prince Oberyn brought one of his hands up. Aegon's eyes stared into the Prince's own. His purple against his uncle's dark. The rougher hand of the older man came upon his cheek. He was tracing them, he realized. Inspecting him, scrutinizing him. As a man would with a good in the market. His uncle's eyes narrowed- peering into him, past and right through him, but they also held a glint. Of which Aegon couldn't quite put his head around. After moments passed, the Prince withdrew his hand. His lip was pursed thin. Aegon searched in those eyes- desperate for reactions from the older man. They told him that the Red Viper was brash, that he rushed ahead into things. Yet now they stood, a dozen lifetimes seemingly passed already in between.
"Aye, there is no mistaking it," said the Prince. His voice was raspy, and the half a dozen words that he spoke carried much more weight than they sounded. "Your cheeks… Elia's cheeks. Your nose… Elia's nose. Ones I can never forget. My sister's son. Elia's son… returned from the grave."
Aegon smiled in an exhale, confidence returning to him. He smiled a brimming smile as he turned his gaze to meet with the other man's. "So long, Uncle."
"Indeed... I hope you take after me there?" Oberyn's haughty, self-satisfied smirk and pointed look left no questions of what he meant. His cousin had a look of indecision on her face- seemingly caught between scandalized or amused. Her betrothed, meanwhile, had actually snorted, rolling his eyes. The brother, not so much. For Ser Garlan was unyielding as he retained his solemn face. Griff… had his face turning red as his hair. He mumbled incoherent, indignant reproaches at his Uncle's words.
"Come, Lord Connington, let's not be all somber here. T'is just an uncle's privilege to ask such a question after, indeed, such a long time," Lord Willas perpetuated the base jape with a mock Dornish drawl and his Uncle gave it a laugh.
Griff shared not the humour and sent the Reacher lord a pointed look. The Tyrell, in return, regarded him with his chestnut brown eyes. They were soft, yet they also seemed dangerous, Aegon thought. The eyes of one who knows much and many, who doesn't expect anything to truly surprise him.
"T'was a jest. A jape of me. It would be treason to actually require to see His Grace's apparatus," said his Uncle, with a huff. "Yet here I see that Connington has raised you to be as dull as he is. We must remedy that soon, dear nephew."
His foster-father scoffed at the apparent insult. He knew not of what bad blood lay between Prince Oberyn and Griff- and Jon Connington, yet the two men seemed to be at odds with each other.
"Now, do you wish not to embrace your family?"
Aegon spared a glance to his side, his eyes meeting with Griff's own. His eyes were hard and they were darkened, yet he still nodded. Aegon turned his gaze back to see the Dornish Prince spread his arms invitingly and his cousin Arianne beside him, with a smile, much softer than her previous. He quenched the little reluctance that was left inside him, and he took a step- forward. To the new direction.
After a long time of conversing with the guests he felt his throat dry, in response to which his perceptive Uncle offered his already favourite 'orange juice'. A Tyrell novelty, he said. How many things this Great House seemingly came up with and promoted is both wondrous and intimidating, if he had to admit truth to himself. One more reason to make them commit to my cause. It was a pity that Ser Garlan didn't join them, for he was told that the other Tyrell had the duty of standing guard and patrolling around their encampment, few miles behind.
The talk was mostly about family, in blood or not. In his case, they were talking about his days, old and recent, spent with Griff and the crew, their little adventures, who were his crewmen, and also his likes and dislikes. Uncle Oberyn and cousin Arianne told him of Dorne, his other uncle and cousins from mother's side. Strangely, cousin Arianne seemed… estranged with her brother Quentyn. She was projecting the same sense of care for him as for cousin Trystane but not quite succeeding. One more thing to learn about in an appropriate setting.
Evident from his accounts, Lord Willas was fond of his family and home. It sounded like a piece of heavens on earth, and not in a boring way. New sorts of games their household liked to play, new dishes melting the hearts of hard men like Lord Tarly, 'Art Citadel' treasured by Lord Tyrell like a babe of his own and Lady Olenna- the Queen of Thorns- keeping them all sharp and with the thick skin. Though he did mention insufferable bannermen, particularly how Florents grew bolder in their 'whinings'. The tone and historical context hinted that they were indeed not so subtle threats, born of ambition.
"Worse still, none of them deigned to even show up for the feast my father held for the homecoming of my brother, Garlan, and that of the knighthood of Loras. Nay, they claim that a fever had struck Brightwater Keep," said Lord Willas, rambling on the despicableness of the ever-sneering Florents, as he had put it. "But of course, Lord Alester may have his Royal Marriage. His beloved niece to the dour Lord Stannis. But what good does it do him? None. The Florents are locked out of influence in the Reach. Not with Oldtown to their south, Highgarden to their north, and Horn Hill to their east."
Aegon saw it for what it was, a demonstration of their worthiness for the Queenly match without appearing too seeking or imposing. And judging by the knowing look and serene smile, the Tyrell was perfectly aware and satisfied with the fact that he saw it. Everyone at the table saw it, though only Jon seemed to feel disdainful about it. He needed to lighten the mood before it-
"Something on your mind, Lord Connington?" His Uncle had moved before he could with a tone that unmistakingly contained a challenge. The Seven help me.
"Forgive me, Prince Oberyn, if a skeptical feeling I have toward House Tyrell made you lose your positively predisposed mood."
Lord Willas let out a snort, a small puff of air coming from out of his nose. "Remorse fills my heart to hear you say that, my lord. Come, now, we are all friends and allies here. What is this about House Tyrell? If you do come to Highgarden, I'm sure you'd recognize little of it anymore."
"Your lord father sat his bannermen and his army outside of an untakeable castle. A worthless siege. With another forty-thousand men at his behest, Rhaegar would've destroyed the rebels at the Trident root and stem."
Strangely, the Tyrell didn't seem insulted by the words of his foster-father. "Yet there were Reachmen at the Trident, but no Griff. And indeed, that was my lord father, yes. You might have noticed that he is not the brightest in crafting strategies and war plans of high cunning. Most of the high lords know that the Usurper's defeat at Ashford was largely due to Lord Tarly's able command over the van and intimidation of superior numbers of the main host. But my father is not here. I am."
"Yet he is the Lord of Highgarden. Not yourself."
Griff, what perturbs you so much? If you don't stop alienating my future loyalists...
"I am sure that Lord Connington only meant that would Lord Tyrell be as amenable as yourself, Lord Willas?" Aegon said, intent on putting the foolishness between the Tyrell and his foster-father before it could grow. "I'm sure with an heir as bright and worthy as yourself, Lord Tyrell will be inclined to hear you out. Yet I do not, nor can I presume that Lord Mace will be eagerly raising his banners from the comfort of Highgarden for a boy, half a world away."
"Hmm. Your modesty does you wonder, my prince. And Gods know the realm needs a monarch like that. And I know my father. Rest assured of that. So long as he gets what wants, my father will be the most agreeable man in all of Essos and Westeros."
Queenship.
"His daughter for Aegon, I presume?" asked Griff from his side. His voice was tight.
Lord Willas nodded. "I wouldn't dare to presume to impose upon His Grace a match with a lady unknown to him." Yet your lordly father would, is it what you want to say? "However it would be remiss of me not to say that my sister Margaery is not known as the Rose of Highgarden for nothing, my lords. I am sure you will be of the same mind if and when you do have the opportunity to meet her." But your house would prefer me to commit to the betrothal now.
"Ah yes," continued his uncle, sipping at the chalice of Dornish Red that he had so proudly claimed and offered to him earlier. "Words of your death are much exaggeration, now that we know of it. I wonder, when should we remedy that? Soon, I hope."
He spoke as if he wasn't proposing to plunge an entire realm into chaos, into war. Griff made sure that his displease is known at such a rash suggestion, intangible sounds of protests and refusals coming from his mouth.
"Now, now, Prince Oberyn," interjected the Tyrell heir. "We have waited for more than ten years. I say what's another one, or two, or three? I'm sure we can afford to wait. Soon, I'll guarantee you. Soon a crack will appear, and from that crack- fire and blood shall flow through."
The Tyrell spoke his words boldly, confidence lacing in on every word that he said.
"Now that, I like," his Uncle quipped from the other side of the table. He poured yet another drink into his chalice, raising it high. "Dornish strongwine, dear nephew. Dark as blood and sweet as vengeance," he said to Aegon's questioning look. "To the end of the Usurper!"
Aegon toasted him, finding the wine true to its name. Strong. Griff did, too. His gruff voice seemingly lost its sternness in the flicker of a moment. And so did cousin Arianne. But when he spied the Tyrell's face, he only saw the man raising his chalice ever so slightly, a calm smile resting on his face, as if it was only courteous. His eyes, Aegon saw, were not so lit as the others' in the table were.
"Say, Lord Connington," said the Heir to Highgarden, chewing on a white grape. Water dribbled down his lip. "Say we never knew. What would be Lord Varys' grand plans for His Grace, then? I must say, on behalf of Prince Oberyn and the Martells, I'd feel quite insulted to not be informed of the apparent survival of my nephew. Let alone him being the last surviving piece of Princess Elia."
"Indeed," his Uncle added, "I, too, find myself wondering about the plans of the oh-so elusive Spider. And the Cheesemonger, too. Or is my nephew merely a gnat? After all, I claim not to know the mind of a eunuch. For I am quite the opposite, myself," he finished with a roguish grin.
"I think we already know too much about your virility, Uncle. No need to overstate it, or do you feel so diffident about it?" spoke his cousin Arianne. The first words she spoke in a while, for she had chosen more to be an observer during their shared meal- lingering glances and subtle smiles. Aegon smiled at the weak jape. And so did the others, Prince Oberyn more so than the rest.
"Varys has… plans," Griff said begrudgingly after a while. "He only left me instructions. For me to teach his grace to my best, and shape him into the King that he's meant to be." Yet what is it that I am meant to be?
"Ah, so you do not know, then. Well, save us the time and just say that you've been led blindly by the Spider this whole time, then, Lord Connington."
Aegon didn't see, but he imagined that Griff would grit his teeth at the words. Lord Connington. It was but a reminder of his failure, as Griff had often referred to it to be.
Griff swallowed his chalice whole, the clanging sound as it hit the table echoed through the windy pavilion. "And what is your plan for Aegon, then? If you expect him to be your puppet for vengeance in your game of-"
"We do not treat our kin as puppets. I'm afraid it is jealousy that clouds your judgement." Oberyn's words were short and brisk, but they held a depth that Aegon hadn't foreseen in his Uncle. "Mayhaps griffs should descend from the skies, at last?"
"And you're one to talk about jealousy? Let me then shed some sunlight on the matter you are feeling frustrated about. If Varys gave you Aegon, you would have doomed him and the Targaryens in your hot-blooded short-sightedness."
"Doomed?" Oberyn spat the word as if it burned his throat. "It is a divine stroke of luck that the Spider is on Aegon's side, otherwise, your mysterious alias would have doomed him well before his majority. And not straying from the matter, I know the truth, Lord Connington. The truth is you don't want Aegon to have true kin but yourself. Jealousy paints an ugly picture of you. Because all you ever wanted was a piece of your beloved silver prince.,"
Aegon reeled back on his seat, surprised at such a level of hatred heaped upon the name of his father, by his own Uncle- no less.. And the implication of it… Was Jon truly? No-
"I- I did my duty as best as I could. And the Mad King exiled me for it. You know nothing of what I had to go through, Martell. And forgive me for protecting my charge-"
"Your charge? Protecting? By keeping him off his kin? His own blood? Or were you too busy seeing your beloved Prince in my nephew?" His Uncle's words were a poison of a sneer. And then Jon's face was that of a horrible realization, but of what?
"You- you dare to insinuate-"
"Such passion you nurtured. Deep in your heart. Yet everyone knows how you were obsessed-"
"Oberyn, it will be an affront to continue with these aspersions-"
"Not now, Willas."
But the Reacher lord had a resolute face and moved to respond swiftly. "So you can destroy Aegon's family?" His Uncle was knocked into silence at that. There was denial painted on his face, one that was crumbling. Meanwhile, Jon's face lightened slightly and even had a hint of a grateful smile directed at the Tyrell. Whatever they mean?
Stillness came to their table. And after a while, his cousin had the first words after the cumbrous quietude. "It is an embarrassment to our standing and title if we can't make it past through one- one sitting of a meal. Together. For my cousin's sake. And Nuncle, you should know better than anyone about jealousy, do you not?"
"I agree. I couldn't have spoken it better myself," added the Tyrell, directing a smile at his betrothed.
Aegon nodded at that. "Now that we are over such an outburst of a silly tantrum, will any of you deign to clarify the matter? I wish to know what it is that seeks to threaten the unity between us."
"It's nothing worth-" tried Griff to thwart the question. Only for him to be interrupted by a cough, courtesy of the Tyrell heir, who accompanied it with a beaming yet awkward smile.
"Eh, fine, Your Grace. Your uncle Oberyn here, in essence, is talking well. Let me ask you this first. Have you ever… had an intimate relationship with anybody or not?"
What a- an inappropriate line of questioning, Aegon thought but he answered honestly, his ears burning. "Ah, no."
"Like at all? Even kisses?" And now his cousin Arianne joined her intended, it seemed. Her teasing tone wasn't helpful.
"Ah, I had kissed the girl at the market- but we did nothing else I swear- Griff knows this, and he told me to stop it."
"Such a cruel man you are, Lord Conington, to quench the rising spirits of youth." Never change, Uncle. Gods...
"What I've done, I did only for the best of the Prince. Or would you rather he sleep around, bedding the wives of high lords like yourself, Prince Oberyn?"
"He got you there, Uncle. Your debacle with the Yronwoods keeps coming back to bite us in the buttocks, I fear."
"His paramour, not wife."
The table collectively shared a laugh at the Red Viper's miserable attempt to justify himself. Well, save for Jon, that was. Aegon would've pestered, realizing how they had cleverly and subtly maneuvered the topic of the talk, evading his question. Yet that all stopped when he caught the look that Jon was giving him. Dark clouds swirled in them. Eyes that Aegon knew all too well. A promise and a plea, ones Jon would give him amidst their doubts, amidst shared words of how uncertain the future seemed. Hardened eyes. Tired eyes. And so, Aegon relented.
But, at least, they came to peace, even if grudgingly, and that was of paramount importance. He wouldn't pretend not to see the hidden glares and sullen look hidden behind chalices of gold. Yet it was a start, nonetheless, or a restart rather. He knew there was some context he didn't catch but that was something to ponder about later, for now he should keep their tempers at bay.
Not long after, they adjourned the meeting. Due to the sun closing in on the horizon, Willas and Arianne had to return to their camp. His Uncle would spend the night with him. And as a formal host, Aegon escorted departing guests to the horses.
"I hope our meeting didn't disappoint you, cousin, my lord?" He asked as they approached the saddled beasts, ready to be ridden.
"Well… I think it's safe to say that our alliance shall prove to be most interesting in the future. For the… energy that flows between Prince Oberyn and Lord Connington if nothing else." The Heir to Highgarden smirked but Aegon was reluctant to share lord's thrill and could only sigh.
"They need to settle their hostility, hopefully here and now, so our… future ventures are not impeded by resentments."
"Worry not, Your Grace. I am sure that Prince Oberyn and Lord Connington both meant well. And don't be intimidated by the work it will take to bridge the division between them. The Reachers and Dornish warred with each other for millennia and more, yet apparently, we are to be united in both marriage and cause, soon. If two kingdoms can put their bitter grievances behind and work together, then two men surely can."
He had to admit to himself, Lord Willas was a wise young man. Five years older than him, yes, but the heated and almost disastrous back and forth between his Uncle and Jon proved that years alone do not a wise man make. Aside from the maturity, he was proven capable, for their talk revealed that it was Willas who brought information about him to his princely uncles. Though it was hinted that the wind of his survival was caught by none other than the Queen of Thorns.
Aegon was grateful to the Gods that the Reacher lord was apparently predisposed to his cause and held sway over his lordly father and formidable grandmother. He shuddered at the thought of the Tyrells bringing the news to the Usurper instead of his kin.
"Your perspective gives me hope, Lord Willas." The best courtesy is a genuine one, unsurprisingly. "So, cousin, my lords, you still intend on our meeting tomorrow?" At this Willas smiled and arched his brow at Arianne. The two of them seemed to like each other, but not infatuated. More like friends- or an old couple? What a queer comparison-
"We surely will, cousin, but my intended here is itching to do some exploring of the ruins of Ghoyan Drohe. I like this idea of his but I wonder if he should have been born a Princess of Dorne and me a Reacher lordling since he is so much more interested in the remains of ancient cities of the Rhoynar than I am."
Aegon could see the glances that the two of them shared with one another. They are playing. "Oh, Arianne, I am standing right here, so you just know. But yes, Your Grace, aside from the itching part, the princess did not lie. We both wanted to dedicate the first half of the day to onsite observation of the ruins. Wouldn't it offend you, my prince, if we come after noon?"
"Of course not, take as long as you need to. And also, I do hope to be able to meet your brother, Lord Willas. They say that Ser Garlan is a true knight. I would wish to meet such a person."
"Eh, most assuredly, Your Grace, if that's what you want. My brother will certainly be delighted to meet you."
When parting pleasantries were exchanged his cousin had already ridden off but Lord Willas hung back and stayed behind with his horse. He reigned the animal as he inched closer to him. Aegon found it perplexing, of what matter the Tyrell wanted to speak about. "Your Grace, we have only met today, but if you would allow me to share something. The reason why Prince Oberyn and Lord Connington often disagree in… well, most matters, actually. Well, that reason is… your father, my prince."
"My… father?"
"Yes. I imagine that it is not a story that Jon Connington would tell you. Not out of malice, of course, but due to… personal reasons. I was but a babe during the Rebellion, so I am not fit to talk about it. But if you would seek your Uncle? I believe it will help you. To find the answer to your questions."
It was almost an insult when the Tyrell flashed a smile and rode off, leaving Aegon with no chance to clarify and ask for more. Yet there was no sparing any for the thought, not when his head was filled with other thoughts. Of questions that he had been asking for his whole life.
It was the hour of the bat. The sun painted the Rhoyne red and orange when Aegon found him. His Uncle, standing on the riverside. He had a spear slung over his back, its tip clothed white.
Your father was kind. Your father was brave. Your father was noble and valiant. Greater than Arthur Dayne with his sword, even against Dawn. Your father sang beautifully- he would sing even amidst the slums of Flea Bottom. Your father treasured his harp, he played it better than the greatest of bards. Your father dreamt of many things, he yearned for that-
Jon would often tell him about his father. When they fished from the Rhoyne or when they washed their clothes on its shore. When Duck parried his slashes, Jon would tell him of his own father and his grandsire's Kingsguards- The White Bull, Arthur Dayne, Barristan the Bold. In the dead of the night, Jon would tell him stories of Prince Rhaegar from the dark of their cabin. Yet Jon rarely spoke of his mother. Little words were spared for sweet, gentle, good-hearted Elia Martell. A kind soul with a tragic end. Aegon longed for the dreams when she never died.
Jon made his grief and guilt known to Aegon. Of how he spoke of Rhaegar. The sadness seemingly clawed at his throat whenever Jon would speak of Prince Rhaegar in regret. The sorrow was there, too, when he would remind Aegon of his mother and sister. In times of indecision, or when Aegon felt himself at the brink of surrender- Jon would remind him. Of vengeance. Of fire and blood. For your mother, he would tell Aegon. Yet Jon spoke of her seldomly nonetheless.
Even Septa Lemore had been of little help. There was no word written in the Seven-Pointed Star that quenched his thirst for a mother's love. Even just to know her, just a little. The Septa would tell him that the Mother Above would be the mother that he needed- yet Aegon found no respite in the recited prayers of the Faith. Haldon had been even less of a help than her, as he was a man of knowledge, not heart. And not even when he thought of Jon- of Griff as... his father would the longing pass.
"Uncle Oberyn, I must apologize for Lord Connington's words. You must know that it is-"
"Aye, I know. When Elia was taken from me, I clung to her memories. Of the water splashing our skin, and the sun glinting above the Water Gardens. We were together, the two of us." His words were wistful, unlike the daring and rogue Red Viper that he would imagine.
"It must be beautiful, the Water Gardens…"
His Uncle bent down, picking up a worthless pebble from the many that lay on the riverside. "It is," he said curtly, throwing the pebble into the stretched river. The water trickled down at the shock. "And there will come a day when you see it. I only pray that the day will come soon. Doran longs to meet you."
Ah yes, my other Uncle, Prince Doran Martell, the Prince of Dorne. "So do I. Dorne is beautiful, I imagine. Uncle," he called the man, the word still tasting strange. "Would you… would you-" Be the Prince that you are, he told himself. "Would you tell me about her? My mother, that is."
The Prince regarded him with a tilted head. There was a spark to his eyes. "Elia… her smile was as warm as the sun. Her heart was the same. That of the sun. People will say that she was sweet, so very sweet, so gentle. Too gentle, others would scorn her. And yet they knew her not. Elia burned brightly. Burned fiercely. Underneath, she was a true Martell. Unbowed, Unbent, and Unbroken- to her last moment. Elia was… easy. She was kind, there was no detesting her, to any who had met her. But to meet her end… at such the vilest creatures of a man just as vile, she didn't deserve it.
Doran was nine when Elia came. And ten, when I did. We loved him for it, and he us. But that didn't stop me from growing closer to Elia than to Doran. Elia chastised me. She slapped me in moments when I became the fool that I am. At Sandstone, she cheered me- consoled me when Aaron Qorgyle beat me into the sands. I was eleven. Elia… Elia was the Darling of our family and of the whole Dorne. Our guiding star.
And then she wed your sire. The gallant, perfect Prince Rhaegar. She loved him. She bore his children- Rhaenys left her bedridden for months, and yet she loved fiercely still. She swaddled her. Rocked her. And where is she now? Her blood on Loch's blade is all that remained.
She fed you herself, you know? You and your sister, she wrote of how she wouldn't let your wet nurse touch you. That's Elia. She loved fiercely. And when your father rode past her at Harrenhal- the smiles died down. Elia didn't falter, she smiled all the same- her hands on her belly. You were inside her. And yet he crowned lovely Lyanna Stark as his Queen of Love and Beauty.
She loved him still. That's Elia. Eversweet Elia. But beautiful, noble Rhaegar Targaryen left her for another woman. For a half-wildling.
That started a war- and instead of dousing it, your grandsire fanned that flame of war when he burnt Lord Stark and his son, and that war… that war ended with Elia. When the Mighty Tywin Lannister took King's Landing. She had no Rhaegar to protect her. No Silver Prince to defend her against the Mountain. I'd like to think she remained defiant to her end. But it was her end, all the same. Alone, in the hands of the monster that Rhaegar knighted."
Gritted teeth and clenched fist resumed his Uncle's words. "They mocked us, Aegon," he said to him, roughly as his hand grasped upon his shoulder, fingers digging in through the fabric of his linen shirt. "They never stop. The Gods and Tywin Lannister."
Aegon nodded at the words. Absently. His Uncle's hand remained on his shoulder. Grasping down hard, digging in deep. And in the nightfall, the Rhoyne never seemed so cold to him.
AN: That was a... big chapter. Aegon is such a fascinating character for me. In canon, he is a Perfect Price, a product of years of careful teachings and manipulations, crafting and shaping thae one true ruler for the Iron Throne. True or not, it is never about it. His character is so much more than a Blackfyre Pretender at worst or a tragic legit Prince at best. I try to dismantle that image of a Perfect Prince, taking the opportunity to bring down Aegon from the mighty seat of which he sits in my headcanon. Instead, humanizing him, bringing him down to the ground. Doubt, anxiety, and uncertainty. A boy of fourteen.
So, what do you think? I dearly hope that I succeed with this chapter, and that you all enjoyed it. Please, let me know your thoughts! Likes, replies, comments! Everything is appreciated. Any advice? Criticism? Let me know!