Prince Aegon Targaryen, Prince of Dragon’s Heart

  Aegon noted with some surprise that a displeased Marlon looked strikingly like a displeased Uncle Vaegon. The difference in size disappeared, and the loose face of the current Archmaester of the Citadel of Dragon’s Heart acquired the same features as the withered face of his te predecessor: the same pursed lips, disappointed clicking of the tongue, tenacious gaze of narrowed eyes, and brows knit together. The revetion was so unexpected that the Prince almost voiced his discovery, but bit his tongue in time—sentimentality was inappropriate.

  Finally, Marlon straightened up with a sigh and moved away from the armchair in which a tired Viserys sat naked as the day he was born. For the second hour, the King had been turned every which way, forced to raise or extend his arms, show his lower back and the inner side of his knees, with the greatest attention paid to his fingers and toes. His eyelids were pulled back and the whites of his eyes studied, his urine (morning and fresh) was examined in sunlight and heated on a small burner, practically every inch of his body was examined under a Myrish lens, save perhaps for his member—Viserys did not endure such humiliation and snapped, and Marlon had to put the instrument aside.

  "What say you?" Aegon inquired.

  "I agree with the brothers and Prince Aegon," the Archmaester announced for everyone.

  "So I was right," the Prince concluded with grim satisfaction.

  "Except that, I will add on my own behalf, the course of the disease is somewhat... atypical."

  "Does that matter?" Orwyle inquired dryly, barely hiding his irritation. The Grand Maester could be understood—no one likes having their conclusions questioned and double-checked repeatedly. "Greyscale can have several manifestations, depending on which organs it affects at the beginning, but the essence of the disease does not change from this."

  "I have observed several cases of greyscale development, Grand Maester," Marlon answered with restraint. "One infected person gets covered in crust in three years, another lives ten years, and a third fifteen, but they all have this scab of the same type. And in His Grace, it looks more like an ulcer that is about to start festering."

  "Then maybe it is not greyscale?" Alicent, standing by the wall, asked again with hope.

  "I fear, Your Grace, here we are unanimous."

  This was said in such a tone as if agreement between the Grand Maester of the Red Keep and the Archmaester of the Citadel of Dragon’s Heart was Orwyle's worst nightmare.

  Aegon sighed and took a step forward to look once more at the King's right hand resting on the high and wide wooden armrest with fingers spread. Viserys raised his hand without further request and brought it closer. Aegon intercepted the arm closer to the elbow; the necessity of touching his brother only with gloves instinctively seemed wrong and absurd, but the Prince did not want to catch a disease, grey or otherwise.

  On the middle phanx of the royal little finger blossomed a small blotch of bloody-yellow crust, which usually appears on small wounds and abrasions, but around it, the skin seemed faded, pale grey, like cooled ash in a firepce. The entire affected area barely reached an inch in length.

  "Bend the finger," Aegon ordered the King, and Viserys, like an obedient patient, complied. The little finger twitched slightly and bent slowly, as if reluctantly, gging a couple of moments behind the ring finger.

  "Loss of mobility has already begun," Marlon remarked detachedly. "Although this usually happens when the scab covers several phanges already. Perhaps the course of the disease accelerated because His Grace picked at it."

  "It was accidental," Viserys repeated stubbornly.

  "Children also 'accidentally' pick scabs on abrasions," the Prince said. "Do we not know?"

  His brother grumbled something unintelligible, offended by the comparison to a child, and Aegon betedly thought that Viserys hardly really knew about this. Their own childhood had managed to fade, become covered with patina, if not yet with mold, then with cobwebs and dust over forty years. The Master of Dragons treated his children's scratches and abrasions himself, but the nephews, apparently, were taken to the Grand Maester with such things.

  While the Prince examined the sore, an assistant-acolyte jumped up to Marlon and, rattling an unlocked chain, began to carefully pull long leather gloves off him; the bck gauntlet came off thick hands with difficulty, and a trickle of sweat flowed onto the luxurious Myrish carpet covering the floor of the royal bedchamber. The maesters paid no attention to this, but Alicent followed it with her gaze. The Queen had to be given her due: she was not squeamish and did not fear diseases—the experience of caring for the Old King told. Who knew that her husband was destined for the same fate? Except perhaps the gods, but they have been silent tely.

  Huge gloves, looking like sea reptiles thrown onto the Driftmark shore by a night storm, were sent one after another into a chest lined with iron from the inside; Aegon's own gloves and Orwyle's went there too—Vermithor was to burn it in the Dragonpit.

  "What do you propose?" Alicent inquired. "Is there any hope at all?"

  "Hope is expressed only in the number of years allotted to His Grace," the former Manderly sighed noisily.

  "As my brother noted," Orwyle added. "Those sick with greyscale can live a dozen years until the disease reaches the head and deprives them of their mind..."

  "Seven Hells (Peklo)!" Viserys cursed. "I will become a madman?"

  "If the disease does not kill you sooner, my Sovereign."

  "So what is needed to... increase this term?"

  "Usually we prescribe hot baths for patients, and the hotter, the better. It softens the skin covers."

  "There will be no problems with this, I wash practically in boiling water as it is," the King said confidently, but the cheerfulness in his voice seemed exaggerated to his younger brother.

  "Washing alone will not suffice," Marlon warned. "A bath morning and evening, moreover, it would be good to immerse at least the hand in a basin during the day."

  "How do you imagine this? Should I receive petitioners with a hand in a steaming basin? Or sit with it on my knees before councilors?"

  "You will have to find time, Viserys," Aegon pulled him up.

  "Besides baths, poultices of lemon zest and mustard must be applied," the Grand Maester added. "I will order lemon juice served to you at breakfast."

  "Drink sour stuff?!"

  "Either drink or chew slices, Your Grace."

  "Juice can also be added to bath water," Marlon reminded.

  "I suppose it will do no harm."

  "I shall reek entirely of lemons," the King sighed ruefully. "Lemons and mustard."

  "Such is the price of a couple of extra years for Your Grace," Orwyle reminded strictly.

  The Archmaester of the Citadel of Dragon’s Heart cleared his throat, earning a suspicious look from the Queen and his brother in the chain.

  "Do you wish to say something, Archmaester?" Alicent inquired.

  "Yes, my Queen. The Sovereign should know that there is another way to fight greyscale. It is somewhat more... effective than poultices and lemon baths."

  Aegon, understanding what his friend wanted to say, could not resist and shrugged his shoulders, as if a cold wind had crept under his tunics and cloak. The Prince did not stop the Archmaester—this was also a way out, and his brother had the right to know it. Meanwhile, intrigued by the promising beginning, Viserys leaned forward impatiently:

  "And what is this way?"

  "We shall have to sever the affected flesh for Your Grace," Marlon paused slightly so the meaning of what was said reached the King. "This is not an unconditional guarantee of recovery, but the chances are noticeably higher."

  "You want to... Chop off my finger?" Viserys drawled in shock.

  "Oh, Smith Above..." Alicent whispered.

  "I fear these are half-measures and the matter will not be limited to one little finger. The neighboring finger will also have to be removed, but I would not risk it and recommend removing the entire hand."

  "Why not the arm to the elbow?" there was enough venom in Orwyle's voice to fill more than one inkwell.

  "This will significantly increase the chances..."

  "Chances that I will be considered a petty thief from Fishmonger's Square?!" the King exploded. "Want me to appear before my subjects maimed?! What will they think of me?"

  "Well, I survived my mutition somehow," Aegon remarked coldly.

  "That is different! A king without a right hand is a ughingstock!"

  "Amputation of the affected organ at an early stage allows getting rid of the disease once and for all in six cases out of seven."

  "And leave a man a cripple once and for all," Alicent reminded.

  "What is better for Your Grace," Marlon addressed her. "To have a chance to live without a hand for another twenty years or to live with a hand for no more than ten at best?"

  "Grand Maester, what is your opinion?" the Queen turned to Orwyle.

  "There is a grain of truth in Archmaester Marlon's words. Amputations are indeed used to prevent the spread of the ailment to the rest of the body, but from my point of view, this is too radical an option. It is a st resort to which one can turn if previous treatment methods have yielded no result and the maester has despaired of saving the patient otherwise. Here everything is far from so neglected and I see no need for such... drastic measures."

  "Greyscale cannot be cured by poultices," Aegon reminded strictly. "And the measure proposed by the Archmaester, although it looks terrible, significantly increases the probability of healing."

  "I would like to ascend the funeral pyre whole, not in pieces," Viserys snapped.

  Once his brother dug his heels in, it was difficult to convince him of anything, and now, it seemed, the prospect of voluntary loss of a hand frightened him more than the inevitable transformation into a stone man. Viserys could not stand blood or pain (actually, that's why he didn't make a knight), and Orwyle, this offended ambitious man, jealous of the royal couple's attention to the Archmaester of the Citadel of Dragon’s Heart, pressed on this.

  No, a reasonable decision cannot be expected from the King now, but nothing, water wears away stone. The main thing, Aegon corrected himself, is that it does so faster than the disease undermines the King's strength. Sighing, the Prince bowed his head in ostentatious submission:

  "As the Sovereign wishes. But treatment is best started immediately. Moreover, you are almost ready for a bath."

  "I dare remind Your Grace," Orwyle interjected again. "That the Dornish ambassadors have been awaiting an audience for the third week."

  "So what?" the Master of Dragons was surprised. "An extra hour will not mend matters."

  "The audience has already been postponed thrice, and this time the date and time were set by the King himself."

  "Unlikely to be long," Viserys snapped his fingers, and a servant averting his eyes held out undergarments with rolled-up legs to him. His brother got out of the armchair quite briskly, but this feigned liveliness did not deceive Aegon—this is how they show everything is fine so no one worries when the disease has already taken root. "In any case, while water is heated... We will have time to receive them."

  "Perhaps it would be more appropriate to wait for the Small Council?" Alicent suggested.

  "My brother and Orwyle are enough for me," the King waved her off. "Let Aegon come too. Grand Maester, arrange everything. We will wait for the ambassadors in the Crimson Hall. Archmaester Marlon, we thank you for your care and knowledge."

  "The Citadel of Dragon’s Heart is gd to serve the King," Marlon bowed, jingling his gold chain.

  "And can always count on the help of the Iron Throne. If my brother offends you—just say."

  "It is a sin for us to compin about Prince Aegon, Your Grace."

  "Of course, in his presence you would not say otherwise."

  Viserys ughed and dived into the shirt offered to him by a servant. Generosity and jokes no longer seemed feigned and looked natural, but this only meant that his brother hid his fear well, that's all. The question of more decisive measures needs to be decided, but for this, one should prepare.

  The sacred rite of dressing the King had become significantly more complicated of te, which also affected time. Orwyle, bowing to the royal couple, went for the Dornishmen, Alicent, casting a st gnce at her husband, apparently went to give orders about the bath. Aegon, taking Marlon by the elbow, walked out with him from the royal bedchamber into the adjacent sor.

  It was gloomy in the King's Small Study—heavy velvet curtains had not yet been drawn today, and sunlight breaking through the cracks striped the entire room, illuminating dust dancing in the air. The model of the City of Valyria, over which Viserys still bored, was almost entirely in shadow, and only the Basilica of the Forty Dragons on the Bck Stone was illuminated. Seeing beautiful symbolism in this, Aegon grunted with satisfaction; let the gods keep silent, but their presence was felt precisely in such small manifestations, which were too significant to be accidents.

  Turning to his old friend, he asked:

  "What say you?"

  "I say it is very foolish," the Archmaester grimaced. "But this is not new: very many dey until the st. On the other hand, Orwyle is right, of course, this is only the very beginning and one can try to stop the disease without crude intervention."

  "In other words, we must wait?"

  "In other words, we must treat. And ensure the King is treated."

  "So now I have to look after the Grand Maester too," the Prince sighed.

  "I can send someone to help you. Harsley is silent, but knows his business, and is familiar with greyscale. Orwyle, of course, will shit himself with rage..."

  "Let him. Constipation is harmful to health," and both friends chuckled at the simple joke.

  "We also need to know where the King caught this ailment," Marlon added more seriously.

  "Greyscale does not cause epidemics, if you worry about them."

  "Unlike the Grey Pgue."

  This was undoubtedly much more serious.

  "He looked unhealthy already at the wedding, and by that time already seemed..." the Prince shook his palm, showing the degree of the King's poor health.

  "So only about a year."

  "Yes, something like that. He was touring the Crownnds then—caught it somewhere on the way."

  "Most likely in the port," Marlon sighed and adjusted his skewed Archmaester's chain. "I will send Harsley, let him sort it out."

  "When do you return?"

  "Even today. A barge awaits me in the port."

  "I can give you a lift," Aegon smiled, anticipating the answer.

  "Father forbid, no need," his friend waved his hands. "I'll puke all over your saddle. I'd better go quietly, calmly, by river."

  "Don't let me fly home an extra time," the Prince hung his head in feigned contrition.

  "As if you have time..."

  At that moment the door flew open and Viserys came out of the bedroom, looking quite regal already, but the pallor of his face still seemed unhealthy.

  "Well, whom are we waiting for?" he inquired cheerfully, and, accepting the offered crown from a servant, pced it on his head.

  "You," Aegon answered in the same tone and, unable to tolerate a small imperfection, corrected the circlet on his royal brother. "I hope you will stop by to say goodbye before departure, Archmaester?"

  "Certainly, my Prince," Marlon bowed.

  Aegon let the King pass ahead and followed him into the corridor. Criston Cole, standing guard, clinked his sword, greeting the Sovereign, and moved behind.

  "What will these Dornishmen talk about?"

  "Ask for support for their new king, I suppose."

  Four months ago a raven arrived from Yronwood, bringing news of the death of High King of Dorne Olyvar Yronwood, the fifth of his name. Having overthrown the Martells and concluded an agreement with the Targaryens, he spent sixteen years of his reign fighting his own vassals for the right to wear the crown and died at forty-eight either from colossal strain of all forces, as his maester wrote, or from the poison of a treacherous bannerman, as Septon Eustace's repentant whisperers reported. One of the numerous concessions Olyvar had to make, achieving oaths from Dornish lords, was the restoration of the ancient customs of the Greenblood, the main one of which implied the right of bannermen to choose their king. Naturally, when Yronwood died, his son failed to achieve his election either the first time or the seventh.

  "How untimely they are with their embassy," Viserys grumbled. "Vontis with its mongrels, now this too... Hell, why is Daemon not here?! The Yronwoods are his brainchild, let him sort it out himself."

  "The weeping Yronwoods are the least of his problems now," Aegon remarked.

  Much more important was the war started by the New Freehold. Vontis decided after all that predatory duties for passage through the Stepstones were worth climbing into dragons' maws again. At first, isoted raids on Tyroshi merchant ships began, then Vontene privateers began to rob every caravan, and to top it all off, the Freehold's army invaded Daemon's Essosi domains, burning the first watch castles in the Disputed Lands.

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