Chapter 32: Interlude: The Eldest
The official repository of dragon eggs on Dragonstone was a wondrous thing to behold. All along both sides of a windowless corridor carved from the very stone of the volcano that dominated the island were small shrines, each illuminated only by the dim light of the lantern carried by visitors.
Though to call each a shrine was, perhaps, generous. Each was little more than a raised stone plinth, carved from the same stone as the hallway, a satin pillow, and a scroll containing all the salient information about each egg.
Naturally, a dragon egg could be found resting on each pillow.
As was to be expected, this area of the castle was highly restricted, and for good reason. A single egg could buy an army, but that was not what house Targaryen feared. No, it was the potential each egg held. Each might contain another Balerion, a beast to be turned to the destruction of the old order.
It was that potential that made each egg so valuable, what made each such a potent tool.
And just that morning, a royal proclamation had reached the island. His siblings Maegelle and Vaegon had become parents. And with that proclamation had come instructions from his father. There was a family tradition to uphold.
Prince Aemon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, was taking great care in selecting his tool.
The first egg on his left was a brilliant blend of gold and yellow. It promised a dragon worthy of a king, as splendid as the sun. It was even warm to the touch as if to boast how close it was to hatching, as it had been for years. The warmth persisted even after several unsuccessful seasons in the hatcheries, but that was not why he skipped it.
It was the opposite.
On the right was another beautiful egg, this one a blue so light and pale it might be mistaken for a morning sky just after the colors of dawn had faded. It, too, he skipped. This close to the front were the eggs that were due to be placed in hatcheries.
These were the eggs the Dragonkeepers thought might hatch soon, though even their expertise was little more than guesswork.
Aemon Targaryen passed several eggs, not stopping until he reached a particularly drab-looking egg. The scaled egg was a red so muddy and drab it would not have appeared out of place in a riverbed, though the dappling of dark green would have ruined the disguise. It would do, he thought, reaching out to touch its shell, only to withdraw his hand before it had even reached the egg.
Too hot.
He made a mental note to have it moved up the priority list for hatcheries and moved on. The one on the right, on the opposite pedestal, was a regal purple and smokey grey, unsuitable for his purposes.
He continued down the corridor, walking slowly to carefully take in each egg as he neared it. Most, he passed without stopping. They were too vibrant, too majestic. No, he needed something drab, something unassuming.
And he did find something.
After nearly ten minutes of shuffling down the corridor in the dim light of the lantern he carried, he found one that would serve.
It was a pale grey in color, significantly lighter than the surrounding stone. If it did hatch, the resulting dragon would be a pale thing, lacking the majestic coloration of Vhagar or Caraxes or Seven forbid Balerion. The way the surrounding candles reflected off of its scaled exterior, however, it was easy to miss the bright red dots that covered the surface like droplets of blood.
Like his had.
The helmet before him had once been gleaming steel, but a lifetime of beatings had eliminated its luster and turned it into a dull and scratched mess. Once it would have beautifully reflected the light of day, an exemplar of knighthood, but no longer. Now, the only shine to be found was in the red smear across its forehead.
His nose burned with pain, radiating across his entire face, bringing tears to his eyes and weakness to his knees. He could feel his stomach roil and protest as he heard his nose crunch and squelch. He could barely stand, barely breathe, but that mask stared ahead, impassive, before descending once more.
No.
No.
His hand tightened on the egg, its rough shell bringing him back to the present. Scales as cold as stone dug into his palm as a reminder that he was not back in the training yard. He was on Dragonstone, picking out a suitable gift.
Aemon took a deep breath, tasting the dust in the air, letting it fill his lungs as he waited for his heart to calm. After several long moments, the memory of that pain aching across his face, he could feel the strength return to him.
Moving slowly, he reverently lifted the egg off its pillow and gingerly placed it in a padded box. Its scroll went into a separate bag. But the box remained unlocked. The box, after all, was only half full.
He needed another egg.
The thought sent an ugly spike of envy through him. Two children. Twins for Maegelle and Vaegon. A larger dragon, an earlier knighthood, and now this. As though he needed something else to hold over his head.
Future kings are expected to produce a son, instead of creating an easily preventable succession crisis, his brother's words echoed through his mind. He could almost picture the boy's arrogant visage as he spoke. Look how easy it is.
No, no, Vaegon never spoke those last words. Vaegon was many things, but he was not one for mocking. Accusatory and scathing, certainly, but not mocking.
Taking another deep breath, Aemon made his way further down the hallway. This far into the mountain, the heat of the volcano was starting to become noticeable, and he began to sweat. Luckily, it was not long until he found another suitable egg.
Like the stone grey egg, this one was cold to the touch, startlingly so. And the color was a pale yellow, like watered ale. Were he feeling less charitable, Aemon might have described it as the color of pale urine, though there were a few green streaks across the shell that ruined the comparison. Regardless of which descriptor was best, it was hardly a hue that would inspire awe and respect.
The grey egg was joined by the newest egg, the scroll of information slipped into the same bag as the other. Now, Aemon finally locked the box and turned to leave the corridor.
Some might have scoffed at wasting so much time in selecting an egg. He could not recall the last time an egg had hatched due to being placed in a cradle. It was symbolic to place an egg in a newborn's cradle, but it was never expected to hatch. The eggs had not hatched for the Conqueror and his sisters, just as the egg placed in his daughter's cradle had not hatched.
But some texts suggested it was possible.
And Aemon had to take precautions. With a father like Vaegon, any child whose cradle egg hatched was a dangerous claimant. For Rhaenys' sake, any potential danger had to be mitigated.
The sudden heat of the thought interrupted his musings and made him notice how hard he was breathing. The way was not particularly difficult, nor was the box he carried particularly heavy, but he still struggled. More than a year without visiting the training yard was beginning to leave its mark, it seemed.
Idly, his empty hand reached to scratch his face only for his nose to flare with pain.
Yes, even after the miracles the maesters had performed restoring his nose to a semblance of its former appearance, he was still healing, still recovering from Vaegon's brutality. His own maester had gone as far as suggesting he refrain from using the training yard until he was fully recovered.
The fact that he could barely breathe through his nose made him doubtful he would ever truly recover.
The slam of the heavy oaken door as it closed behind him forced Aemon back to the present. A pair of dragonkeepers stood on either side, clad in the gleaming black plate of their order, acknowledged his presence with a minute bow.
"Deliver this to my brother Vaegon Targaryen in King's Landing," he instructed the one on the left, handing the man the box with the dragon eggs. The keeper on the right received the scrolls with information on the eggs. "Directly to his hands. With my compliments."
"Your will be done, Your Grace," the man said, quickly leaving to fulfill his instructions. Satisfied with having completed his duty, Aemon turned to the final and most important person waiting by the door.
"Took you long enough," Jocelyn Baratheon commented. Save for her dark eyes, she took after her Baratheon father, with black hair and imposing height. Though she lacked her mother's Valyrian features, she was a far greater beauty than any other in Westeros, as far as Aemon was concerned.
She stood on her toes to plant a kiss on his nose, the ache caused by the touch more sweet than painful.
"Choosing an egg takes time," he said with a broad smile, not caring for the ruined teeth he showed and kissing her brow in turn. She did not mind the sight, he knew, having seen him since the earliest days of his recovery after his banishment.
Not that his father had called it that, but a banishment it had been. How else did you describe losing your place as the king's councilor and being sent away from court?
But she was still there, by his side.
And Aemon would have life no other way.
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AN :
Originally, I was going to write a Corlys interlude. After that chapter started fighting me about 600 words in, I decided that was a bad idea, so Aemon got moved up a week.
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