A month and a half later, Prince Aegon was reciting by heart the poem "Farewell to Valyria" by Ainar the Exile, concerning the bitterness of parting with one's native lands; he played the lute rather pleasantly, as Viserys admitted, and could move between his father's and brothers' chambers tolerably well, leaning upon a cane.
The cane had been a gift from the King himself. The Grandfather had come one morning and watched for a long while as Aegon limped about, whereupon he pronounced:
"A dragon ought not hobble like a duck," and extended to his grandson a cane of ebony, wound with a thin strip of gold, with a carved bone pommel in the likeness of a rising dragon, its eyes glinting with small rubies. The cane was a trifle large—the royal gift was clearly meant for him to grow into—and Aegon, tucking the pommel beneath his arm under the vigilant gaze of Jaehaerys, began to limp far more briskly.
Meanwhile, court life beyond the chambers of Prince Baelon and his sons did not cease, and the knot of political intrigues and contradictions was pulled tighter with every passing day. Elysar, dutifully visiting his recovering patient, came gloomier than a thunderhead and, contrary to his custom, made no jests. Aegon saw his father only at supper, when the man, worn out after a long day, was no longer capable of sustaining conversation. It seemed Viserys understood the heart of the matter, yet he evaded direct answers to Aegon's questions, replying:
"'Tis complicated. You ought not trouble yourself with it."
Naturally, from such words, Aegon began to worry all the more.
At last, on the evening of the twenty-sixth day of the sixth month of the ninety-second year, Maester Elysar told the Prince, unable to refrain from a biting comment:
"You should retire early, my Lord. Tomorrow the King shall assemble the court in the Throne Room, and you must needs be there as well. Considering the speed at which you walk, it would be wise to set forth before dawn."
"Considering your years, Grand Maester, it would be wise for you to bear me company," Aegon replied in kind. Elysar gave a harrumph, not without pleasure, as it seemed to the Prince. In recent months, Aegon had learned from him not only sciences but also the subtle art of sarcasm.
However, Elysar's warning reminded the Prince of his last appearance in public and the sticky gazes of the courtiers riveted upon him. An icy wave of shame for his own infirmity washed over Aegon once more. Aye, now he needed no litter, but the limp could not be hidden, and his grandfather's gift would only draw attention to him. To appear before the King without it would be to spurn the gift, and that would clearly not serve the family's interest. The thought of the courtiers scrutinizing him did not release him at supper, during which, contrary to custom, little was said, nor in the night. Even the pain, which neither milk of the poppy nor dreamwine could master, capitulated before the mounting panic of his approaching appearance at court.
Aegon met the morning sleep-deprived, and thus displeased and wroth with the whole wide world, from the Maesters to his own grandfather, who had taken it into his head to look upon the court from the height of the Iron Throne. This time the servants dressed him in a black doublet with the red dragon of the Targaryens embroidered upon the breast; its long skirts were meant to distract attention from the Prince's injury. Aegon thought it rather clever, yet useless—had they wished to hide his limp, they ought to have taken away his cane, or better yet, not summoned him at all. The boots caused more discomfort: though made of the softest leather, they compressed his foot unpleasantly, and soon it began to ache and itch.
At last, the Prince and Maester Elysar set forth on the long journey to the Throne Room. At first, it seemed to Aegon that he would overcome the path with relative ease, but scarce had they reached the doors of Maegor's Holdfast than he realized he was already weary and damp with sweat.
"Precisely why we departed beforehand," Elysar explained patiently when they stopped to rest. Aegon did not dignify him with an answer, but merely glared balefully from beneath his brows. Soon he lost count of these halts and nigh wept with relief when he saw the doors of the Throne Room before him. By fortune, few witnessed how agonizing the last few yards before the throne had become for him. Elysar led him to the very foot of the dais and warned:
"When all begin to bend the knee, simply bow as low as you are able. Such is the wish of His Grace."
"And wherefore is this assembly?" Aegon inquired.
"His Grace wishes to announce the new Prince of Dragonstone, and the court and all the Seven Kingdoms shall swear fealty to him as heir to the Iron Throne."
Announce an heir? Why would such a need arise while his father lived?
"Is the heir not obvious?"
"Not to all," the Grand Maester answered briefly.
The space of the Throne Room, meanwhile, began to fill with courtiers. Aegon swallowed nervously, watching them pace between the pillars in anticipation, trying to feign that he did not notice the glances they cast his way. With the whispers of others, it was harder.
"Poor boy..."
"...for life..."
"...he shall never be a knight..."
"...a miracle of the Gods he remained alive..."
"...limped so from his twentieth year, yet he kept his seat in the saddle..."
"And what of it? Send him to Oldtown..."
"'Tis well Prince Baelon has other sons..."
"...I would be ashamed..."
Foreign tongues cut sharper than foreign gazes. Elysar, standing nearby, ignored the rumors, but then, it was not he they were discussing. Aegon wished to sink through the earth. Or better yet, that everyone else would sink through the earth. Straight into the proverbial Seven Hells.
"Issi ao zūgagon, valonqar?" Aegon started in surprise as Daemon's hot whisper scorched his ear. The Prince nodded.
"Pōnta issi jurnegēre rȳ issa," he answered, likewise in a whisper.
"Ao issi nykeā zaldrīzes. Zaldrīzesse biādroti elēnȳti zūgusy daor."
Aegon allowed himself to turn to his brother. Daemon stood close, shoulder to shoulder, smiling encouragingly. Immediately behind him stood Viserys, and further still—Father, hands clenched tensely behind his back. From his brother's words and the silent support of his family, Aegon felt easier. He squared his shoulders and even displayed the cane a little more prominently. Let them look. Let them see that a dragon cares naught for them.
Meanwhile, the doors of the Throne Room were thrown open, and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Gyles Morrigen, proclaimed from the foot of the Iron Throne:
"King Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!"
The well-drilled crowd of courtiers inclined their heads in unison toward the aisle, down which the King walked with a sure step. Jaehaerys, at eight-and-fifty, looked remarkably well for his years. He held his head, bearing the jagged crown, high, despite sorrows old and new. His hair, the color of white gold and never shorn, in which the silver of approaching old age was lost, fell in a wave upon his shoulders, forming another mantle over the primary one—red brocade embroidered with coal-black threads forming a scaled pattern. The long-skirted doublet beneath was, contrariwise, black with red stitching. The King held his hand upon the hilt of Blackfyre. Ascending the throne forged in the fires of the Black Dread by his grandfather, Aegon the Conqueror, Jaehaerys took his seat, and his whole aspect assumed a finished, perfect form: only thus could a true, lawful monarch, a just judge, a great warrior, the Anointed of the Gods, appear.
"My Lords and My Ladies," the King began. Aegon's tongue would not turn to call him grandfather now—so far removed was Jaehaerys Targaryen from everyone in the hall, including his own family. "It is known to you all what bitter loss our family and our whole realm suffered three months past. The untimely demise of our beloved eldest son Aemon, Prince of Dragonstone, has cast us into deep sorrow and inflicted upon us and Queen Alysanne a deep, unhealing wound."
The King took a well-measured pause, and grief seemed to permeate everything around, becoming thick as the smoke from a funeral pyre. Many, Aegon included, bowed their heads out of respect for the memory of the deceased. Jaehaerys, meanwhile, continued:
"I pray to the Seven that in their mercy they send you not such trials as we have passed through, and that you need not drink from the same cup of sorrow. Yet the duty of the Protector of the Realm suffers us not to surrender to grief endlessly, but commands us to take all measures to ensure a stable and indisputable order of succession to the throne. Having conferred with the members of our Small Council, before the face of Gods and men, We, Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, First of Our Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, name our son Baelon our lawful heir and grant him the title Prince of Dragonstone."
Applause rang out, and in the blink of an eye, the whole hall hummed and rang with it. Father stepped forward and bent the knee before the Iron Throne. The King, descending from it, drew Blackfyre from its scabbard and leaned upon it, waiting. In the ensuing silence, Father spoke the words of the oath loudly and clearly:
"I, Baelon of House Targaryen, as heir to the Iron Throne, swear to be faithful and keep true allegiance to His Grace the King. So help me the Gods."
The King touched the blade to his son's shoulders in turn:
"Rise, my son."
The new Prince of Dragonstone rose and turned to the assembly. Jaehaerys, standing upon the second step of the throne and thus towering above all, pronounced:
"Let all lords and knights, all cities and places in the Seven Kingdoms swear fealty to the Prince of Dragonstone as heir to the Iron Throne."
The Hand of the King, Septon Barth, came forth to the foot of the throne. Raising the Seven-Pointed Star in his right hand, he lowered himself to one knee, and following him, all present in the Throne Room did likewise. Only three remained standing: the King, his heir, and the lame Prince, hunched as low as was possible.
"I, Septon Barth, Hand of the King," the Septon allowed the many-voiced chorus to pronounce his name and title. "Swear to be faithful and keep true allegiance to Prince Baelon of House Targaryen as Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne. So help me the Gods."
Father nodded, accepting the oath, and the assembly rose. The King embraced his son and heir, and together they moved down the aisle. Only then did Aegon notice that the good Queen Alysanne was not beside the King. Nor were Princess Rhaenys and the Velaryons to be seen in the hall. Apparently, this was what the Grand Maester had called "not obvious to all"? Well, Cousin Rhaenys could be understood—after all, she was the firstborn child of the King's eldest surviving son. Lord Corlys undoubtedly wished to contend for the throne for his wife and sons; that too was plain. But could Grandmother truly have taken their side?
Thoughts, one more anxious than the other, climbed into Aegon's mind as he limped after his brothers, father, and grandfather amongst the courtiers, when suddenly something cut his ear:
"Poor boy... To what end torture him so with ceremony?"
"The clubfoot prince..."
The mocking words thundered in his head like the tolling of bells, and his blood seemed to boil from unjust resentment and the fury it provoked. To bear them meekly? No indeed, that was too much! Aegon froze and turned with emphasized slowness toward the direction whence, it seemed to him, the sound had come. Surprise could be read on the faces of the courtiers, and on some, upon meeting the Prince's gaze—fear. Before the hesitation grew beyond the bounds of permissible awkwardness, Aegon managed to spot the speaker. An unknown lord with a flabby face and a high forehead evidently realized he had spoken too loud and now, paling, was bathed in cold sweat.
"You are right, my Lord," Aegon agreed loudly, that all might hear. "I am clubfooted. But I am a clubfooted dragon, and you, my Lord, are a sheep!"
While the other lords and ladies gaped and gasped for air like fish upon the shore, Aegon struck the stone flags ringingly with his cane for effect and limped on, ignoring his frozen brothers. When he drew level with his father and grandfather, Jaehaerys chuckled and clapped his grandson on the shoulder so hard that it cost Aegon no small effort not to double over from it.
"Aye, my Lords," the King cast out spiritedly. "Such is a dragon: show him a finger, and bid farewell to your hand!"
Thus the three of them left the Throne Room: the King, the Heir, and the Clubfoot Prince. Having retreated a fair distance from the doors, Aegon nevertheless made his confession:
"Forgive me, Your Grace, I did not restrain myself..."
"Speak not foolishness," Jaehaerys waved him away, having turned once more into a grandfather, albeit with a crown on his head. "By showing disrespect to a member of the royal family, Lord Wendwater showed disrespect to the King himself, and from disrespect to the sovereign, 'tis but one step to treason."
Aegon realized his grandfather was jesting a few moments before he marked it with a chuckle. Though, if one thought on it, how much of his words was truly jest?
"Lord Wendwater spoke out of turn; he has realized it himself by now. Tomorrow, at early morn, he shall come rushing to you with apologies and gifts in an attempt to smooth over his fault."
"And they shall be accepted," Father nodded gravely. "But for your words, you must apologize nonetheless. The Wendwaters are direct vassals of the King, and a measure of respect ought to be shown them for that at least."
"Of course, Father, I shall apologize."
"Baelon's words shall suffice," Grandfather shook his head. "Remember, my boy: words are wind. But even the wind fells trees and sinks ships. A word cuts sharper than a Valyrian blade, strikes truer than any arrow, and binds faster than the strongest chain. There is no wound more painful than that inflicted by a spoken word."
And then, up close, Aegon saw the King's mask fall: one moment the monarch wise with long years of rule stood before him, and the next, his grandfather was chuckling, chiding his grandson, winking a lilac eye:
"Well, and if you still wish to insult someone, 'tis better to do it so they do not understand it."