Clinton fell silent for a moment, as though steeling himself.
At last he lifted his head and lowered his voice. "Your Grace, forgive my bluntness. His identity is far more than that of a foster-son."
"He is Aegon," Clinton said, weighing each word. "Aegon Targaryen. The trueborn son of your brother Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia Martell—your own nephew."
Viserys first feigned disbelief and ridicule, then turned to icy scrutiny. "Aegon? My nephew Aegon was slain by the Lannisters when King's Landing fell; all the Seven Kingdoms know it. Clinton, do you take me for a fool?"
"It was a lie, Your Grace," Clinton countered urgently. "A ruse by Tywin Lannister. They substituted a common babe's corpse for little Aegon. The real prince was smuggled out by Varys before the city fell, passed in secret to Magister Illyrio Mopatis of Pentos, and finally delivered to me."
He drew a steadying breath. "Ever since, they have plotted the Targaryen restoration. The conspirators charged me to hide the infant and raise him in obscurity. So, as 'Griff the sellsword,' I reared him in the Disputed Lands, waiting for the hour to restore him to the iron throne."
His gaze upon Aegon was clouded with feeling. "For years I obeyed Varys and Illyrio: guarded the prince, schooled him in statecraft, war, and history. They supplied coin and counsel. They believe Prince Aegon is the rightful heir—well-tutored, merciful, the perfect banner to reunite the Seven Kingdoms. Your arrival with dragons has shifted the balance in Essos; the hour has come for the true Targaryen blood to unite and reclaim our realm."
Aegon could not hold back. "Uncle Viserys," he said, the title chosen to bind them, "I know it sounds impossible, yet it is so. I bear the blood of my father Rhaegar and my mother Elia. Varys and Illyrio meant me to gather strength and wait—but now you command dragons."
His eyes blazed. "They are the gods' gift to House Targaryen. Together we can win back the iron throne—your beasts, my claim, and the Golden Company behind us. We shall avenge our fathers, our mothers, our grandsire; the usurpers will pay in blood." His voice rose, chin lifting as though he already felt the crown upon his head.
Viserys listened in frozen quiet, face unreadable, mind cold with scorn. A neatly wrapped "Aegon," a perfect tale of legitimacy, and here stood Clinton—old retainer perhaps still in love with the memory of Rhaegar—the perfect, faithful executor of the plan.
"A moving tale," Viserys said at last, tone flat, eyes fixed on Clinton. "Yet a eunuch who serves the new regime and a coin-counting merchant tell you this boy is my murdered nephew risen from the dead—and you ask me to believe it? My lord, have you never doubted? Or do you so yearn for Rhaegar's seed that any plausible lie will do? And you—"
His sharp stare skewered Aegon. "—are certain you are heaven's chosen. Where is your proof? Beyond their words and whatever memories they poured into you, you have none of the clearest Targaryan marks—no silver-gold hair, no violet eyes."
Clinton paled but offered no reply. Doubt had always lurked beneath his loyalty; Viserys's words were a cold knife laid to it.
Aegon flushed. "It was for safety. Varys said I must hide my traits—dye my hair, use drops to change my eyes—so I could grow up unseen by assassins."
"Safety?" Viserys sneered. "In Essos Valyrian features are common as dirt; they walk unhidden."
Stung, Aegon's brittle pride cracked. "I do not lie. I am Aegon Targaryen. Varys and Illyrio would not deceive me. I—I have proofs: the finest education, knowledge of Targaryen history, the secret passages of The Red Keep. And I fear no fire; the blood of the dragon does not burn." The last came out a shout, as though legend itself could vouch for him.
"Fear no fire?" Viserys caught the phrase, smiling a thin, cruel smile. "A simple test, then."
"How would you prove it, Your Grace?" A sense of dread crept over Clinton.
Viserys turned, voice hard as iron. "My dragon Blackflame. Its flame is the surest touchstone. First I shall walk through its Dragonfire myself, to show the world that Viserys Targaryen is a True Dragon. Afterward—Young Griff—"
He looked at the suddenly pale youth. "—if you are indeed Rhaegar's son, the fire should not harm you either. Step from the flames unscathed, and I will acknowledge you, grant you every honor due a Targaryen prince, and join our strengths as you propose.
It was a bluff: not every Targaryen carried the gift of the Unburnt.
"Your Grace, this is folly—madness," Clinton cried, aghast.
"What if—"
"What if I die?" Viserys cut him off, eyes glittering. "Would that not suit certain hopes? Or do you already know he would fail?"
Aegon's face went from white to red. The open scorn flayed his fragile pride; coddled and proud, he had never endured such insult. Anger and shame overrode his fear of dragonfire—and the faint inner doubt of his own identity.
"I accept," he roared, glaring at Viserys. "I do not fear it. I am a True Dragon. I will endure it. But—"
A sudden, ambitious thought struck him. "If I succeed—if I prove I am Aegon Targaryen—I claim more than my birthright. I claim Rhaenys. She is my sister; Targaryen blood must stay pure. She shall wed me, as our forebears did. That is true loyalty and restoration."
"Griff, silence!" Clinton barked, horror and fury on his face; he had not thought the boy fool enough to voice such rash, provocative words.
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