Chapter 7
AEGON TARGARYEN
"Come on," Aegon begged his brother, yet he refused to budge.
"No," Daeron replied with slurred words, as he drowned another cup of wine.
"Let me drink in peace, brother," he said, and they were not here to drink. Not at all. He was finally old enough to squire and see tournies, and yet for some reason, their father had the bright idea of having him squire under his elder brother Daeron.
Daeron was kind and gentle, yet he was no knight. He was a drunkard who was tortured by dragon dreams of their House, and could barely lift up a lance. Aegon was the youngest of the sons, and was in truth the fourth son of a fourth son.
There was no future for him except for the one he would make for himself. Daeron was the eldest and would inherit their father's seat, and then there was Aerion, and then Aemon. So, Aegon would have nothing to inherit.
Not that he cared. He had always wished to be a great knight just like their ancestor, Aemon. But he would not become one if he were to squire under Daeron.
"Come on, Ashford's but a day's ride away, and you could drink yourself to your death there," he complained, as he pulled on his arm.
"Go away," Daeron said as he pushed him away, as Aegon stumbled back.
"Go, and let me drink in peace," he said, and his eyes were red and his face flushed. He was down in his cups already, and his breath reeked of wine and ale.
"I will not go to Ashford. I will not," he repeated, as if in horror, and there were rumors that he suffered the same affliction as Daenys the Dreamer, and had his nights plagued by dragon dreams.
"Why?" Aegon asked, and their eyes met.
"Because he will be there," he whispered, and Aegon frowned.
"Who?" he asked, and he did not answer as his face hit the wooden table with a thud as Aegon sighed in defeat.
"If only father had let me squire for cousin Matarys," he lamented, and that would have been quite the dream. Matarys was older than him, around the same age as Aerion, and yet they were nothing alike.
Matarys was kind and was a true knight. He had always protected him from Aerion, and the two of them were bitter enemies, and despite being his brother, Aegon would always root for his cousin.
He had begged his father to let him squire for him, rather than Daeron, yet he had refused, believing Matarys to be too reckless. Unlike his brothers, Matarys had decided to lead a contingent against the Vulture King in the Red Mountains and had been fighting there ever since.
He had been gone for years, and Aegon prayed that he would return soon and take him under his wing.
Still, one thing was obvious to him that Daeron had no intentions of riding to Ashford, as his father had ordered him to. And for good reason, for their father had ordered him to participate in the tourney, and no man, even Daeron, would ever wish to see themselves humiliated.
Still, Aegon was not quite done yet and would take part in the tourney one way or another.
So, with a final glance, he left the inn, hoping to find a wagon or a retinue heading up to Ashford. He could ask them to let him join, but he would have to be mindful, for despite everything, he was a Prince of the realm, and greed could turn men into monsters.
He slid out of the inn and began to look around when he suddenly heard a loud voice.
"Hello there," and Aegon's head snapped towards the source, as he saw a man ride in with three horses. He had a shield strapped to his back, and his clothes were old and dirty.
"You the stable boy?" he asked, and his tongue was rough and unrefined as he jumped off the horse, and the first thing he noticed about him was his height. He was tall.
Taller than any man he had seen.
He did not wait for his answer as he pushed the reins into his hands.
"I want the palfrey rubbed down, and oats for all three. Can you tend to them?" and the surprise was obvious, for he had taken him for a stable boy. For good reason, though, as Aegon had cut all his hair in rage after his last fight with his brother.
"I could. If I wanted?" Aegon answered, and the man frowned.
"None of that," the giant man raged.
"You'll get a copper if you do well and a clout in the ear if you don't," and with that, he walked past him and into the inn as Aegon found himself staring at three horses. He could have the man hanged for his insolence.
He could have him quartered, and yet that would make him no different than Aerion.
He looked at the horses and saw armor strapped to one of them, and so his guess was right. The man may indeed be a knight heading for Ashford, if so then Aegon could ride with him.
And if he was any good, he could even squire for him.
"This could work," and so with that sinister plan in mind, he led the horses into the stables, and while the things he had asked of him were unworthy of a prince, he would have to do them all once he was a squire.
"This could be good practise...."
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.
.
But in the end, his plans were foiled, and Aegon watched as the tall knight departed the inn, alone with his three horses, as he refused his services as a squire.
He was sulking in the barn when suddenly he heard a few men loading lambs into a cart and speaking about the tourney. They were probably some meat sellers hoping to make some money at the tourney and would be headed that way.
And suddenly an idea hit him, as he resolved himself for the journey up ahead.
There was no way that he was going to miss this tourney. No way at all.
Daeron can sleep and drink himself here in the inn, but Aegon would take part in this tourney one way or another, and now he had the perfect ride to take him there infront of him.
"I will just have to find my own way to Ashford..."
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In the end, it took him two days to reach Ashford, and he slid out of the cart just as they were passing through the pavilions. Now he just needed to find that knight's pavilion, and he searched through the banners, but he saw no sign of the winged chalice.
Perhaps the man had lied. Perhaps he was no knight at all, and as such thoughts filled his head, he spotted three horses up in the distance, bound to a tree. He recognised them for he had rubbed them down a few days ago, and as he slowly made his way up the hill, he saw them.
These were the man's horses. He saw his bags, but there was no sign of him. The man must have gone to the castle to have put his name on the lists, and Aegon glanced at the skies and saw the dark clouds covering them as a hunger pang hit his gut.
There was wood to start a fire, and oats to feed the horses.
"I will just have to hunt some fish..."
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In Kingslanding, the King sat in his solar as he read through a report compiled on one of his grandsons' whims. Years ago, Baelor had mentioned a little project his son had dreamed up, for which he had leased him some land out of the city.
It had been an entirely meaningless matter back then, and he had waved them forward with a quick gesture. Yet that little dream had proven itself to be quite an accomplishment.
"Are these numbers correct?" the King questioned his Master of Whispers, and the red-eyed man nodded.
"Indeed, they are," and Daeron the Good sighed as he raised a brow.
"You were right," and it had been his Master of Whispers who had brought the entire matter to his attention, along with a rather radical idea.
"Prince Matarys's farms produce nearly three to four times the yield of other comparable farms. He uses part of his grain to make his spirits, and the rest he sells to the North at a very low margin," and the North was barren and cold, and always in need of grain.
The Reach and the Riverlands had always offered the North their grain at a markup, taking advantage of their vulnerability, but now his grandson had broken that monopoly.
His wines and whiskey are also rather well-liked in those lands. The Prince has made for himself quite a fortune, and there are whispers that he has many grand plans in his mind," Brynden added, and it was rare of him to praise someone, let alone a young man.
"I am told that he uses some special tools. Why haven't the others simply replicated these tools?" and Brynden nodded.
"They have, and some have seen their yields go up, but few can match his progress," and this whole affair had started for Brynden had made a grand proposal of giving Baelor's youngest a seat on the Council.
The idea was preposterous, and he could not remember the last time when a lord or Prince so young had been made a part of the Council, but the truth was that, given his accolades, a case could be made for him indeed.
"What would be even do on the Council?" Daeron asked, as gestured Brynden to take a seat himself.
"I believe it was one of your namesakes, Prince Daeron's, idea to provide the Crown with a separate line of credit to fund its needs. A way of earning separate from the taxes and levies that we use currently, to lessen the Crown's dependence on its vassals," and indeed, it had been one of his ideas.
"I believe the Prince could help us do that," and it was a novel idea indeed, and given his success with his venture, he could see the possibility.
"I will think about it," he offered as Brynden nodded, though he remembered a rumor he had heard some time ago.
"You sit here and vouch so heavily for the boy, when I remember hearing that Matarys is not much fond of you," and Brynden smiled.
"It is not about fondness. The Prince simply mistrusts me," he answered, making him frown.
"Yet you still vouch for him," and he shrugged.
"His caution is a testament to his prowess. I would not have held him in such a high regard if he had trusted me...."
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