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Chapter 18: Interlude: Vaegon IChapter Text

"Books are my only passion. Well, apart from watching Rhaenyra plot her delightfully mad ideas."

-Archmaester Vaegon

104 AC, Aenar's Hidden Vault

Archmaester Vaegon wasn't like most men. He already knew that at a young age. Where most boys would gleefully whack each other senseless with sticks in a yard under the sun, Prince Vaegon preferred reading in a cool library. Where most boys would ogle at the maids and serving girls of court, or more rarely, the knights, Prince Vaegon felt nothing. He felt none of the fabled stirring of the loins. That famous desire for flesh that was the downfall of many a man.

Oh, he appreciated beauty. He could admire the way women like his sister Alyssa or Aemon's wife Jocelyn looked, great beauties of the realm, but that was more akin to a man appreciating a painting or vase than lust. For a time, he wondered if his lack of interest in women was due to a preference for men, but they stirred equal desire in him as women. Specifically none.

His only love was for reading and learning. There was just so much knowledge in the world, far more than any one man could ever hope to know. Still, he tried his best, denying his body sleep as he read through the night. Ignoring the distractions of court to spend more time in the library. Shunning meals for that extra hour with his books. What he wouldn't give to be lost in a library, never leaving for eternity.

Alas, he was only a mortal, and his body had its needs. He had to eat and sleep, drink and bathe. Worse, he was a Prince, and thus had to contend with the frivolous distractions of that role. Girls and women throwing themselves at him in hopes of getting a foothold in the royal family. Men and boys trying to get him to learn the blade. As if warfare were something glorious and not an utterly pointless waste of resources.

Even his parents got involved, first betrothing him to his simpleton sister Daella. And when he truthfully told her that any children of hers would be stupid, given their mother's own mental deficiencies, his entire family was incensed. His parents decided that he needed to spend more time with others, and made Baelon drag him away from his learning in the library and into the training yard daily for pointless exercise. A wasted year, that, before Baelon finally lost all patience and sicced Alyssa on him. His sister taunting and humiliating him until he left in a fury.

The only silver lining to that travesty was that his parents never brought him back to the training yard again.

Still, at least his parents decided to send him off to the Citadel. That was the best present he ever received from them. A lifetime of learning, without concern for politics and other such trivialities.

His decades in Oldtown were some of the most enjoyable in his life. Learning from the best minds in Westeros on many topics. Forging link after link of his chain. Grand Maester Elysar had been right that he'd have made a poor maester, for he was utterly unconcerned with the day-to-day realities of ruling. The Citadel had the largest collection of books this side of the Narrow Sea, more than any man could ever hope to read, even if he dedicated his entire lifetime to the task.

When Archmaester Arys died, Maester Vaegon volunteered for the role, and was able to defeat the other three candidates in a battle of their minds, his mastery of his sums the finest even if it wasn't his passion. Still, he embraced the role. As Archmaester, he never had to leave the library if he did not wish it. Never had to fear being sent of to some dreary holdfast at the end of the world. If all he had to do was lecture for two hours every other day and judge how competent his students were every other fortnight, then so be it. It would have been cheap at thrice the price.

He lost count of the years after that, reading, eating, sleeping, teaching, judging all melding into a timeless mix. It was only when he recieved a raven from his father summoning him back to court that he realised how much he missed. Mother was dead. Aemon was dead. Alyssa was dead. Daella was dead. Saera was exiled and now a brothel madame. Viserra was dead. Maegelle was dead. His sister Gael had lived her entire life and died without ever meeting him. And now Baelon was dead.

Father wished him to return to King's Landing temporarily, and his tone brooked no argument. Like it or not, he was king and thus his word was law. And so Archmaester Vaegon returned for the first time in decades, the last of the Old King's children. It wasn't much of a pleasant meeting. Father first tried to offer him the crown, but he declined. Profusely. Then they tried to debate the claims of his nephew and niece. Who to crown? Rhaenys or Viserys?

Vaegon was inclined towards Rhaenys, as primogeniture favoured her. Yet she was sharp tempered and fierce, and married to the famously ambitious Corlys Velaryon. Father preferred Viserys, who was gentle and amicable, with a pliant wife.

They argued back and forth for weeks, the Old King indecisive, unwilling to commit for a single candidate, fearing civil war. Eventually Vaegon threw his hands up in frustration and told Father that the best way to avoid civil war was to have every lord and lady in Westeros sit down and argue about it. It was how they did it in the Citadel, for picking the Grand Maester, after all. Better a war of words than a war of swords in his opinion. Father agreed, yet faced surprising resistance from his Small Council.

The interim Master of Ships Vaemond Velaryon obviously favoured his kinswoman, and Mistress of Whispers Jonquil Darke supported the claim of a fellow woman, this was expected.

But he didn't expect to find Master of Coin Lyman Beesbury backing them, nor Master of Laws Lyonel Strong, both citing the bad idea for a precedent that allowed people to chose whom ruled them, and declaring it a foolish erosion of the crown's authority. Even Hand of the King Lord Otto Hightower concurred, though he was against mostly because it put the famously unsavoury Daemon closer to the Iron Throne.

Just about the only person backing them was Grand Maester Runciter, whom was a stubborn and arrogant man in Vaegon's opinion.

Still, it was only that faithful day in Harrenhal that he realised who masterminded the pushback. Whom marshalled the Small Council against the King.

Who would have thought it would be the youngest member of their family. His four-year-old grandniece Rhaenyra.

And what a sharp mind was hidden in that little one's head. So full of ideas and knowledge. She grasped nearly every topic he broached with her, some to a truly frightful degree. She could do algebra without writing down even a single equation, and was the first person outside of the Archmaesters of Accountancy to realise how to find the gradient in it. She even knew how to find the gradient for squared curves and beyond. Calculus, she called it. What a simple name for something so fearsome.

Such a mind needed to be honed. To be watered with knowledge and planted in grounds of fertile learning. It was why he tried to bring her back to the Citadel. Truly, it would have been the greatest catastrophe of all time if her potential was to go untapped. Alas, she was attached to her role as heiress to the Iron Throne, and even the most progressive Archmaesters he worked with balked at the idea of letting her into the Citadel. So he was forced to grit his teeth and stay in King's Landing.

He wasn't even surprised when Father confided in him that she was from the future. No wonder she had such knowledge in her head. A thousand years. Gods, the potential of such knowledge. And so he listened and obeyed, giving her and Laena a lord's education. They even spent time debating the effects of healing, though it was admittedly not his strongest suit. He only had a single link in the subject.

It was one of those things that was just understood between family. She never outright told him she was from the future, and he correspondingly never told her he knew. The silence was more comfortable than the truth in this case.

He had spent the most time at her side, far more than any other man or woman who was not named Laena Velaryon, and so he had grown arrogant, believed himself beyond surprise when it came to Rhaenyra.

And yet, that wonderful girl had done it again.

He was shocked when she strutted in, a glass candle and wonderful tome of dragonlore in her hand. To think that she had found Aenar's vault less than a month after he told her. Asking Vhagar where it was no less. Vhagar! To think that their answer was so close at hand.

Seven of them had set out on five dragons. Taking with them both of their family's ancestral blades.

They swiftly reached the tiny island out at sea, though given the size, the dragons had to take turns landing. Meleys and Seasmoke curled up upon the land while the three larger dragons landed in the sea with a great splash, large enough that the upper thirds of their bodies were above the water.

Rhaenyra demonstrated how to open the crypt, and into the vault they went.

And what treasures were they.

An entire shelf of priceless books. Lost knowledge from Valyria, from sorceries to the lost recipe Valyrian steel to the shaping of dragonstone. A dozen glass candles. Dragonbone and Fyrewood. And then, twelve chests that filled up an entire wall of the vault. Stacked too high for the children to reach and too heavy for them to budge.

Vaegon advised against checking their contents, stating that the smaller prizes should first be extracted and inventoried. For space issues in the cramped vault, if nothing else. Viserys and Corlys concurred.

And so it was, the vault systematically emptied by the seven of them.

The books were removed first, passed in a chain from Viserys at the shelf, to Rhaenys by the ladder, to Laenor halfway up the ladder to Laena at the top and to Vaegon, Corlys and Rhaenyra for sorting. Before long they had a pile of a hundred tomes. Encyclopaedias made up half of them, on a variety of subjects from astronomy to healing. There was a stack of thirty of so spellbooks, another dozen journals and writings of past Kings and Lords, as well as eight that held the secrets of Valyrian steel, dragonstone and Valyrian alchemy.

Next up were the smaller trinkets. Fourteen glass candles. Twenty bottles of potions, which were carefully placed away from everything else. Another twenty jars of strange powders, which were also carefully placed away from everything else. Nine dragonglass daggers, a bag of obsidian arrowheads, eight spheres of black glass that Vaegon remembered seeing in paintings of Valyrian war mages and obsidian cutlery, which he recognised as bearing ceremonial roles for the worship of the Pantheon of Fourteen. Seven daggers made from dragon teeth, inlaid with glyphs for Tyraxes and Vhagar, the Goddess of Strategy and the God of war respectively. Two harps and four flutes, as well as a long pipe made of dragonbone, with five book-sized boxes of dragonbone jewellery. Three music boxes, four far-eyes, two compasses, an abacus, a wonderfully made sextant and four boxes filled with parchment scrolls, all made from priceless Fyrewood. The boxes took a while to haul up, but thankfully they fit through the hole in the ceiling, though it was a tight fit.

After them, were the weapons. There were more than anticipated. Twenty assorted dragonbone bows, five wonderfully crafted crossbows, four lances of dragonbone and eight of Fyrewood. A pair of dragonskin whips, two shields made with dragonhide stretched over Fyrewood. Twelve intricate and ornate Fyrewood sticks of varying length and thickness from a foot with the thinness of a finger, to seven feet and thick as one's fist. And a magnificent warhammer, with a dragonstone head and Fyrewood handle wrapped with leather. So heavy that Viserys and Corlys working together was required lift it. They eventually got it out of the vault by connecting together all their saddle chains before attaching one end to the hammer, and the other to Seasmoke's saddle.

The young dragon was able to pull it out of the vault, moving slowly under Laenor's guidance to prevent the hammer from flying out and smashing the delicate treasures.

After that, everyone was sweaty and tired, so they broke for lunch, pulling out the picnic mats from the saddlebags and producing baskets of food. As soon as they were fed and watered, the work resumed.

The twelve massive chests were too big to fit through the ceiling unless vertical, so they instead decided to open them within the vault, now far more spacious as most of its contents had been cleared out and placed into the dragons' saddlebags.

Viserys and Corlys reached up and tugged down one of the chests on the top row, but found themselves unable to open the Valyrian steel lock. In fact, it did not even have a keyhole. Attacking the chest proved useless, as Blackfyre glanced off the Fyrewood, not even scratching it. Rhaenyra tried to work the hinges, but had no luck there either. However, after trying for some time, Rhaenyra accidentally scratched her finger on something, causing blood to pool on it. A single drop fell from it, landing right on the chest, and immediately, glyphs inscribed into the Valyrian steel bands lit up, and they lock opened with a hiss.

The chest they opened was filled with bolts of cured dragonskin of every shade. Which could sell for tens of thousands per yard in most Free Cities.

The next two held beautifully crafted idols of the Pantheon of Fourteen Flames, all nestled in red felt cushions. Seven in each chest. The fourteen gods of Valyria, with each one claiming one of the Fourteen Flames as their personal realm and home.

Arrax Firstborn- Ruler of Gods, law, order, justice, governance and strength.

Aegarax Beastmaster- God of all creatures that walk, run, swim or fly. Creator of the first dragon.

Balerion Nightborn- God of death and the Underworld.

Caraxes Seastrider- God of the sea, twin of Meraxes.

Gaelithox Lightbringer- God of fire, stars, moon, sun and the dawn, rival of Meraxes.

Meleys Childbearer- Goddess of love and fertility.

Meraxes Skystrider- Goddess of the sky, twin of Caraxes.

Shrykos Lastborn- Goddess of beginnings, endings, transitions and doorways.

Syrax the Indolent- Goddess of wine, fruitfulness, parties, festivals, madness, chaos, drunkenness, vegetation, and ecstasy.

Tessarion the Elegant- Goddess of music, arts, knowledge, healing, plague, prophecy, poetry, beauty, archery and booty.

Tyraxes Wisest- Goddess of reason, wisdom, intelligence, skill, peace, warfare and battle strategy.

Vermax Longstride- God of boundaries, travel, communication, trade, language, and writing.

Vermithor Bronzeskin- God of smiths, crafts and artisans.

Vhagar Hostbreaker- God of war.

All fourteen gods were carved from obsidian as tall as Vaegon's forearm, with colours worked into the glass, such that they seemed near lifelike. Gaelithox's robe was made of red, orange and yellow glass in a stylish imitation of fire. Vermithor's skin was a bronze glass, and his blacksmith's apron was blackest obsidian.

Aegon probably dumped them here after he converted to the Faith of the Seven, unwilling to destroy such works of art, but unable to continue using them. The Faith had largely turned more moderate over the past decades, but in Aegon's time, it was considered appropriate and even encouraging to destroy foreign gods and idols. Weirwood trees had been chopped down, idols of R'hllor smashed in marketplaces and priests of the Drowned God publicly lynched by the Faith Militant, backed by cheering mobs.

Sadly, the idols were near useless now. The Pantheon of Fourteen's last worshippers lived behind the Black Walls of Volantis, with only the occasional cult in the rest of the Free Cities. None whom were willing to pay for idols of the Fourteen, no matter how well crafted they were.

The next chest was filled to the brim with treasure. Gems, jewels and precious metals. And most of all, coinage from Old Valyria. Pieces of gold, silver and copper, stamped with their banner of fourteen mountains, all facing inwards. Like an open maw with fourteen teeth, endlessly hungry and determined to devour the world to sate it. Enough to cover Rhaenyra with gold and still have more to spare.

The following two were filled with Fyrewood logs and planks. Worth more than the whole chest of treasure.

Another two were filled with raw dragonbone, jet black and unshaped, ready to be turned into whatever House Targaryen wanted.

The ninth held twelve dragon eggs, each the size of a head. Mayhaps an emergency stockpile of dragons, should the hatchery at Dragonstone somehow be destroyed.

But it was the tenth that drew attention. Seven dragon horns, each the size of his forearm, banded with red gold and black iron, glyphs inlaid into the sides, proclaiming their functions; sever, sooth, flee, command, enrage, call and sleep.

It took them a while to stop staring at the horns and open the eleventh chest, and it too was a wonder. Three Fyrewood saplings, all held in pots covered by glass. To Vaegon's immense surprise, nothing moved within the glass, no matter how much he shook it, the black leaves of the Fyrewood did not even stir. It was like a fly frozen in amber, unable to even move or budge. Frozen in time, he heard Rhaenyra murmur, awed.

It was with barely concealed enthusiasm that they opened the last chest, eager to see what wonder was hidden within. Gasps resounded through the vault as its contents became clear. Ingots upon ingots of Valyrian steel. Enough to forge an entire suit of plate and still have enough for half a dozen swords.

"Well." Rhaenyra finally said, voice incredulous. "We won't have to worry about taxes for quite a while now."

Everyone laughed at the weak joke, laughing at the sheer wealth they now had at their disposal. Laughing at just how ridiculous the whole affair was. More wealth than they knew what to do with. The contents of Aenar's hidden vault had surpassed even their wildest imaginations.

Now the question turned as to what to do with it all.