Valyrian Temple

Aegon had little idea what he had done to earn the harsh look from his grandmother, as he had both been silent and had sought out the Valyrian temple on his own initiative. If people like his grandmother represented the most devout of this religion, no wonder the lords of Westeros were not lining up to join it.

"I am curious to see the rites," Aegon replied, ignoring the previous discussions. "I should like to see the way my ancestors worshiped the Gods, back in Old Valyria." In truth the Valyrian temple seemed more familiar than Aegon expected; with its statues and priests it was not so different from an Andal sept.

There had been no temples in Westeros, but Aegon was not altogether ignorant of the religion; he had been raised in it as a child, after all, and had at least nominally followed the pantheon throughout young adulthood.

"Syrax was always my favorite," Aegon replied. The god of craft and work was not so different from the Smith, which had always been Aegon's favored aspect of the Seven.

"A noble choice, and so often forgotten by the highborn." The priest eyed him curiously, while the novices and other priests began lighting a brazier and people began to filter into the temple. He turned to Arenya. "Zyraxes is an excellent choice also."

"Not Vhagar?" Laena asked her daughter. "You surprise me, child."

The Dowager frowned but held her tongue as a young male novice brought the trio a book, which he handed to Areyna at the priest's direction. The three Targaryens saw at once that the words were written in High Valyrian, the script looping and elegant, though not easy to read, even if they could understand the words. As promised, the illuminations were very pretty, and included pictures of wild animals, with dragons very much in favour.

"Please be careful with it," the priest requested. It is very precious."

More worshippers entered the temple and took up standing positions in front of the benches. Some carried prayer books, others wore charms on a necklace or cord thong about their neck. The temple was filled with a low, seductive chant.

Aegon glanced at the book, though he could not read it. Looking at it made him recall his old copy of the Seven Pointed Star. He had given it to Maekar, he remembered, and wondered whether his brother had ever found use for it. Aegon doubted it. Not for the book, at any rate, though no doubt he had made plenty of use of the sword he had given him. The whole train of thought made Aegon suddenly angry, and he reached again for the impassive face life had made it necessary for him to learn over the last few months.

As the chant filled the room, Aegon found himself wishing he had asked for a prayer to Vhagar instead. The Valyrian gods had never been much good at building, but in fire and blood at least they were unmatched.

"Can you tell what they are saying?" Aegon whispered to Arenya. He kept his voice low, not wanting to interrupt the ceremony.

Aegon nodded in response, watching the ceremony even if he could not understand it.

With her knowledge of Valyrian, Arenya learned that the prayers were not so very different to those said in the name of the Seven, though here twelve gods were called upon. The ceremony progressed in somewhat unremarkable fashion, with another break for a song, and then the priest signalled and stood over a font filled with water, which he had blessed in the name of Meraxes. The people began to line up, but a novice ran to the three Targaryens and urged them to go to the front of the queue.

"Honoured guests first," he said in the Common Tongue.

"Yes, is a blessing," the novice agreed.

There were two bowls. One, filled with water, gave off a faint perfumed scent. The other was empty. "Hold out your hand," the priest commanded in the Common Tongue. He took out a knife with a silver hilt and a blade of Valyrian steel. "Left or right, it makes no matter."

It came as no great surprise when the priest sliced neatly across his pam, drawing blood. With Valyrian steel, the blade was so sharp it was not immediately felt. But seconds later the blood welled and dripped into the empty bowl.

"You may wash your hand clean in the water blessed by Meraxes, as you offer your blood in sacrifice to Vermithor."

Arenya stood behind watching blessing ritual, waiting her turn.

Aegon stared in shock as his grandmother fell. Then he stepped forward and grabbed the priest by the front of his robe, the blood on his hand smearing all over his vestments. "What did you do to her?" Aegon snarled. "Undo it!"