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Daella closed the conversation as the oak doors slammed together, the noise of wood clashing muffled the sound of Maekar sinking himself back into the chair’s hold whilst he groaned into his palms, a long ugly noise helping to release some of the frustration.
It was a ridiculously jolly morning. The birds swam across the sky like fish fly in between the sea's waves, in through the gentle aquamarine, teal and cerulean hues. It was a Summer melody that seemed to gnaw its way into Summerhall's thick, ominous purple aura. Not even clouds dared to break at the clearness of the horizon stretching over the castle. This day was meant to be spent outside, enjoying the sweetly warm, yellow in nature, air to its fullest potential. But the gods were cruel and unjust, so, despite the world fanning its lashes at the castle and its inhabitants, all of them seemed to be burrowing deeper into the bricks' coldness, especially Maekar himself.
Well, everyone except the infamous due of the blood of the dragon and a bastard hedge knight that, as of currently were causing a ruckus outside the Castles halls, as they were making noises of various degrees of happiness and frustration at their shortcomings as the boys sparred right under the round, white sun hitting their hair, painting the thin strands a divinely yellow color only broken by the noise of soft clanks of wooden swords and soft laughter almost as happy in nature as the day itself.
It was the worst day to sulk inside, especially with, apparently, the two happiest people sparring right under your feet, but Maekar never willingly chose which days to burrow deep into himself and a fit corner of the castle to just ponder endlessly at things and problems of the past that no longer could be fixed by common man, maybe gods even. Not reasonably anyways.
‘’Some men will say I meant to kill my brother. The gods know it is a lie, but I will hear the whispers till the day I die. And it was my mace that dealt the fatal blow, I have no doubt. The only other foes he faced in the melee were three Kingsguard, whose vows forbade them to do any more than defend themselves. So it was me. Strange to say, I do not recall the blow that broke his skull. Is that a mercy or a curse? Some of both, I think.’’
Maekar was never the one for fancy words, but the man remembered that day well, it was a cursed, detailed memory that burrowed itself into his skull so deep and snug he could only wish to forget about it before his days on this soil ended and yet, despite the gash in his head so severe, Maekar didn’t remember the blow that slayed his brother, not by now anyway.
By the time he’d realized what had happened, that scene played on repeat in his mind so much, looping over and over, that it began to lose detail, eating itself as he recalled it in a never ending cycle.
Like a snake, no, a dragon eating its own tail.
It started painfully slowly, at first, all the nicks and sharp square edges of armor blurred around the sharpened points, thick cut steel softening and roundening out, not as reflective of the world around it as the meandering progressed. Then, the recollection came for the sound, man in armor grunting, hits, whooshes of mace and sword blurred into one humbuzz, together the voices of men and steal created a boring, mundane melody that over the short period of time had further stooped into nothing but a soft, cruel noise, it was almost like the impression one could hear with their ear snuck against a seashell, only in this case, a hollow helmet, with an ugly, wet, dent in it.
Then, cruelly, came the motions, blows and strikes, hits ,dodges, impacts, kicks, yelps, yells, screams of agony, broken ribs and legs, all that movement, human motion, blurred together in a long, painful blur that consumed everything within its path, dragging all the distinct, well trained gestures of the kingsguard, princes and hedge knights alike into the mud that rested under their feet.
And soon, way before Maekar could set his foot back into the lord’s Ashfords castle after the funeral, the prince could no longer remember how it happened. He started to doubt that it happened at all, at some point, but that brought him no comfort.
Whenever you remember a memory it’s not actually the thing itself you are seeing but the last time you thought of it, your last recollection of said memory. What a cruel trick of one's mind, to have a thing so important to you that it clouds your every waking thought since it happened, be forgotten so quickly to the memories eye as it repeats cruelly over and over, through that repetition, losing detail before, at last, ruthlessly, because the seven gods were cruel, losing itself completely. Leaving nothing but a muddy buzz behind.
And yet, because the whole spirit of Westeros liked to remind the Targaryens that they should have died with the old Valeria, Maekar could recall the exact placement of all the little spots blooming around Aerion’s face, surrounding the discolored bruises and thick cuts.
The prince remembered how that horrid room smelled most of all, it was that rich reek of minor nobility with a thick level of moisture to it, the stone bricks heavy with the smell of stories past. An atmosphere perfect for the fresh aroma of the wounds to spread their roots deeper into the air's soil. Another, sadistic, reminder of how Aerion laid there beaten, bare, with a subtle crease to his brows whilst he slept indicating that slumber didn’t manage to smother the pain of his injuries entirely. It was a heartbreaking thing to see your child not get the mercy of a good sleep due to their injuries. It was heartbreaking that your son got to this point in the first place.
Maekar was sitting at his right, not by the bed itself but pushed up against the corner, finding his resting place in the shadows as a trail of the gloomy morning sun separated the space between him and the bed as it stretched itself illuminating parts of the beds covers and the side of the dark wooden frame itself. It all was glowing together, with the sun, with the misty, rich morning, making the contrast almost mocking as Aerion laid there, in the bed's shadow, taking in small, careful breaths.
Maekar’s eyes remained firmly on one of the bed posts, trailing along one of its leg carvings, it somewhat felt better to focus on the little details instead of looking directly at the problem, the glaring issues, a point of concern for the man's consciousness. The cuts following Aerion’s jaw, the thin, intricate layers of muscle and fat resting under the skin now revealed, barely covered by a thin veil of eschar that managed to form over that short time.
There were four of them, Maekar counted, on his boy’s right side at least. Not that he couldn't remember the left, quite the contrary, each mark embedded well into his memory by now, carved into his mind just as fresh as the wounds dug into Aerion’s face. There were six of them, on the other side, Maekar went over them meticulously, everything could wait, even Baelor's death, Maekar told himself. As if he could make that dreadful realization wait even after the funeral.
But he tried anyway, listing once more, just to himself; a deep cut following the risorius, a larger scrape at his cheek circled by three others, minor wounds, like a rose with most of its petals torn out, it matched shade wise too. The scrape would heal, the minor wounds surrounding it wouldn't leave much scarring, if any, but the cut would scar no matter how useless, snake oil sorcerers would like them to believe.
The right side of Aerion’s face was much worse: a deep gush across his face, through the meat resting atop the boy's cheekbone, a small but deep cut right under his eye and a, thankfully, shallow gash across his neck. But the worst one was the wound starting from right by the corner of his mouth, moving down almost connecting with the one across the cheek as it divided its end into two tails, the skin pulling itself apart, sinking down, no longer held together by flesh as tightly. The second thing was his right eye, terribly swollen, marring into a deep hue of purple with some soft petals the color of lemon skins sprinkled at the edges.
Maekar’s son was in general, horridly tumid from everything that happened, his face puffy, losing the sharp angles of its jaw and prominent facing forward chin as Aerion’s skin bloated, his face lost its shape, the heat slushing under his flesh making it loose its features.
To sit there and keep an eye on his child's chest, making sure it won’t stop or tremor too much felt like too big of a task, too important, too intimate of a job to make anyone else do it. Maekar told himself that, avoiding the fact that in this small moment, in this dark corner of the world, of Ashford, of this bloody room reeking of death, he could let himself be a coward and desperately ignore the ever so dawning realization that long set in his mind despite all the protests.
Baelor was dead.
That one, horrid moment came to define his life now, he knew it well. Maekar didn’t dare deny the fact that this will haunt him for the rest of his days. Just like that scene. Baelor's death was a mindless, senseless blur of pain and yet, to hear a jagged, heavy whip of a long sword through the battlefield, followed by a deep, bloody squelch that seemed to make everything slow down was somewhat worth remembering precisely to his mind. It was maddening how his own brain played with him, toyed with his own memory as Aerion’s scream was hurled out of him so brutally Maekar felt the world spin with the fog surrounding them. It didn’t matter he was fighting that Baratheon cunt head on at the moment, his head darted towards the cry and then- someone made the mistake to grab him by the shoulder – and his mind spun.
Maekar was a father. A father that heard his boy being slaughtered like a common pig at that moment, maybe that’s why he remembered so little of what happened next, whatever it was, all he could remember by now was the soil’s smell, the grey mud as it mixed itself with the muted blues and greens of the sky. The morning was dewy, air thick with water residue but all he could breathe in was the thick, cloggy reek of blood, not Aerion’s specifically, but in that moment it felt like the smell grew sharper.
The worst part about Baelor’s death was that it was pointless, the hands death, the heir to the throne's death, was utterly, completely, wholly futile, because, in the end Maekar never ended up actually getting there, before Aerion’s face was beaten bloody and swollen. The prince was a battle hardened man, bearing scars from many spars, a rebellion, and most notably, countless nooks driven into his skin thanks to the pox, and yet he’d never wish for his children to bare any of them, especially the wounds from a hedge knight during a lost trial of seven.
Maekar was sure that was the end of Aerion, that this nobody was going to kill him, beat him over the head till his jaw would go off its hinges of his brow ridge would cave in, whilst the rest of the traitors looked from the crowd as the blood of the dragon was hit over and over with his own shield. There was no honor in this, it was pointless and cruel and in that moment Maekar realized the full extent of his poor parenting choices, his trust put into this son over the other and where exactly that decision came to its conclusion. The results were staring right back at him, driven into his brain with every deafening, wet, hit of that shield against his son's head. In fact, Maekar was sure Aerion wasn’t going to yield, that he would rather die than lose to a hedge knight, to give up his pride and honor. That Aerion valued his house sigil and what came with it over his very own self, thankfully getting few hits from the shield bearing said sigil must have filled him with enough resentment to surprise Maekar. The man always seemed to be surprised by his children's actions to an extent, like he never quite knew them.
Maekar sucked in a breath right after receiving another hit from the Laughing Storm, Aerion yielded, with his voice tearing at the seams and mouth bleeding-
He yielded.
And suddenly as if one of Bloodravens spells was cast, the field was calm again, the mist still thick with blood, sweat, tears and sharp clanks of steel against steel, seemed to be the only evidence of the fact that the fighting took place, that and a lifeless body of some other local knight Maekar did not bother learning the name of. Everything was still, because the trial was over.
Aerion Brightflame has yielded, withdrawing his accusations.
It was one of those moments the poets and bards could not describe with the most meticulously put song or verse. It was one of those things that required a new word for it, the atmosphere of such rarity, all of them still, after a trial of seven, once in a few generations experience yet, Maekar didn't care about the grandness of it, he didn't care about the stories that people would tell about this encounter being immortally embarrassing for the Targaryen house, because now, no honor or humiliation could bring back his son, non, so, unlike other, better men, he didn't freeze up and wait, instead, Maekar Targaryen, Prince of Summerhall, fourth son of King Daeron the Good launched forward out of their choke, immediately freeing himself out of that deer reeking bastards grip.
The man bolted forward, it was no matter how he got there, to his son, for all Maekar cared he could get to Aerion’s side on all fours straight through the mud, at the moment, he didn’t remember and he didn't care to remember the only thing that mattered is that he was at his side as that hedge knight stumbling off into the shit stained bushes he crawled out of, whilst Maekar sank onto his knees, burrowing the metal of his armor into the mud leaning over his boy.
Aerion was facing downwards, face burrowed in mud as Maekar grabbed him under his side and by the shoulder rather flimsily with the most tenderness his own armor allowed, admittedly it was a struggle, his son was no big man but his armor weight him down, not to mention the intricate, decorative spikes all over his shoulder pieces that didn’t prove to be of any help, quite the contrary as the additional protrusions just got in the way, making it a struggle to properly get a hold of him. It was ridiculous how on top of everything that Maekar regretted at the moment, a metaphorical, blood and mud soaked cherry of allowing his kids to customize their armor in accordance with their wildest wishes was shoved into that four layer vanilla cake of pure, unadulterated regret. It wasn’t even a vanilla cake, it was one of those mud cakes kids made, stoopy and flimsy just like this place, they should have never stooped so low to cover themselves in some Ashford mud, they shouldn't be here in the first place.
Maekar managed to turn him over, eventually, a time that seemed too long on his shaken mind as his hands gave into a tremor, Maekar did not tremble, not during the Blackfyre rebellion when for a moment he was sure Baelor will never arrive on time, not during - not never. Maekar Targaryen did not tremble.
A pair of umber eyes stared at him, Aerion was alive, mouth agape, as he inhaled and exhaled sharply, his white teeth caked with the pulp cake of regret and misery with the red cherry blood smeared across his cheeks and chin, the boy's hazed gaze momentarily focused on Maekar, almost like he was expecting Duncan to turn back to finish what he started, but as he recognized his father’s gaze, Aerion’s eyes made a sharp leap towards the mud. His mouth clasped shut in a frown, he choked on his own blood but refused to open his jaw back up again, taking in a shaky inhale through his nose. His gaze still firmly set on slithering away from his fathers expression, which was truly out of character for him, Daeron would do that, avoid Maekar’s eyes in most situations, but Aerion always faced him head on, in a challenge almost, that habit drove his father mad at many points but not now. Now, Maekar wished to see those eyes stare back at him, as his face was married with no scorn, not even worry just the primal and the truest of emotions, fear.
But this was no place for tender looks and words, don’t think there was ever a worse place for soft coos than in the middle of this muddy field. Maekar gave him a firm shake as he held his shoulder piece - Aerion. - the prince started, quickly realizing he was not sure what to say, exactly. The boy didn't answer stubbornly, acting too out of it to speak, he sure looked the part. - Aerion - Maekar repeated with some firmness to it, cutting through the fear, but this too earned him no response but a slight shift of his son’s head downwards, thankfully, soon enough, one of the kingsguard seemed to stir away from the motionless state too, following after Maekar quickly making it to their side.
- Help me get him up - Maekar barked, not turning his head away from his child - He can’t stay here - the prince added. There clearly was something bubbling in the White Cloak’s throat, probably some insignificant part about Maekar being injured too, but the prince of Summerhall was in no mood to listen to this jargon now - Are you fucking deaf? - Maekar barked again, rising up on his own feet, as his head sharply turned towards the kingsguard now. This time ser Donnel did not dare to object helping Maekar haul Aerion up, dragging him into a more secluded place, away from that bloody hedge knight, away from all those traitors against the blood of the dragon, away from-
Despite the hideous hate Maekar felt brew in his gut towards Baelor, he could not finish that thought. The man’s expression grew somber as the Maester finally approached them, to be exact, he got to them right after the fighting party managed to wrestle themselves under the crowd stands, a small wooden area, wider in length than width, with a stoopy kind of a ceiling you could still smell mud from all these boots cling to. Maekar managed to find a lower ledge between one of the wooden joists holding up the stands that he lowered Aerion onto despite the protest.
The Maester was sent from Baelor, of course he was, ‘’to tend to his brother’’. Makear might have just killed the man, for even daring to suggest such a thing, before him and then his sender, if the Maester wasn’t of any use. The prince quickly dismissed whatever offer was put out for him, threatening the man into helping Aerion first. If he liked his head to stay on his fucking shoulders, that was. The old, quite shaken witch obliged.
Aerion was still stubbornly awake, gods be good, but his face lost a touch of its usual color, or maybe it was the contrast of the blood making it look off. A gory bit of both possibly, Maekar took note as he wrestled out of his armored gloves, tossing the leather and metal pieces aside without any care. Quickly moving onto wrestling with the buckles of Aerion's helmet despite the hesitant protests from the receiving side.
- Where the fuck is Daeron? - Maekar mumbled more to himself as the Maester hurriedly pulled out his supplies, scattering them down onto the ground. - I’m afraid I do not know, your grace - the old man answered, receiving only a frustrated scoff in return, Maekar turned his gaze back at ser Donnel who dared to try sitting down - Go get Daeron, now. - he commanded and the knight feared not to oblige, bursting out of the little wooden pocket on his way to drag back another failure.
Maekar was not as concerned for the other son, keeping an eye on him throughout the battle, as he, unsurprisingly, tumbled straight off his horse into the mud. The prince wasn’t even surprised, this was not the first time he’s done this, but the fact that he did it now, whilst fighting the trial for the right of their family made something in Maekar stir dangerously.
The spiked, decorative helmet was soon pulled off as Aerion sat there half alive, almost calm in his persistence to act half dead, pretending this was not happening, or at least he wasn’t conscious whilst it did, whilst Maekar’s hands checked around his head for any other damage, dirt meeting the almost white blonde strands thick with sweat hair. Aerion’s dazed act would still continue to be phenomenal but he felt the Maesters hands on his thigh and tensed up momentarily.
Maekar didn't anticipate his son's sudden lurch forward but he managed to catch him just in time, as they almost toppled over, the man grabbed Aerion under the shoulder and by the front of his chestplate, forcing him back against the wall with equal abruptness. That action was answered with a pained half sob punched right out of Aerion, muffled partially through his clenched teeth as the wound on his thigh met the hard, wooden surface with the sudden force. The boy hissed something incoherently through a long, strained quieter whine of pain settling after the initial contact against the wound as his hand hit at Maekar’s back piece.
The prince shoved his son’s hand away with a frustrated - Aerion, hold still. - Maekar tried to threaten despite feeling conflicted about this-, despite everything, by now. - Or I swear I’ll- - Maekar was interrupted by Daeron’s sudden entrance, as he fought frantically against ser Donnel’s hold on his arm, trying to weasel his way out of the hold, out of here but quickly stumbled over an invisible, non existent ledge and with some few frantic steps landed right at Maekar’s left side, whilst, Aerion sensing the opportunity tried to bolt too, Maekar’s brows went down as the small space was filled with the sudden notion - DOWN! - he yelled abruptly. Daeron trembled but didn't dare to look up or object as he sank onto the ground by Maekar’s leg whilst holding his own palm firmly pressed against his cheek. Aerion just gave up as his hand slacked back to its place as he was mumbling something about it being nothing but a scratch and that he could do it on his own and- then a scream pierced Maekar's right ear once more as the Maester stuffed cloth into the rip in Aerion’s flesh, making sure the wound from the longsword wouldn't bleed excessively. The fabric lining the armor was cut open at the crotch to save time, material could be sawn back up together anytime, legs had a shorter time window, tricky things that they were.
The prince's wide range of shrieks, howls, wails and every other sound wild beasts made topped off with some curses filled the space under the stand as the Maester’s hands stuffed the cloth further into the open wound, as the coarse material traveled into the gash, spreading the torn muscles, dermis and the fat layers of the skin, stuffing itself in between the wet, squelching flesh tightly to stop the bleeding so he could be safely transported to another place.
Lots of threats were thrown at the old Maester, blood spat from Aerion's mouth onto the top of his grey hair, but he paid the young prince no mind, Maekar’s threats were enough for the witch to not even bother looking up from his work. Soon enough Aerion must have either realized that screaming was no use, simply tired out or the high of adrenaline must have subsided with the blood’s seeping as he slacked, biting hard into his bottom lip, still mewling through his cheeks as blood trickled down his chin, maybe it was from the bitten lip, maybe it was already there, Maekar couldn't tell the difference.
- Are you hurt? - Maekar asked his other son, after it was quiet enough to ask as he turned towards Daeron, who was still obediently sitting down. He was missing his helmet and a few parts of armor, Maekar noted - Beyond that cheek - The prince added as he threw breathlessly towards his son giving him a longer glance that Maekar himself wasn’t sure how to read. Not that Daeron met his gaze anyway.
Daeron just shook his head hesitantly, looking up at Maekar with those wide, haunted eyes like he expected to be strangled instead of the Maester. But Maekar just stared at him with a half dazed expression himself, unsure what to do of the situation as his thoughts slowly started coming back to him, the high of Maekar’s own adrenaline dying down letting go of him for the first time in minutes.
The trial was over, Maekar registered just now, fully.
The Maester finished his work for now, cutting off the leftover piece from the cloth, giving the bandages around Aerion’s thigh a tug, tightening them, the prince hissed in return giving him a stare that translated to death by dragon fire, thankfully, to the realms delight, Aerion’s egg never hatched. And despite his greatest efforts, he was nowhere close to an actual dragon either.
Maekar took the leftover cloth from the Maester after gracing Aerion with a weak warning glare - Are you sure? - Maekar asked further, as he turned back towards Daeron. He received another, quicker, nod in return, as Maekar exhaled through his nose shakely, feeling his own leg make itself known as the man forced himself to kneel back down, grabbing at Daeron’s arm, pushed up against his own cheek, with as much tenderness as his own trembling hands allowed, pulling it away from the wound for a moment just to put the cloth against his cheek before pressing Daeron’s hand back into his face. - Hold it. - Maekar commanded and Daeron just nodded shakily, looking like he was prepared to be struck. That did not surprise Maekar as he gave Daeron’s head a closer look too, brushing through the mess of dark blonde curls, finding some comfort in discovering nothing of concern.
Maekar stood back up, having to support his weight against the wall while he did, as his calf scorched with pain, but right now there was no time for that, because Aerion returned to half resting at his shoulder, as Makear stood over him again slightly slouched. - Ser, get someone to help with getting them back to the castle. - Maekar said no longer barking, stating more like, as the anger coiling behind his eyes seeped out of him with the blood, leaving an unreadable expression. The knight, ser Donnel gave him a low nod before rushing out of the crowd stands once more.
Maekar’s left hand found its way to Daeron’s head, making him shuffle closer, the shaken, drunk mess of a man did not dare to test him, especially now, moving closer with the guidance while looking up at his father like he did expect the worse. But instead of a hand grabbing at his throat, all Daeron got was a long, pathetically weak, angry look that tore at the seams with dread as Maekar's hand just pressed Daeron's head closer to the side of his leg, keeping him there. - We will talk about this. - Maekar warned grimly, like it was a death sentence he was delivering.
Meanwhile Aerion just sank into his fathers side completely, balancing most of his weight on him as Maekar made sure he didn't topple over as the gesture was met with Maekar's other hand sinking into his hair as well, holding at his nape.
It was the first time Makar Targaryen felt like he couldn’t breath during the trial. He took a long, drawn out, inhale that made his ribs hurt, strained against the inside of his armor that constricted them from expanding further. - We will talk about this.. - Maekar paused, adding a resigned - ..later - Honor could wait with its scorn, expectation could wait with its flame, judgment could wait with its blaze. The worst present moment has turned past. But the gods were cruel and unjust and the worst moment, or rather realization, was waiting for them in the very close future.
Maekar stirred from his brooding slumber, at a particularly loud laugh coming from outside. This was a grotesquely jolly morning for sulking, but that didn't stop him from recounting Aerion’s bruises once more.