Chapter 17
BAELOR TARGARYEN
The trip to Ashford was meant to build alliances. Once the Targaryens were Gods amongst men, but without their dragons, alliances and oaths kept the realm together. They had come to Ashford to reinforce one such alliance and to remind the people of the King who ruled over them.
It was meant to project power and kindness, and yet it had become a moment of absolute carnage.
"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING!" and Maekar was furious, more furious than he had yet been in this trip. The event had proven itself challenging for him because of his sons, who had refused to offer him any respite.
Baelor himself had run out of patience and kindness.
"KILLING PEOPLE ON A WHIM! HAVE YOU LOST YOUR SENSES BOY!" he questioned, and yet Aerion sat there, fiddling with his cup as if he had not just destroyed their House's honor and dignity in a single moment.
Brightflame, he had coined the title for himself, and he looked more Targaryen than him with his silver hair and purple eyes. Aerion's display at the jousts had been humiliating enough, and the tricks that he had employed were not suitable for an honorable knight let alone a Prince of the realm.
Still, those aggressions were against his own cousin, and could be chalked up to rivalry or such. But this. Killing People. There was no justification for it, no matter what he may utter, and House Targaryen would have to answer for it.
He would have to answer for it.
"They were traitors," and Baelor would have interfered, but he did not need to.
"DO NOT LIE TO ME BOY!" Maekar raged, and both of them had gotten a good measure of what had happened from the guards with him.
"They are not lies," Aerion countered, and his face was bruised from the attack from that hedge knight who now sat in the dungeons, a hedge knight for whom his own youngest brother had been squiring for in secret.
A hedge knight whom his son had befriended.
"They killed a dragon. The symbol of our House and laughed," Aerion argued, and they had not been wise in their choice of play, but this was no treason. An unwise choice indeed, but not treason.
"They were no traitors..." Maekar dismissed the accusation.
"THEY TRIED TO KILL ME!" Aerion roared back for the first time as he crushed a walnut in his hands.
"SEE HERE!" he pointed at the bruise on his face.
"And what did you expect of them huh?" Maekar asked as he stepped forward.
"You slaughtered a girl, maimed an old man infront of a crowd for killing a dragon puppet! PUPPET!" he said as he grabbed his head and pushed it back angrily.
"What did you expect! Did you think they would worship you! Or that they would sing songs in your honor! WHAT DID YOU EXPECT!" and he pushed it back angrily, and began to pace once more.
"I should have let those people devour you whole," Maekar whispered, as Aerion ground his teeth, and as loathed as he was to admit, but the deed was done.
"We do not behead people just because of any suspicion, dear nephew," Baelor whispered, and only his love for his brother held him back, for otherwise he would have offered him the same justice he had offered to that poor girl.
But he was not that kind of man.
He had come here, hoping to see some reason or remorse from his nephew, and yet he had found none. He had killed off a girl, and maimed a man just because he had felt like it.
He took a deep breath and rose up from his chair.
"Royal blood may flow through our bodies, but these are Ashford lands, and we stand in Lord Ashford's home," and they had come here to celebrate the birthday of his daughters, and he had ruined it all along with the honor of their House.
"Lord Ashford will wish to see justice dispensed," and Aerion scoffed, and for good reason.
"I have a dozen people to call on," he whispered mockingly.
"Everyone saw the bastard attack me," and the person he spoke of was no bastard.
"The one who attacked you was no bastard. He is Ser Duncan the Tall, and he is a knight of the realm," and it was Maekar who responded.
"A hedge knight," he reminded him, and then he saw Maekar turn towards his son with great frustration before he turned towards him once more.
"Right or wrong, the man did strike a Prince of blood?" and this was a father's love.
"It would be best if this entire mess is squared away with further bloodshed," and he had no doubt that Lord Ashford would have a similar wish.
"I want the man hanged," Aerion argued.
"SHUT UP!" Maekar shouted at his son.
"He hit me! Everyone saw it! That should be enough to hang that no-named bastard!" and Maekar picked up a glass from the table and threw it towards his son.
CLINK! CLANK!
The glass fell to the floor and began to roll as Baelor chose to intervene.
"Brother," he whispered softly, as he saw his face flush in rage.
"Why do the Gods test me so much?" he heard him whisper, as he took a deep breath, as Baelor turned towards his nephew.
"To sentence them as such, we would need to hold a full trial," he reminded him, and Aerion still remained oblivious to the truth.
"So what?" and Maekar let out a breath, as his shoulders sagged in defeat.
"No one will dare utter any word against a Prince," and Aerion scoffed, though he was right. A trial would be useless, for no lord or knight would ever dare to offend the Crown for the life of a small folk woman.
"But my son would..." and with those words, he walked out of the room, and he had already asked Lord Ashford for his solar, as he prayed that they could avoid further bloodshed, even though a part of him felt that this was nothing but a pipe dream now.
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MATARYS TARGARYEN
Matarys stood in the sept where the silent sisters were treating the dead Tanselle's body and preparing it for a funeral. He had feared a confrontation between Aerion and Ser Duncan, and had hoped that things would not escalate.
As a participant in the tournament, it was not possible for him to go and intervene in Aerion's stupidities, and so he had asked another to help keep Aerion in check, but in the end, he had been let down.
Aerion was vain and cruel, and had he only maimed or beaten up the puppeteers, the damage could have been mitigated. Gold could have exchanged hands, threats could have been made, and the entire matter could have been swept up cleanly.
But the idiot had chosen to do the worst thing possible. He had killed an innocent woman just because of some jealousy.
And now their reputation was in shambles, and the people were all demanding justice. He felt the door open behind him, yet the Silent Sisters did not move as he heard a man walk beside him with his head hung low.
The smell was enough to tell him who it was, as Matarys' fists balled up in rage and frustration over his inaction. He had only asked one thing of him.
One.
"I am sorry," Daeron added, as he stared at the dead remains of Tanselle being stitched together, and perhaps the fault lay in him for relying on him, but the task was rather simple.
He had simply asked Daeron to steer his brother away from the stalls, or to intervene if he were to try and do anything to embarrass their House. He was the elder son, and a Prince of the realm.
If there was anyone who could stop Aerion then it was him, and yet he had chosen his vices over his duty once more.
"You reek of wine, cousin," Matarys raged, through pursed lips, and the stench filled the room as he turned his head towards Daeron.
"I have never burdened you," and of all his cousins, the one he was closest to was Daeron. They had become friends because of their mutual understanding of each other's burdens, and he was the only one who understood Daeron's dreams and their nature.
"Never, and the one time I chose to rely on you, you fail me," and he could have hit him. He wanted to hit him, for he was there. He was there in the market when Aerion had lost his senses, and yet he was lost in his cups, and unable to do anything at all.
Daeron lowered his head in shame, as Matarys sighed.
"Perhaps the fault lies in me," he whispered as he turned around.
"I never should have trusted you," and as he was about to walk away, Daeron whispered back.
"The dream," he began, as Matarys stopped.
"It has changed," Daeron whispered, and his eyes widened, but his fists balled up.
"To hell with your dreams...." and with that, he walked out of the sept, and as he did, he found himself facing a rather unexpected figure.
"Why are you here, uncle?" he asked, as Maekar Targaryen looked him in the eye.
"You know why," the prickly man answered as he looked him in the eye.
"I will not defend my son's actions. He is cruel and vain," and Prince Maekar ground his teeth in frustration, as his eyes fell down.
"But he is my son," and yet that did not change anything.
"I cannot forsake him," and so he had come here to intervene on his behalf.
"You were my squire for six years," and his voice grew softer as he stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder, and it weighed heavier than any weight ever could.
"You slept in my castle, ate at my table, and trained in my yard. You loved Daeron, Aemon, and Aegon as brothers. We are kin, all of us," and that was true, but that did not change what Aerion had done.
And what he must do.
"I implore you, Matarys," and his voice shook as he said those words, and it pained him much to see the proud Maekar reduced to this. Into begging.
And he knew what he sought, but could he give it to him? Could he forsake his honor? Could he forsake justice? Could he forsake it all?
"For any love you may have ever borne me, and my sons, remove yourself from the trial...."
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