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During the trial, Egg had known that the clash of steel and ripping of flesh and screams of pain for man and horse alike would be the music his dreams played out to for years to come. Watching Ser Duncan grapple with Aerion, bleeding from so many wounds, he’d thought for sure he’d be haunted by the wet squelch of a spear passing through the hedge knight’s eye, or the sound of some other mortal wound. He’d tried to be brave; he hadn’t closed his eyes, hadn’t turned away, had screamed until his voice felt raw. And Ser Duncan had lived. It was no nightmare after all, just an ugly footnote for the maesters to grimace over when they wrote their histories.
The war-horn blew to end the fighting and Egg had trembled from the headrush of overwhelming relief, tripping over him own feet in his eagerness to go to Ser Duncan’s side. As he ran through the stands, he’d scanned the field off to his side, growing bolder with every moving body he saw. He already knew Daeron was fine; he’d fallen from his horse right after the first tilt and had wisely stayed down and out of the way, occasionally raising his shield in defence. Father had already scrambled over to Aerion, their helms removed and their silver hair stained black from blood and grime. Father was shouting for the maesters, breathing hard, hunching over as if something hurt. But if he was screaming so loud he must be fine, Egg thought, so he let his eyes slide past. Uncle Baelor was up and well, too; he swayed a little on his feet while calmly giving order to the ranks of waiting staff, unshaken as ever. Egg reached the end of the stands right as the maesters came scurrying onto the field. Then he turned to descend down and they were gone from his sight.
Ser Duncan was hurt, that much was clear, but Egg’s chest swelled with faith. The gods had granted him victory today when they bid Aerion to yield – they couldn’t very well take his life so soon after. Egg tried not to get in the way as Ser Raymun and the blacksmith fussed around him, plucking at his mail and talking about hot oil. Egg bit his tongue to keep from asking questions and bounced on his heels, bursting with fear and awe both, wincing each time Ser Duncan moaned in pain. But then Uncle Baelor arrived, promising the maester would see to Ser Duncan after he had seen to Egg’s father.
There was so much Egg wanted to say to Baelor, so much, he could hardly contain himself. There would be time for that later, Egg told himself patiently. He skirted around to Ser Duncan’s side as Ser Raymun and the blacksmith moved to help Uncle Baelor remove his helm, so he might take a weak and grateful Ser Duncan into his service face-to-face, man-to-man.
The trial was many minutes over, and Egg had thought the worst of it all had passed, but it was then that the nightmare finally began.
First Egg heard the slap of brains dropping against the hay-strewn floor, slightly steaming. Blood splattered up the legs of his breeches and seemed to burn holes through to his skin. The room seemed to spin and narrow and Egg remembered thinking that he must have taken a blow to the head to suddenly feel so queer – only the expressions of horror on the men’s faces were not an illusion. The queer, wide-eyed disbelief on Uncle’s face was painted plain. Egg couldn’t breathe, couldn’t find the words to beg his uncle not to move when he began to turn. He didn’t want to see what was under his helm – he wanted Ser Raymun to shove the helm back into place and go on as if nothing had happened. Time rewound for no one, however, and Egg had no choice but to look to see what a mess had been made of Baelor’s head. What was left of it. The skull was completely concaved, flesh and brain matter dripping grotesquely.
Uncle Baelor dropped. Ser Duncan somehow caught him and begged him to get up, get up your grace, sounding more a boy than a man. Egg could only stand back and watch and curse himself with a sight he would see again and again and again whenever he closed his eyes.
He was unsure of exactly what happened afterwards. He was aware of a commotion, more frantic than what had followed the trial’s end. People running and wailing and averting their gazes. Names in the air, uncertain instruction, maesters with grim expressions. Prince Valarr must be roused. Someone fetch a raven, the King must be told. Prince Maekar wants to see his brother.
My brother’s mace, Baelor had said, words parroted by Raymun Fossoway to milk-faced Kingsguard who looked rather like they wished they could fall onto their swords. They didn’t know how Baelor had smiled the words he is strong. There was no anger, no blame.
Ser Duncan was gone. Where had he gone? No one noticed Egg underfoot, no one stopped him from turning and wandering away. The screams were louder outside. Egg wondered if one of them might be his father’s, but then decided against it. Father would not scream his grief. He would clench it in a fist or bite it between his teeth. Would he weep? Maybe, Egg thought, but with only the gods as witnesses.
The day was a blur. Daeron appeared by Egg’s side, eventually, stripped of his armour and wincing with every step. Already back on the wine. Egg paid him little mind. They seemed to sit together for some time, hidden away in a tent – the Baratheon tent, Egg would have realised, if he’d had the mind to look around. Someone informed them that Ser Duncan would live, scarred and sore for years to come. Better off than the Prince of Dragonstone. He was allowed to take visitors and so Egg visited, sitting in silent vigil by his knight’s side as a squire should. Ser Duncan muttered a lot in his sleep, sounds which might have been names, sighs which might have been pleas. Egg had not the energy to decipher any of them – one sound, he convinced himself, seemed close enough to ‘Thunder’ that Egg quickly stole the excuse to leave the tent and scurry away into the dark. It had rained at some point. The earth was soft underfoot, every step echoing that doomed wet slap.
Daeron came again, somehow finding the little clearing where Egg had so happily played peasant squire not one sunset ago. He carried a torch to reveal the night and praised Egg for caring for the horses, running a shaking hand over velvet snouts. He suggested returning to the Ashford castle for the night; their lord father had been asking for him, he wanted his children all under the same roof. Egg couldn’t stomach looking at the stars, not with the way they glistened wetly tonight, and agreed. Daeron held his hand.
Something about the walk across the fields and camps roused Egg’s senses. He’d been in a daze since dawn – trapped in that moment when the helm came off, and the skull fell off, and Uncle Baelor died before his eyes. The little room had stunk of blood, Egg thought now. Blood and sweat and piss and bile. But the camp, the camp was smoky. It made his eyes sting and water. Finally, hours after it all, Egg shed his first tear. He turned his head and looked for the first time today, seeing knights and squires and pages and servants and whores and smiths and merchants and lords. A black blanket had settled over Ashford; a little bit of grief, a little bit of horror, more than a little suspicion. Whispers seemed to nip the back of Egg’s neck as he walked, holding tight to Daeron’s hand. The campfires seemed to belch thick and choking smoke in their direction, crowding on them like ghosts. Egg knew he had not done anything wrong, not directly, and yet he suddenly felt like a dead man walking, chains biting his ankles.
“Maekar-spawn!” a voice suddenly barked, vicious as a dog.
Egg flinched as something cold and wet slapped into the back of his head, clinging to the scrapes of hair already growing back across his scalp. He went to spin around to face where the projectile had come from but Daeron’s hand squeezed painfully, dragging him forwards as the sounds of a scuffle erupted behind. Daeron’s other hand wrenched up Egg’s hood. The mud which had been pelted at him sat unpleasantly against his skin, dripping. Egg had the terrible thought that Uncle Baelor may have felt a similar sensation; he tripped, fell to his knees, and Daeron dragged him on without asking what was wrong. No doubt he already knew.
A little further across the camp, they were accosted again – this time from the front, a trio of drunks who Daeron knew by name, who snarled and spat at them. Two aimed at Daeron, getting him in the face, whilst the third aimed at Egg and only got him on the front. A man from some house Egg was sure he should recognise came swinging at the drunks with the chair he’d been sat on. Daeron, again, hastened them on. They broke into a run, wood splintering in their wake. It was only then that Egg fully realised what the rest of his life might look like, being the child of the man who’d killed the realm’s pride and joy. Shame burned in him. Anger burned brighter.
Daeron released Egg as soon as they were through the walls of Ashford and Egg wrenched himself away gladly. He ran for the stairs, thinking of finding Aerion and cutting his throat whilst he lay abed. He deserved it, he thought, he deserved to spill his life’s blood as Baelor had. Would there be a knife in his room? No, probably not. Egg spun around to face Daeron, aware that he was giving chase, and he reached a hand for the blade at his belt. But before he could grab it, Daeron lunged.
Egg was swept up into his arms, legs flailing and nails clawing, protesting in furious wails which echoed sharply through the halls of the castle. Egg kept trying to reach for Daeron’s belt and Daeron chucked the dagger far away from them when he realised his goal. Egg’s throat tore as he wailed and knocked their heads together in his fury, making Daeron clatter to the floor, already unsteady. Egg spilled out of his arms, weeping. He sat scrubbing his eyes until they burned, until Daeron had struggled back to his feet. His big brother picked him up, dusted him off, and took his hand again. He smoothed a soft palm over Egg’s forehead, feeling the bruise Egg had caused himself. He said he was sorry, which Egg sneered cruelly at. What did he have to be sorry for?
He didn’t want to go to the tourney, a voice spoke in Egg’s head. So he disguised you both and hid away. That was how Ser Duncan came across you, how he went along so easily with your lies about being a peasant and took you to squire. That was how you knew Ser Duncan would help Tanselle when Aerion attacked her. That was how the trial came about, because Aerion was too craven for single combat. That was how Uncle died, because Father was fighting for his son. If not for Daeron, then, none of this would have happened.
The thought sat uneasily in Egg’s mind. No, he quickly decided, he didn’t believe that. Daeron had tried to avoid the tourney. It was Egg himself who had charged into it all, lying and playing at being something he wasn’t, acting without thinking. Aerion may have called the trial, and Father may have landed the killing blow, but it all came back to Egg and the decision he’d made.
And the decision Baelor made, he told himself. But before he could stew on that for any longer, they had reached a heavy door and Daeron was leading them inside.
Father was there. He stood in front of a hearth of glowing coals. He had his hands behind his back and he turned to face Daeron and Egg when they entered. Egg couldn’t look at his face, couldn’t bring himself to look into his eyes and see guilt or pity or disappointment or fury. Daeron made him sit down and take off his cloak. Father thanked him for finding Egg – an almost-funny contrast to what must have been a very tense conversation between them just yesterday, when Father had found Daeron without Egg with him.
“Excuse me, Father,” Daeron said once Egg was settled in the chair, staring at his hands. He had blood beneath his nails. Where Daeron was going, Egg didn’t know. Maybe he explained. Egg didn’t listen. The door shut between them and Egg heard the wet splat of brain again. It made him flinch.
Father crouched in front of Egg. He asked where he had been all day.
Egg shrugged. Father let out a short breath. It sounded nothing like Baelor’s quick, surprised exhale when he saw the brain matter clinging to his fingers, but Egg heard it anyway. He flinched again.
“The funeral will be held in three days,” said Father, as if Egg had asked.
“Oh,” whispered Egg. Three days. Some people said funerals were more for the living than the dead – a chance to put aside their grief and say their goodbyes and make peace with their loss, or something like that. Egg had three days to endure and then, he hoped, the sounds would stop. The nightmare would end. Wouldn’t it?
Father noticed the mud on the back of Egg’s head. He began to peer at it, craning his neck, before freezing and pulling back. Egg knew what he was seeing as a glassy film went over his eyes. He found himself reaching for his father’s hands and holding them with all his strength, easier than saying anything at all. Father pulled away after a moment, returning with a cloth and a basin. He’d prefer it if Egg bathed, he said distractedly, but he doubted there’d be a servant free to arrange a tub and hot water. Egg snorted despite himself. Uncle was dead and Father was fussing about baths like a Septa. Father shook his head disbelievingly as if he was having the same thought.
Egg fell asleep sometime later, stripped of his boots and the outer layers of his rich tunics, uneasy in the bed Father would not sleep in tonight. He tried to puzzle out why he was here. Father wanted them all under one roof, Daeron had said. Where was Daeron now? With Aerion? That didn’t seem right, but say Father didn’t want Aerion left alone (and unguarded), and say Father couldn’t stand to keep vigil beside him while still so fresh in his grief. Yes, that made sense, Daeron must be with Aerion. Egg praised himself for figuring it out so quickly. He said a prayer for Ser Duncan before he closed his eyes, promising himself he’d be a better squire in the morrow. He guiltily avoided saying a prayer for Uncle Baelor’s soul – he did not want to cry in front of his father.
In sleep, however, there was no escape.
The slap of brains falling against hay-strewn floor. Uncle Baelor dropped. Get up, get up, ser.
The splatter of blood up Egg’s pant legs. Daeron dropped. No, brother, get up, get up!
The skull was concaved, flesh and brain matter dripping like rain. Father dropped. No! No! Father, no, no, get up, Father, please-!
“Aegon!”
Egg tipped upright with a scream which tore at his throat. He shuddered with terror, struggling to make sense of his surroundings, wondering how the blood had been wiped clean so quickly, how Father was there if he’d just been dead in Dunk’s arms. Egg was in Father’s arms, now, being held so fiercely it hurt. Egg squirmed free with a strength he didn’t know he possessed and raised his hands to touch his father’s head, making him look down, fingers searching past silver hair for the hole he’d seen so clearly, gaping at him, still pulsing with blood. Daeron said his dreams came true, what was to stop Aegon’s from doing the same? He wept at the thought.
Father wrenched Egg’s hands away from his head. Despite the roughness of his touch, his eyes were full of tears. His voice broke around the words ‘sweet boy’. Father held him close, rocking him as though he was a babe again, murmuring lies and nonsense which made neither of them feel better so he soon went quiet. He was still wearing his day clothes and they stunk of blood. Egg’s nose was already full of blood so he inhaled deeply in search of the cedarwood and spice which clung to everything Father touched. He found it and he relaxed enough to let his eyes slide half-closed.
They pulled away as the sun began to rise. Egg muttered something about being too old to be cradled, Father muttered something in agreement, and then he didn’t rise from the bed to go back to the chair he’d been brooding in. He leant back against the pillows, teeth grinding as though it pained him to rest. Probably because he knew Baelor would be nodding in approval if they were there now. If he were there, he’d have spent the night insisting that his brother get some rest. Grief was an exhausted business, as Maekar should well know. Egg shuddered despite himself and folded one of his father’s large, cold hands between two of his own. It only occurred to him then that everything he felt, Father must be feeling it a tenfold. He tried to imagine himself accidentally killing Daeron and thought, oh, I’d fall on my sword, I’d give myself to the gods.
“Don’t die, Father,” Egg pleaded, feeling tiny.
“I do not plan on it,” Father replied flatly, staring at nothing. Egg tried to rub some warmth into his scarred fingers. He asked if Father could feel them or if they felt wooden and Father’s response was to turn their hands over so he was holding Egg’s, Egg’s fingertips to his pulse. Then, when so many minutes had passed it seemed like they would remain in silence until it was time to rise, Father asked, “Why do you fear my death?”
The question was so stupid, Egg nearly choked on his words. “You’re my father,” he told him.
“Hm,” Father sounded thoughtful. “I think the realm would rejoice, once they know what I have done,”
Maekar-spawn, a man had snarled. The drunks spitting and frothing. If they hadn’t hurried, would there have been blood? A son for a son, in a way, for Baelor had held the hopes of the entire realm.
As if thinking the same thing, Father said, “You do not go anywhere alone, Aegon. You stay with me or one of the Kingsguard,”
“But you didn’t do it on purpose,” murmured Egg. “You’re no kinslayer,”
“You stay with me,” Father repeated. Whether it was a command or a request, Egg could not tell.
Morning came. Daeron returned, reporting that Aerion had spent the night asleep, restless but well. He’d brought a change of clothes for Egg and an update about Ser Duncan, who was in the same state as Aerion. He went to order a servant to bring some food to the room, though neither Egg nor Father had asked for it. When he returned, promising platters of fruit and honey and toasted bread, he helped Father dress.
Egg remained on the bed, propped against the headboard, blanket pulled to his nose. Father would not permit any maesters to enter to check his wounds, despite Daeron’s insistence, so Daeron resorted to what he always his old faithful – wine, tipping it from his flask with a tight apology. Father made no sound but the occasional instruction on how to rewrap a bandage. Egg did not dare look at what hurts had been done to him. He worried, foolishly so, that the wound on the back of his head he’d seen in his dreams might appear if he looked too hard. For the first time in his short life, Egg then suddenly had a craving for wine. It seemed to work well enough to wash away Daeron’s sorrows, why not his own?
He tried a sip once Father was dressed and bent over something at the desk and Daeron was accepting the platter of food at the door. Instead of making Egg feel nothing, it made his stomach roil. He refused to break his fast, refused over and over as Daeron offered different combinations of mouse-sized bites, until Father abruptly lost his patience and barked at him to fucking eat, Aegon. The table rattled, as armour had rattled. The bowl of jam fell to the floor and shattered, spraying their breeches in thick red globules.
Daeron took Egg away after that. Another day was spent in a daze – not quite so bad as yesterday, though also not much better. Egg noticed that everybody around him was wearing black today. Only one of the Kingsguard whose face Egg did not even look at remained in white, trailing after him as he went to sit by Ser Duncan’s side once more. At least there he could be useful, finding himself regaling his sleeping knight with tales of Old Valyria. His voice was still hoarse and scratchy from screaming, get up, get up, ser.
Father’s temper was a fierce thing that day, Egg later overheard. It was said that he expelled Lord Ashford from his own home for asking about the funeral arrangements. Vases launched at walls, chairs smashed against the ground. Valarr, Prince of Dragonstone, was seen stalking back to his tent with tears on his cheeks and blood smeared on his knuckles. Egg reunited with Father as he had the day before, past sunset, and there was a cut above his brow which hadn’t been there before. His face was strangely swollen. Most unusual of it all, he was on the bed, seemingly asleep. Egg felt sick looking at him.
Daeron stayed with them both for a while, only Aerion then decided to wake up and he left with the maester to check his condition and ensure he stayed abed. Egg crawled closer to his father, afraid to touch him, yet more afraid of the blood he kept seeing when his vision blurred. He nudged Father’s cheek until he his head tilted and he could see the back of his head. His silver hair was a tangled mess, curled with sweat. No blood. No brain.
“Aegon,” Father rumbled, deep in his chest. Egg muttered an apology and pulled away. He slept upright with space separating him and his father, whose head remained tilted to the side, the back of his head as round as it should be.
When Egg woke, it was to the floor hitting him hard as he toppled from the bed. It knocked the breath from him and left him wheezing and flailing in confusion as a hand reached down, attaching to the front of his tunic to drag him back up. The hand was shaking, Father’s face clenched with fear. He cupped Egg’s face and searched his eyes for something before staggering from the bed. He’d left the room before Egg even understood what was going on, his ribs hurting where he’d landed on them.
Egg’s bare feet were cold on the stone floor as he stood in the corridor just beyond the room, exchanging matching frowns with the guard who’d been posted up outside. Egg was about to ask which direction his father had raced in when Father suddenly returned. He lifted Egg into his arms, muttering something about cold feet. Egg was perplexed but held on, leaning in, cheek to cheek. Father’s skin was clammy. He felt the back of his head, just in case, because behind his eyes he still saw opened skulls. Father did not protest to it this time.
“I dream too, Father,” Egg made sure to tell him. Something made him think that Father had never felt so alone as he did tonight, even with so many around them.
“What of?” Father asked. He closed the chamber door behind them, carried Egg back to the bed they’d been sharing. Egg answered by pressing his hand to the back of Father’s head, his palm firmly covering what had been the hole on Uncle Baelor’s head. Father hummed, needing no further explanation. He revealed, “I dreamt of you children. All of you on that field. I was too late to stop the hedge knight,”
“Ser Duncan would never hurt an innocent,”
Father had nothing to say to that. Egg wondered, not for the first time, how much Father knew about Aerion’s nature. Aerion hid the worst of him well, only committing his cruellest acts when Father was on business away from Summerhall. When Egg tried to tell someone what happened, somehow Aerion got to them first. But what did it matter if Father knew or not? He defended Aerion anyway, when it came to it. He’d given his brother to save his son. His mace had taken the back of his skull. Egg had watched his brains fall to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” Father muttered, turning to press his lips to Egg’s brow. “I’m sorry, sweet boy. I’m sorry,”
It was unclear what he was apologising for. Egg wasn’t fussy. For the briefest moment, tucked safely against a bruised and laboured chest, he felt content – and then Father apologised again, and again, and it started to frighten Egg a little. He squeezed his arms around Father’s waist, as tightly as he dared, until he fell quiet.
They would not be okay for a long time, possibly not ever, but for now it was enough. It needed to be enough.