Chapter Text
Daeron had tried his best to look valiant in the first charge, just as he had promised. He was, however, hopelessly out matched when facing Ser Robyn Rhysling, so he still fell without having done any damage to his opponent. In his defence, jousting with actual battle lances made Daeron more than a little nervous. He might have hurt someone, or worse, killed someone. Yes, that was rather the point of this Trial of Seven, but Daeron had always been far too soft for battle.
So, when Daeron really considered it, lying in the mud unmoving, it was a good thing, for once, that he was as useless with a lance as he was with a sword. And an axe. And anything else really, weapon or not. Except, Daeron thought to himself, lying uselessly in the mud. He was rather good at that, drunken or not. Hurrah for Daeron.
Daeron closed his eyes for a moment, trying to block out the sounds of clashing metal, panicking horses and cheering, screaming common folk.
Daeron's head grew dizzy in that strange way it sometimes did, his consciousness plummeting uncontrollably into a Vision. Daeron ripped his eyes wide open, grabbing desperately at his hip where he usually kept his wine skin. His ironclad fingers only met more steel. It would have been too late anyhow, Daeron realized, as the Vision broke over his head, not unlike a great, angry wave.
A mace hitting, denting shining metal. A helm, maybe? Daeron more so felt the crack of bone than he heard it. a wet, uncomfortably satisfying crunch that reverberated in his bones.
Daeron was ripped out of the Vision as quickly as he had been swallowed by it, by none other than a separate, more painful crack of bone. His horse must have panicked when he fell and stampeded, trampling on Dearon’s left foot in the process. Though Daeron was more than annoyed about the trampled foot and the unbearable pain it brought with it, he was glad the searing pain had ripped him out of his premonition. At least Daeron was wide awake now, back in his own body, in control of his mind.
Mace.
Helm.
Crunch.
Or maybe not.
The images continued to flash, unbidden behind his eyelids.
Mace.
Daeron knew that mace, the colour, and great spiky shape of it. His father had strapped it to his hip only this morning.
Helm.
Crunch.
A great dragon, falling from the sky.
"Shit!" Daeron sat up quickly, whirling this way and that, surveying the battle unfolding around him. Less than five meters away Ser Humphry Harding was lying, unmoving in the mud, a broken lance protruding from his belly. On the other side of the arena, Ser Duncan was likewise wallowing in the mud, though he, at least was still moving, despite Aerion’s silhouette looming over him.
There, finally, behind Daeron, his father and uncle were engaged in combat. His father was wielding the dreaded mace and his uncle... his helm's sheen matched that of Daeron's Vision.
With a grunt of exertion and groan of pain, Daeron made it to his feet. Well. Foot.
His freshly broken foot refused to bare any weight, as he found out, stumbling back into the mud, now on all fours, despite the copious amounts of adrenalin now coursing through Daeron.
My uncle is about to be killed by my father, and my foot chooses this exact moment to give up on me? Splendid! Thought Daeron, more than a little hysterical with panic.
Daeron resorted to crawling over to his father and uncle. He did not have time for stumbling. Nor did he have the time to crawl, really, but Daeron prayed to the Seven that it would be enough.
the cold mud squelched under his hands and knees and his ankle throbbed in time with his heartbeat, fast and much too hard for comfort. Tears welled up in his eyes.
Please let me be fast enough, please, this premonition can't have been for nothing.
The mud was swallowing him, pulling at his limbs, refusing to let go, but eventually, finally, Daeron was close enough.
He had gone unnoticed by his father and uncle so far, giving him a much needed advantage when Daeron finally reared up, and attempted to tackle Uncle Baelor to the ground.
Daeron thought he succeeded, but it was hard to tell. He was back, lying in the mud, his own Helm — or was it his head? — still ringing with an impact. What impact that was, Daeron did not care.
What he did care about was the pain. Daeron's head was splitting in half. The world was black, thunder was rattling his frame, and someone was taking a hammer to his brain, driving nails into his eye sockets. The world was bright, and wet, cold and too loud, something was screaming and Daeron’s head hurt and he wanted to die, gods his head. The world was dimming, singeing at the edges, dissolving into darkness, swallowing Daeron whole.
Maekar sat in a small pavilion, set up for the maesters. Baelor and himself had been cleared hours ago, with nothing more than a few bruises and shallow cuts. Baelor had also taken a blow to the head, but nothing too serious. Aerion was much worst for ware, though the maesters had promised he would pull through, granted none of his wounds got infected and he kept to his bedrest. Daeron on the other hand…
The trial of seven had been declared as over and lost, and Maekar had made his way over to Aerion, had knelt by his side and taken his head in his lap. The hedge knight had thoroughly brutalised his son’s face. Under the grime, blood and bruising, Maekar could no longer make out the original colour of his son’s skin. His nose was broken in at least one place, one of his eyes was beginning to swell shut. Aerion’s eyes had been screwed up in pain. Or had it been shame? Maekar was not sure. It was then the maesters had swarmed them, and, after a cursory glance had assured Maekar that his son would live.
It was then Maekar had remembered Daeron in the mud, a few meters away. The stupid boy had attempted to tackle Baelor to the ground in an uncharacteristic show of enthusiasm, but had done so at the most inopportune time, accidentally intercepting a blow meant for Baelor. Maekar had been sure, however, that his armour had protected him. Daeron had then proceeded to be almost trampled by a stampeding horse, distracting Maekar enough to give Baelor an opening and leave him off balance. Daeron had looked fine though, hadn’t looked hurt, though he hadn't gotten back up. In hindsight, this should have been the first sign to Maekar that something was wrong, yet in the moment all he could do was roll his eyes.
"Daeron." Maekar had snapped. He hadn't received an answer. Not a hum or even a twitch. While this might have been considered typical of Daeron the Drunk by some, something in Maekar’s stomach had dropped. he had knelt in the mud next to his son, shaken his shoulder and gotten a groan in response. It was in that moment, it must have been, at least, where Maekar had known something was wrong. His son didn't sound like that, didn't sound that broken.
"Daeron?" Maekar had been driven by fear then, a spike of it, right through his heart.
hurriedly Maekar had... The helmet. His son’s helmet had been dented and glistening with something. it might have been mud, but in hindsight... Well. He took the helmet off then, the dented visor flying off its hinges, revealing what didn’t register as Maekar’s son for a confusing second. It couldn’t be his son, please, it couldn’t be his little Daeron, his first child, it couldn’t be his hair, clumping with blood, his skull exposed under a deep laceration over his brow, his horrifyingly unfocussed, glassy eyes staring up at him, uncomprehending.
Daeron had not moved, had not blinked, and Maekar had known, in that moment, that his world was ending. His life would never extend past this moment, the moment in which he realized that his son, his stupid drunk of a son, his beloved, brave, shining son, was dead. Maekar had felt his mind bending, trying desperately to wrap itself around the notion that Daeron might be...
His mind had begun to splinter then, horror and desperation mixing into an electric, painful thing, that spread like wildfire in his head, in his chest, his fingertips, limbs, his lungs, his throat hurt as he screamed his terror, his desperation that please, please he can’t be dead, his son, his son can’t be—
Baelor put his hand on Maekar’s shoulder. It was over. The Maesters had taken Daeron with them, had promised that there might still be hope.
"Maekar", Baelor said gently, like he used to after the war, whenever Maekar fell back into those bloody memories.
"Daeron is not yet dead", he continued, "there is hope".
"I might have killed him" Maekar whispered in response. "It must have been me, who dented his helm. If he dies it will be at my hand" Maekar’s voice shook in a way it hadn’t since he was a child.
"I did not mean it when I said I'd see him dead. You must believe me, brother, I never meant to hurt him, not like this.”
Baelor nodded and sat next to his brother, putting an awkward arm around him.
"This is a nightmare" Maekar murmured.