Archive of Our Own ^beta

Maekar grunted as he swung his mace. This time, it found its mark on Lyonel Baratheon’s chest. The fool was slow on the defense and Maekar would make him realize. After all, Lyonel and Baelor had been holding him back.

He felt grim satisfaction when he heard Lyonel let out a punched grunt, staggering as he stepped away from Maekar. Stay away, Maekar wanted to say, but then, a sharp pressure exploded at his back as his brother attacked him.

“Argh!” Maekar grunted as he used his momentum to deal another blow—this time toward Baelor. As the heir to the throne, Maekar could not kill his brother. Not that he wanted to. Maekar loved his brother. However, he had no time to waste on anyone else. He needed to go to Aerion.

Aerion screamed. Maekar did not know what the hedge knight did to make his son scream like that, but he knew it wasn’t anything good. Maekar had fought in the war and it taught him much. That included knowing how men screamed before they died.

Aerion sounded like he was dying and Maekar felt his whole body burn—both in fear and anger. Fear for his son and anger for anyone that dared block his way to his child.

Maekar felt no pleasure when his mace collided with Baelor’s visor, shattering it clean from his face. However, his brother had done enough. Siding with the hedge knight was one thing, holding him back was another.

With that, Maekar ran to where he heard Aerion scream. More anger surged when he saw the knight on top of Aerion and bashing Aerion’s own shield against his head. Fucking cunt. I’ll bash his head open.

His grip tightened on his mace as he charged forward. Then, two sets of arms wrapped around him, dragging him back. Maekar roared as he struggled to rip himself free. His vision swam in black and golden metal—Baelor and Lyonel once again.

Enough of this. Maekar started swinging with all his might, red clouding his vision. He needed to go. He needed to reach Aerion no matter what.

Metal clashed against metal. Maekar didn’t even know if the heaving was his or his opponent’s. He felt that for every attack he gave, he received three back. No matter, Maekar could take it all. He just needed one good hit.

An opportunity arose when Lyonel was once again shaken off and this time he fell to the ground. He turned to Baelor and raised his mace. His whole body thrummed with power, inspired by equal parts fear and anger.

He was about to strike when the sound of horns resounded through the arena. He raised his head to look at the box where Lord Ashford was sitting, but he was once again tackled. Maekar growled and dragged the two men with him, turning his whole body to see the outcome of the trial.

Maekar froze when he saw the hedge knight standing while holding Aerion by his armor. Terror struck and he swung his fist down so hard on Lyonel’s helmet, he heard it crack.

Was Aerion-

He watched the hedge knight let go of Aerion and his son slumped into the mud. Maekar slackened in relief when he saw Aerion turn to his side, curling to a fetal position. He was alive. Maekar breathed out the tension he felt.

Maekar did not hear Aerion yield, but the horns were blown to signal the end of the trial. From the sight of his son, he must be the one to yield to the hedge knight. He couldn't help the anger he suddenly felt at Aerion giving up. All this trouble and for what?

Maekar breathed in slowly. The anger and embarrassment could come later. Aerion wasn't dead and that was more important. He would deal with his son and the trouble the trial caused when it was just the two of them.

"It's over now, brother. Stop, please." He heard Baelor gasp out. His voice was trembling, tired from the fighting. His grip on Maekar's waist did not ease, however. His brother’s arms still surrounded him, as if Maekar would still attack.

Lyonel Baratheon gave a forced chuckle. Beyond his visor, Maekar could see the man’s already bruising cheekbone. The yellow cunt also had his own arms around Maekar. Lyonel heaved his last breaths, grinning all bloody. "It's over now, eh? Prince Maekar must have been one neglected child."

Maekar growled at him, uncaring of the fool’s words. "Let go of me."

He only said it to Lyonel, but both men withdrew their hands from him. Maekar rolled his shoulders as he kept his gaze on Aerion. He saw him turn to his stomach before forcing himself to stand, staggering to keep his balance.

With shaking hands, Aerion took his helmet off before vomiting.

"Aerion..." Maekar called out with worry. Now that he had no helmet, Maekar could see the aftermath of Aerion’s duel. His son was bloody-faced; his hair, so much like Maekar’s, was dirtied by blood and mud. His armor had seen better days but it wasn’t caved in at any point. Truly, it seemed that he fared worse than Maekar. Aerion looked more like a peasant than a prince.

"Aerion had yielded. It is time we all withdraw and have our wounds tended by the maesters." Baelor said, taking off his own helmet before rubbing his hand along his head to check for any injuries. His brother winced as he felt a deep cut to his temple.

Baelor shot him a look. "You could've swung lighter, my brother."

"I already held myself back with each strike. Do not ask what is already done." Maekar grumbled and started to walk toward Aerion. His son was still standing there after puking his innards out. He had the audacity to stare at the swarm of people who witnessed their loss.

Eager to leave the commotion, he called out. "Aerion! Come, let the maesters tend to you!"

Aerion only took a step before he stilled once more. His son slowly turned toward his direction, their eyes meeting. Aerion's face contorted into confusion, then he spoke.

"Father... I think something is wrong."

Then Aerion fell to his knees.

The sight made all air leave Maekar’s lungs as if he had been punched. His entire body froze as his son slowly went down once more. Maekar took one sharp breath in and then ran.

"Aerion! Aerion!" he yelled, clutching at his own helmet and discarding it as he ran. He reached his son’s side and saw him jerk sharply. Aerion’s eyes went unfocused before his nose began bleeding uncontrollably.

Maekar immediately pulled Aerion onto his own lap, clutching at his face. “No, no, no, no! Aerion!”

Behind him, he heard others yell. Pandemonium descended as shouts of command overlapped with one another. Someone was calling for a maester, others for assistance, horses neighed, and people gasped. Maekar did not care. All he did was hold Aerion as he bled and bled.

The sight made bile rise in Maekar's throat.

No, Maekar swallowed. He couldn’t be scared right now. He had to be strong for his son.

His hands immediately searched for any wound on Aerion’s head. He said his head hurt. Where is the wound? Where is it? Maekar’s hands came out clean even as he circled Aerion’s head once more. Yet no matter where he looked, there was no blood or wound save some bumps and bruises.

There was no bleeding. No wound and yet his son couldn’t breathe. Maekar himself couldn’t breathe. A bad feeling he doesn’t want to acknowledge slithered into his stomach.

No. Whatever bad feeling Maekar was having, it must not be true. He won’t allow it. The Stranger will not come for his son without going through Maekar first. Aerion had to be alright. He will not accept anything else.

Maekar could not even hear himself properly. Everything seemed to be submerged under water. Yet Maekar could see every detail on Aerion's face so clearly. He could see the trickling of blood, the dirt that stained Aerion’s cheeks, and his pale lashes that clumped together due to unshed tears.

Aerion's bloodied lips quivered into a faint smile, vanishing almost as soon as it surfaced. The corners of his eyes crinkled, his striking violet gaze softening with fear. At that moment, Aerion seemed younger than his years.

He turned from a boy of ten-and-seven into that same unruly child of eight. The same child who ran toward Maekar demanding to be carried and tossed into the air. Aerion always said it made him feel as if he was flying—like he was a dragon.

Fear froze Maekar in place at the mention of that cursed word. He shook his head, trying to will it away. He wasn’t sure whether he was trying to comfort Aerion—or himself.

What a sight he must have made. Maekar the Anvil who crushed the rebellion and killed more men than he could count was shaking like a leaf in a storm. He wouldn’t deny it. Maekar had never been a liar.

He was scared.

Maekar had never been more scared than he was at this moment. Not when he faced Daemon Blackfyre’s army. Not when Maekar suffered a grave injury. Not even when Dyanna had died. Not even that could compare.

When his wife passed, she rested on velvet sheets, immaculate and wrapped in the warmth of Summerhall. Even in the final throes of her illness, her eyes were fearless, ready. Dyanna faced the Stranger as if it were a guide arriving in her service.

His son, his boy was—

Aerion’s gaze never wavered from his. Maekar refused to blink, refused to tear up. Not for a second would he look away—lest the Stranger take Aerion without asking.

Aerion's pupils grew fixed and dilated.

And then he heard it—Aerion’s quiet gasp, and then stillness, and then silence.