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The horn blew just as Maekar Targaryen’s mace pierced through Lyonel Baratheon’s chest.
Maekar had fought with the fury and anguish of a father desperate to reach his son, and it showed. He slashed and parried and lunged aggressively, putting powerful force into each swinging blow. He did not care who his opponents were, all he knew was he had to get to Aerion, everyone else be damned.
He had disarmed the Laughing Storm a few moments ago, catching the man off guard. His brother, Baelor was also fighting against him, but the attacks from Maekar’s left, where his brother was supposed to be, had ceased. He couldn’t bring himself to care why at the moment however, turning full attention to Baratheon.
A blow to the head, and he knocked what remained of the Baratheon’s stag helmet off. But the man didn’t yield even with no weapon. He kept coming at Maekar, kept grabbing onto him, trying to force him back, and so Maekar, in his desperation, swung his mace a bit too hard. It crashed through Lyonel’s armor and buried itself deep inside. He heard a sickening crunch of bone.
The Laughing Storm’s eyes widened, and blood spurted from his mouth, dribbling down his lips and onto the muddy floor. Maekar ripped his mace out of the man, and a gush of blood splashed across his face.
The wound he left in the man was deep and ragged. Lyonel reeled sideways, then fell to the ground in a crumpled heap. He gasped for air as blood escaped from his chest and mouth. His eyes dulled. Then he twitched once, twice, and fell still.
The trial was over.
Lyonel Baratheon was dead, and while Maekar felt a twinge of guilt for slaying the man right at the finish line, he couldn’t bring himself to muster enough care right now.
He needed to find his sons.
The horn had blown, but who had won?
Maekar turned away from the dead Baratheon, moving across the field in swiftness. He discarded his helmet and ignored the stabbing pains on his body. Everything would be sore for days to come, he knew beyond doubt. Fighting against the Laughing Storm and his brother at once was no easy task.
His thoughts were a jumbled mess, his body was in agony, but he had a singular focus in his mind.
“Aerion!” He bellowed. “Aerion!”
Where in the seven hells was his son?
The smell of copper was thick in the air. The sun had risen, but the cloudy sky blocked any sort of light from seeping through. The fog hadn’t cleared up yet either. What a fucking shitty day it was.
Maekar stumbled through the muddy ground, eyes peeled for both his children. He passed by a clearly dead Ser Donnel, lance protruding from the man’s abdomen. The man fought bravely and fiercely for them, and Maekar would make sure to honor the knight well once he confirmed Aerion and Daeron were safe.
He then passed by two unmoving figures, one on top of another. A broken shield lay by their side, the dull sigil of an apple splintered into pieces. The Fossoway cousins, killed by each other. What a tragic end, Maekar thought to himself before moving on.
Where the fuck were his kids?
“Aerion! Daeron!”
His voice was now laced with desperation and fear.
“Aerion? Answer me!”
A weak voice finally answered his call. “Father…”
Through the haze, Maekar made out his son crumpled on the dirty ground. He over as fast as he could, boots crunching through slippery mud. “Aerion!” His son’s face was smeared with so much blood that Maekar could barely make out anything more than his beautiful, violet eyes. Aerion’s armor was a mess as well, tears and dents everywhere, and coated in crimson.
“It… it hurts…”
Maekar crouched down by his son, fear gripping him tightly. Aerion’s thigh was bleeding profusely, spurts of red streaming down endlessly. Maekar placed his hand over the wound, trying his best to stop the pressure.
“You’re going to be okay,” Maekar whispered.
His son peered up at him with bloodshot eyes. “I… I won. I killed him… I did it…” He broke off with a cough and a wince, and more blood coated his lips. “Look… trial… won… are you proud…?” Aerion tilted his head to the side.
Maekar followed his gaze, his eyes landing upon the hulking figure on the ground a few feet away from them. The giant of a man was still, his armor pierced in at least a dozen places. His helmet was no longer on his head and Maekar could see the man’s swollen and blood covered face, eyes unseeing. Ser Duncan the Tall lay, battered, bruised, and broken. Unmistakingly dead.
His youngest son, Aegon was already crouched by the fallen hedge knight, eyes swimming with tears as he brokenly repeated the phrase, “Get up, ser. Get up! Get up!”
Maekar had no clue why or how Aegon had grown such an attachment to the hedge knight. It wasn’t of concern right now though. He would deal with his youngest later.
He turned his attention back to his injured son, whose eyes seemed duller than a moment ago. “Aerion, do not worry. I will get you a maester to tend to your wounds.”
“... proud?”
“Shh my little one, do not speak right now.” Maekar rested a hand on his son’s face, cupping his cheek gently. “Of course I’m proud of you.”
Aerion let out a shuddering breath. His eyes were fraught with fear. “I’m cold…”
“You are going to be alright,” Maekar said firmly, although he felt a surge of terror washed over him. His heart thumped rapidly against his ribs and his throat clenched up. He wanted more than anything to sob, but he couldn’t show his distress. He had to be strong. He had to be strong for Aerion.
“Aegon! Fetch a maester! Now!”
His son did not hear him, or pretended he didn’t, for Aegon did not budge an inch. He stayed by the hedge knight, his face now buried in the man’s dirtied armor.
“Listen to me. Aegon! Aegon! A maester, now!”
There was too much blood coming out of Aerion right now. From his thigh, from his shoulder, his side. Too much, too fast. His son coughed again, spewing out more blood. Maekar felt a tear roll down his cheek against his will.
He shouted again, his voice broken. “Aegon!”
He felt a small tug, and Maekar looked back at Aerion, who had managed to grab a hold of the belt around his armor. “What is it, little one?”
“I think I’m… I think… dying…”
The word tilted his entire world. It felt like he plunged into cold water. “No, Aerion. Listen to me. You are not going to die. Not while I am here.”
He prayed to all his Gods. He prayed and prayed inside his head, hoping he could stop the inevitable.
Maekar wasn’t stupid. He knew what death looked like. He knew Aerion had lost too much blood. He knew and yet he could not accept it.
“Father…” Aerion’s voice was nothing but a whisper.
Maekar leaned in, pressing his forehead against his son’s. “Yes, little one?”
“I’m… I’m scared…”
And suddenly, Aerion wasn’t his cocky, brave jousting champion anymore. All Maekar could see was the little boy who ran around the Red Keep pretending to be a dragon, who was terrified of thunder and always sought his parents for comfort during storms.
His little boy.
“Do not be afraid, my son,” Maekar assured him. “I am here, Aerion.” He wound his fingers around Aerion’s hand. “I am here.”
Aerion’s breaths were becoming more shallow by the second. Nothing more than a series of wet, uneven, guttural gasps. His once vibrant purple eyes dulled. Then, the hand around Maekar’s belt went slack.
One last rattling breath, and everything was still.
Maekar screamed.
“Brother.”
Maekar felt a hand graze his shoulder, and he violently shrugged it off. This was the last person he wanted to see or hear right now.
Baelor called his name softly and with a growl, Maekar turned to face his brother. The man looked down at him mournfully, concern and warmth etched in his mismatched eyes. Maester Yormwell was by his side. Boiling rage overcame him. A fat lot of good the maester was, coming here only after his son already passed. Fuck him. Fuck them all.
His brother looked worse for wear, but Maekar felt absolutely nothing for his brother but overwhelming fury. At this moment, he wished nothing but excruciating pain on his brother.
Molten anger coursed through Maekar.
This was all Baelor’s fault.
How dare his brother stand there looking sorrowfully, looking all sympathetic. Didn’t he understand? Maekar’s son just died in his arms. Aerion was dead, and it was all because Baelor chose to fight for some stupid, worthless hedge knight. Without Baelor, Ser Duncan would not have enough people for the trial. Without the trial, Aerion would not be lying dead in his arms right now.
Baelor, who chose a commoner’s side instead of his own. Baelor, who chose to fight against his own blood. Baelor, who chose to back the knight who dared hurt Aerion and kidnapped Aegon.
There was an insurmountable rage brewing inside Maekar, one born from sorrow, grief, and wrath. If his brother did not leave right this instant, he was afraid he would snap completely.
“Brother, I am sorry,” Baelor whispered and Maekar saw red.
He gently placed Aerion’s head off his lap and onto the ground, before violently shoving Baelor in the chest. “You have no right . Get away from me!” He yelled and shoved his brother once again.
He hit his brother again and again, blinded by rage. A crazed look filled his eyes. “This is all your fault! My son is dead because of you. I will never forgive you as long as I live. Leave me, Baelor! I never want to see you again! May the Gods curse your soul for what you have done!”
His brother stumbled back from the blows and the words, swaying on his feet. “Please, Maekar… I didn’t mean to—”
“Didn’t mean to what? Kill your own nephew?” Maekar laughed, a bitter and cold sound that made Baelor flinch. “You see what you have done?” He pointed at blood soaked Aerion. “Do you see, Brother? Look at him! Dead because of you!”
Baelor opened his mouth to reply, but he blinked, his brows furrowing into a frown. Then he swayed dangerously and clutched his head with a hand. He wiggled his fingers around and groaned, closing his eyes briefly to try to get his bearings. “My head… sorry… bit dizzy. Visor… visor’s cracked… my fingers… feel like wood…”
What the fuck was Baelor going on about?
His brother was speaking nonsense. Trying to change the topic. Trying to get out of the blame for Aerion’s death. No, he would not let him off that easily, just because he had a little headache. Baelor had his sins to answer to right now. There wasn’t even a visor left on his helmet. Give Maekar a break. Couldn’t Baelor see that…
A sudden wave of terror washed over Maekar, and his earlier rage at his brother diminished in an instant, overshadowed by a sickening dread. Maekar took a closer look at Baelor. His brother looked fine on the outside. A bit bruised up and perhaps a little wobbly, but Maekar thought that was because of his shoves, not to mention the trial they just finished fighting.
His breath hitched. What if… no. There was nothing wrong with Baelor besides being a bit beat up. His brother was fine.
Even so, his next words came out unsteady. “Baelor, sit down.”
His brother shook his head. “I’m alright. Now, my helm… Brother, if you could be so kind…”
Maekar numbly moved around to face Baelor’s back. His anger was still there, but it had tempered just enough. He would go back to blaming Baelor after making sure his brother was alright. He grimaced at the damage of the helmet. “Helmet’s crushed at the back.”
Baelor laughed weakly. “You mace, most like.” He leaned forward amusingly. “You’re strong.”
He heard the light chuckle in his brother’s voice, and it both pissed him off and scared him. This was not a laughing matter. And was that pride in Baelor’s voice?
Maekar didn’t hit his brother that hard, did he? On the back of the head? He hadn’t noticed, in the chaos of the fight. Then he thought of Lyonel Baratheon and the hole he made in his chest, and a sinking pit filled his gut.
With trembling fingers, Maekar slowly lifted the helmet off his brother’s head. A sickening squish was heard, and a plop. Maekar looked down at the gruesome, bloodied clump that hit the ground. His stomach churned as he raised his eyes back to his brother, whose eyes were now widened in shock.
There was a huge, gaping hole in the back of his brother’s head. It looked like his skull had been smashed and caved in. The splatter on the floor was part of his brother’s brain.
Maekar wanted to throw up.
Aegon, who had turned from where he was mourning the hedge knight, screamed when he saw Baelor’s head. “No, Uncle!”
Baelor touched a gloved hand to his head, frowning at the smear of blood. He turned his head slightly to meet Maekar’s eyes, dazed.
No. No, no, no.
And then Baelor collapsed to the ground.
Maekar caught his brother instinctively, clutching Baelor’s body tightly against his own.
This was Aerion all over again. But Aerion just died, and Maekar couldn’t lose his brother too, within the same hour.
“I’m sorry,” Maekar gasped out. “I’m sorry. I was wrong. It wasn’t your fault. I didn’t mean it. Please, please, Brother. Get up, get up. I can’t lose you too. Please, Baelor.”
If he took back all the horrible words he just spewed at his brother, would it save him?
Baelor’s eyes flickered to him weakly. His mouth parted to say something, but he was too weak to get any words out.
“Help me!” He roared at Maester Yormwell, who was dithering on the side, eyes widened in horror. “What the fuck are you doing just standing there? Fix him!”
The maester only shook his head, eyes glued onto the scene, making no attempt to help.
Useless. Fucking useless.
Maekar turned back to his brother, whose eyes were now glazed over. "No, no, no. Please, Baelor, don't do this to me. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Oh,please. A sound ripped from his chest that didn’t sound human, a raw, choking sound. He felt Baelor still in his arms.
And there was nothing he could do but wail and scream and cry.
How could Baelor be dead? It didn’t make any sense. His brother was always by his side, from the moment he was born. They grew up together, fought the Blackfyre Rebellion together. The Hammer and the Anvil.
What was an anvil without its hammer?
This was all his fault.
He swung the mace. He killed his own brother. He did this, and Baelor’s last words were a complement to his strength.
Maekar cried and cried and cried, uncaring of everything and everyone around him. But nothing could ease the hollowness he now felt deep within his bones.
He had no idea how long he sat there with his brother in his arms, whispering apologies to a corpse.
Maekar had sobbed his eyes out, clutching his dead brother, his dead son by his side. Such unprincely behavior, but he did not care. Let the crowd watch him mourn, let them judge and whisper, it did not matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
He thought he had cried out all he had, that he had no tears left to spill after Aerion and Baelor.
He was wrong.
He heard Aegon scream in the distance, and at first, he didn’t even care. But then, Aegon screamed again, his voice filled with unfiltered panic, and it was like a dagger to his already broken heart.
When did Aegon even leave his side? He was there when Baelor fell, and now…
“Aegon?” He called out brokenly. He didn’t think he could even walk right now, his soul too full of grief to move.
His youngest son was across the field. “Father, come quickly!”
What was it now?
Then, he noticed Aegon’s expression. Haunted and hollow.
“Father, it's… it's Daeron!”
And Maekar Targaryen’s heart shattered for the third time today.
He placed his brother down, and trudged numbly across the soggy field to where his youngest son stood. Aegon’s hands were sticky with red and he held Daeron’s ugly, blood soaked helmet.
“It’s not fair,” Aegon sobbed, tears spilling out of his already swollen and puffy eyes. “He said—he said he was going to just lay down and fall off his horse. He didn’t even want to fight. How could this happen?”
How indeed.
Daeron’s body was a broken mess. One of his legs looked like it had been crushed. Jagged bone was protruding from skin. His other limbs were also twisted in unnatural angles. A broken piece of a lance stuck out from Daeron’s side. It was sickening.
That wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was his face.
Daeron’s face was almost unrecognizable. Bloody, bruised, and completely broken into pieces. His face was caved in, and his skull had lost all its shape. The ground beneath him was streaked with blood and flesh. His head looked like the aftermath of a melon being flung from the highest tower.
Maekar sank to his knees. There were no tears left and yet there were. He was so, so tired, and yet he howled as he clutched his oldest son, his heir, his poor baby boy.
His and Dyanna’s firstborn child. The one who looked most like his beloved wife.
Oh, Daeron. Oh Gods. How could this happen to his sweet, little son? How could any of this have happened?
He wasn’t even there. He wasn’t even there when Daeron had died. At least he had held both Aerion and Baelor, had comforted them, and had been present when they last drew their breaths.
But for Daeron, he didn’t even know when the boy passed. Was it right after the first charge, when he was unhorsed and then trampled on? Or was it near the end, when Maekar was too busy fighting to get to Aerion?
Did Daeron hear his father’s voice, calling out for Aerion during the trial? Did he listen as Maekar screamed for his other son while he bled out in the mud a dozen feet away? What were his firstborn’s last words? How did he feel as life left him? Was he in any pain? Was it instant? Or was it a long, slow death?
Maekar would never know any of these answers.
How could the Gods punish him so? To take his beloved brother and two of his sons from him in a single day. What had he possibly done to deserve such a cruel fate?
Oh Dyanna, I have failed you so.
There was a sick, hollow feeling in his soul that he knew would never disappear. Waves of grief surged through him, vast and merciless. How could he ever reconcile the fact that three of the people he loved the most were gone?
It felt like a dream—no, nightmare. A nightmare that he needed to wake up from. But he couldn’t wake from this.
Or could he?
Wait a minute. Maekar jolted up. Maybe he could. What if none of this was real? That would make more sense than this horrific tragedy than had befallen him. Of course. This couldn't possibly be real. He was just under deep sleep, and all he had to do was force himself awake.
Maekar laughed. He was such a fool. Did he really think that he could ever live in a world where he killed his own brother? Where his two oldest sons were dead? The Gods were not that cruel. It was all just a nightmare.
He grabbed the nearest sharp object he could find, which was the splintered piece currently embedded in Daeron. He wrenched it out of his son’s body, wincing at the squelching sound it made. But he could endure. This was all fake. This body wasn’t real. Real Daeron was in a tavern somewhere, drinking and whoring and stumbling around like a fool.
Maekar stabbed the piece of wood into his own hand, gritting his teeth at the intense, radiating pain that followed. Blood trickled down his arm. Maekar didn’t care. He pushed the wood in further, hoping it would awake him from this horrible, horrible nightmare.
“Father, stop! Stop it! You’re hurting yourself!”
Little Aegon was by his side again, clawing at his arms. Maekar pushed him away roughly with his shoulder. He needed to concentrate. He needed to wake up. He’d apologize to Aegon, the real Aegon, once he woke up.
“Stop it, Father! Listen to me, please!”
Dream Aegon seemed to not want to give up. Maekar gave him another shove. “Move, Aegon. This isn’t real. None of this is real,” he muttered, his eyes feral. “I got to wake up. I have to wake up.”
Aegon burst into tears again. “Father… it's real. This is all real,” he wailed. “They’re all dead. They’re all gone.”
And then, his youngest son burrowed his head into Maekar’s chest, sobbing inconsolably. Maekar froze. He stared numbly at his ruined, bloody hand. He looked down at Aegon. He then looked around the field, first at Daeron, then moving his gaze out towards Aerion and Baelor’s broken forms.
The undeniable truth crashed down onto him like a giant boulder, and he could no longer lie to himself anymore.
It was real.
It was all real.
Aerion was dead.
Baelor was dead.
Daeron was dead.
And nothing would ever be the same again.