angel

the stillness that had found itself into the throne room had crawled out of the keep in ashford. it had been born of a spiked mace colliding with the back of a steel helmet, of mangled tissue leaving an imprint of red upon gloved hands, of the womanly screams let out by a distraught wife and the youthful rogue tears of an unfortunate son. the king had dismissed his courtiers for the day and stationed his guards beyond the grand walls of the vast chamber, opting to oversee the audience he was asked to grant privately.

two figures stood before him, both of sullen countenance and hollow eyes, both draped in robes of black and with hands clasped above their respective abdomens. the thought of his youngest son and his eldest's bride resembling one another had never crossed the old king's mind, yet now they appeared to him as one soul shattered in two shards by one singular loss. they didn't utter a single word to one another, yet the unease and discontent that brewed between them would have been obvious even to the most simple-minded of fools. the warrior prince dared not look at his eldest brother's once radiant wife, and the woman's eyes remained deeply concentrated on the elderly man upon whose brow rested a crown adorned with golden dragons.

it was the woman that spoke first, her mourning veil hastily thrown back behind her head. "it is unseemly, for a man who brought about the end of the prince of dragonstone's life to walk about so freely." she began, quietly, yet with venom filling her throat and malice appearing in her eyes. "it is forbidden for a knight to strike a prince of the crown — a rule that has stood long before any of us were born. a rule designated to protect those worthy to lead from those lesser than them. it would have applied to any of the men upon that battlefield, your grace. had ser donnel, or ser willem, or ser crakehall, left even a single mark upon my husband's skin, their lives could have very well been forfeit.. as is just. as is necessary, to preserve the dignity and safety of this family" she continued then, taking a step closer to the spikes of iron laid before her. she circled the topic they both expected her to raise with poise and grace, and yet, they both feared what words would leave her mouth next. were it forgiveness she wanted to offer, she would not have called upon maekar and asked the king for an audience. were it forgiveness she wanted to offer, she would have spoken at least a single world to a soul other than her husband's sons, would have gently embraced aegon as she had in the past and examined daeron with the stiff worry only a mother could offer.

"had prince maekar.... merely grazed my husband, I would say nothing, for my words would mean nothing. baelor would be well, and healthy. he would have looked in on him and his sons, praised him for a battle well-fought and then returned to me and his dear boys — but prince maekar did not merely graze my husband. prince maekar slaughtered the heir to the iron throne." there was no sympathy in the words as they were spoken, no guilt or fear permeating them. her voice rose upon the most heinous of all the words she had uttered, as the sullen prince drew in a harsh breath, and the king gripped the iron spike of his chair harshly. "you must mind your words, good daughter. prince maekar is a prince of the blood, and your lord husband's brother — allow not your grief to cloud your senses." he spoke then, yet whether his words stood in defense of his youngest's regrettable mistake or as an attempt to discourage his good daughter from speaking words of treason remained unclear to both individuals before him.

"you must forgive me for my harshness — but my mind has never been clearer, your grace. you speak as a father in defense of your son... but what of mine husband's sons? if such a vile act stands unpunished, then what is to stop prince maekar's mace of finding its place in the back of valarr's skull? or matarys'? or those of the rest of your sons?" the widow continued then, interrupting the prince as he opened his mouth to speak. "and even if you truly believe prince maekar repentant of his sin, then what of his vile, bloodthirsty issue? we now know that the whispers about him stand on solid foundation. he assaulted a young maiden at a puppet show, and attempted to have a knight who came to her defense put to death. he has taken place in but one tourney since his last name-day, and in it he has dishonourably struck his opponent's horse and killed it!" they were sure the knights outside could hear her, as loud and angry screams bounced from wall to wall. "there is none to guarantee that this.... brazen act shan't encourage him to hoist himself higher up in the line of succession. and none to guarantee that his father won't defend him as readily as he did in ashford."

"I did not mean to kill my brother." those were the only words the prince could mutter out, as he finally turned to face the maddened widow standing next to him. perhaps if he said it another hundred times, she would find it in her heart to believe him. perhaps she already did, and it mattered not regardless. the sorrow in his voice did nothing to soothe her soul, but it did appeal to the manner in which she carried herself. feeling his eyes on her, her gaze shifted only slightly, so she could take in his face as she spoke again. "perhaps that is true — and yet, the king allowing you and your son to walk free sets a very dangerous precedent. a prince who has struck down the heir to the throne and hand of the king walks free. a man is allowed to reshape the line of succession, so long as he bears the king's blood." she did not need to speak his name for maekar to know upon whom she drew the comparison. a tempered insult, and yet an insult nonetheless. only weeks earlier, he would have answered it with indignation and anger. only weeks earlier, his hands were clean of his own brother's blood. the king squeezed his own eyes shut in frustration at the slight — he thought it unwarranted and rash, and yet the nature of it seemed so unlike his son's once virtuous bride.

"if you and your son are allowed to walk away unpunished, then what law exists to stop matarys from drawing his blade upon valarr, to stop one of your sons drawing it upon matarys? few laws stand without crumbling to dust, when they have been disregarded once."

her gaze returned to the king then, as she raised her hands towards him as one would while praying. "I speak not as a grieving widow now, but a woman who stands valiantly loyal to your house, to you and to your heir... if this transgression suffers no consequences, prince baelor's death may not be the worst of what is to come."

the king's dismissal of her was gentle and kind, yet his announcement that he would forgive her crude tone and her undignified outburst on account of her grief, was rather stern. angry as she was, the widow knew better than to protest against the king's decision once it had been made. maekar watched the back of her head as she withdrew, back hunched as she finally allowed the tears she had held back to cascade down her cheeks.

king daeron ii, wise as he was, chose not to punish neither his son nor his good daughter. maekar's act of violence was an unfortunate consequence of battle, and his good daughter's unkind words were the unfortunate consequence of womanly grief.

perhaps such a decision would have enraged her, had valarr himself not delivered the news that the kinslayer prince had been moved by her words in a manner that his father hadn't been. prince aerion was sent off on his way to lys mere days after she'd finally looked her good brother in the eyes and smeared salt upon the wound his brother's death caused him. there, he would be far from what remained of baelor's legacy, far from the knight her husband had given his life for, far from his father's vigilant protection and the woman whose joy he had stolen. it was less than she desired — it was not maekar's disinheritance, nor was it aerion's head, but it was some form of retribution for the suffering inflicted upon her. it would have to be enough, as neither the king nor valarr would offer her anything else. it was maekar who had taken from her, and it was he whose decision helped quell the rage within, and whose decision reminded the realm, albeit subtly, that such tragedy comes at a cost for the guilty.

that fateful moment in the throne room would be the last time baelor's widow and maekar would look each other in the eye — but she would shave aegon's head as he ventured off with his hedge knight once again, and place a gentle kiss upon daeron's forehead as she granted him her blessing to marry her late stepson's widow. she'd smile as she cradled vaella, and begrudgingly rest her hand on rhae's shoulder as she grit her teeth through his coronation.

the prince of dragonstone's widow and the future king would never look in eachother's eyes again, but they would both whisper the same name as the stranger came to claim them — for as different as they were, what remained of their lives would consist of the same sullen countenance and hollow eyes. what remained of their lives would be shaped by the same ghost.