Bright Flame

They had all heard Daeron’s words, condemning the same Hedge Knight that struck Aerion. Tales of how he had kidnapped Aegon in the night, and they all knew it was a falsehood, but Aerion did not voice these thoughts. It was another reason to deny the Hedge Knight a trial of combat, but instead something more worthy of Aerion and his dragon self. “You accused him too; this is as much for me as it is for you.” Aerion calmly explained as he took a seat opposite his brother. He took the ale and poured it out, his gaze never faltering from Daeron. “She killed the sigil of our house; I will not apologise for taking action against someone who could inspire a rebellion. You’d actually have to fight in that one Daeron.”

begrudgingly,   she   was   dressed   in   the   colors   of   her   house.   blood   red,   coal   black   ;   it   felt   as   though   they   were   children   again,   clothed   alike   to   lessen   any   arguments   (   that   would   inevitably   still   come,   despite   best   attempts   ).   as   she   walked   through   the   low   grass   she   hitched   up   the   hem   of   her   skirts,   watched   the   sky   with   her   eyes   that   shimmered   purple   like   abalone   shells.   it   was   the   last   place   she   wanted   to   be,   amidst   battle.   what   was   so   wrong   with   sewing,   with   singing,   with   settling   disagreements   with   words   rather   than   blades ?   her   brothers,   she   knew,   were   not   of   the   same   belief,   as   she   heard   aerion’s   distant   call   passing   by   the   training   field.   the   same   silver - gold   hair   as   she.   the   same   fire   within   him,   but   greener.   “i   do   not   wish   to   watch,   brother.   why   is   it   that   you   insist   on   drawing   blood ?   are   there   not   better   ways   to   display   our   strength ? ”

Aerion did not understand his siblings, nor did he truly want to. Daeron was a drunk, Egg a runaway, and his sisters, for the most part, avoided him. Everyone wanted Calla to remain indoors, being the perfect image of a princess, and yet she’d be wasted on some lord, maybe even one from the Stormlands. “Blood?” He asks, laughing at her retort. “It’s made of straw, and I must practise. Wars and battles are not one with pretty embroidery.” Aerion did not understand his sisters. With so many women to look up to, Aerion did not understand why Calla didn’t strive to be like Visenya or Rhaenys. She spoke of an aversion to blood when those very words were in her family motto.

The return of her family from the tourney had brought with it the news of their uncle's passing at the hand of her father and a bout of the spring sickness. Rhae, who was always terrified that her father or Daeron could get sick and die, was now the one who had been struck down with the infection that had since claimed the lives of Valarr and Matarys, her beloved cousins. The eight year old could barely wrap her mind around the fact that this whole side of her family was suddenly gone, seemingly from one day to another in the span of a very short time. Before her mother's passing, Rhae had not understood the concept of death just yet. But since Dyanna had left with the Stranger, the child was intimately familiar with grief and she could not process why she had survived the ailment, when her much older and stronger cousins had not.

Aerion knew his family hated him more than they feared him now. He was under no illusions that it was not of his own making, but things were different now. Lys was his punishment. To be removed from the family he’d grown up with, all because he dared to defend the dragon's honour? Egg had left before he could say goodbye, not that Aerion would give it; Daeron was too drunk to notice. Daella avoided him, and Maeker was busy. Rhae was the last person for Aerion to say goodbye to, and she was too sick to refuse him. This is what became of the dragon. It was pitiful. This is what the family had been reduced to. Fractured and sick, with half of them perishing to a sickness. Ever since Ashford, Aerion knew the truth. The Hedge Knight cursed them. Baelor fought against his family, against his blood, and all of this death was his fault.

“Lykirī aōhon relgos!” Valarr snaps, shut your mouth, through gritted teeth and an anger burning so deep between the cousins that he felt certain he would press the knife in his hand deeper into Aerion's neck. “Those men are mourned and respected, people who did not know them grieve for them because of their bravery and honour!” Disgusted, his nostrils flare in anger and loathing with any love between them from their youth completely eradicated and never to be earned back. “When you die, nobody will mourn you. The only tears that will fall from your family will be of a relief that you no longer plague anyone's bloodline and that the Stranger will be the one to see your suffering when your breath finally stops. Listen to your fathers own silence,” Valarr doesn’t move, his mouth twisted and voice spitting out his words, “he doesn’t defend you, your brothers hate you so much they rid themselves of any similarities shared with you.” 

The words cut into him, he knew he should have taken Baelors place and that conversation would haunt the young prince for the rest of his life and he knew what Aerion said was true in that moment but it didn’t bother him. “I would have given my life for my father but he insisted on it and I’d never deny him. Is that meant to hurt me about not being missed compared to my father? I know it. I take pride in him and his strength. He was the best of us and would have been a great King. I’m no comparison but neither are you. You think that you’re a dragon but you’re disillusioned with your own importance.” The realm would miss Baelor but no more than Valarr would. 

Those men were traitors. They claimed to be fighting for honour, but they all wanted the pride of fighting in the first trial of seven in a hundred years. No matter what, the history books would remember them, and Aerion knew the truth; that was why they all fought for Ser Duncan, Baelor included. “Those men aren’t respected,” Aerion laughed. “A knight with a broken leg, one with no eye, and yet you treat them like heroes?” Aerion didn’t know the standards could falter so much. Maybe because it was the first time Aerion had evoked such a reaction from his cousin, he couldn’t stop goading him, even if he wanted to. Finally, Vallar showed some inkling of being a dragon; it only took his father to die. “People will remember me,” Aerion said slowly. “They’ll remember my name for years to come while yours and your father’s will be forgotten.” Prince Baelor, the king that never was, or never shall be. The realm could speak about what king he might’ve been, but Aerion knew he’d be nothing in history. “My brothers, do you mean the drunk or the runaway?” Aerion laughed once more. “They’re nothing. They’ll never be anything; I am the dragon!” He shouted. For too long, his brothers were the standard. No one could see beyond Aerion’s own temper, but things would change. Daeron was nothing, Egg was nothing. 

Aerion knew exactly what he was doing with his words. He wanted them to cut and sting, and Vallar admired his father too much to not be weighed down with grief and guilt. “You wouldn’t have,” Aerion shrugged. "Instead, you prepared him like a lamb going to slaughter. Did you act as his squire, fitting him for armour you both know did not fit?” Maeker may have swung the mace, but it was Vallar’s armour that killed him. They all knew it; they just didn’t say it to save the poor little prince. 

it is almost laughably obvious that aerion seeks to get a reaction out of her from the nature of his mocking quip but even with such awareness, it takes considerable self-control for kiera not to bristle and snap back an angry rebuttal. had he aimed such ridicule at anyone else, even at her own person, she would not have found it difficult in the slightest to brush the words off as if they had never been spoken but a barb aimed at her husband was not so easily forgotten. 'you know as well as i that valarr's life is more precious to the realm than all of us combined who are gathered here.' kiera replies cooly with a slight tilt of the shoulders. with the addition of his own father, the prince of dragonstone, of course.

'why risk so precious a life for mere child's play?' a faint smirk flickers across her lips as she allows herself to take satisfaction with her quip before she reorganizes her expression into one of polite impassiveness. 'you should be glad he does not take up so many challenges for if he did, you would surely find yourself facing him and it would be a shame to see such new fine armor so swiftly cast into the mud.'

beringed fingers reach upwards to tuck light pink hair behind her ear as the light breeze that whirls through the air threatens to make her tresses unruly. 'i do find it intriguing you went to such lengths to ensure your armor is so reminiscent of a dragon. they say that if a man has to so loudly profess one of his qualities, it is likely only for show.' if one is born a dragon, one should embody it in a way that it is simply known without the need for such gaudy extravagance but that is a point kiera elects to keep to herself.

Vallar was a future king, many wouldn’t dare to risk his life in a joust and so his poor cousin was left for old, tired knights. Aerion liked a challenge. He liked to prove that he was just as strong and capable as his father, but mediocrity suited Vallar more than it would him. It irked Aerion that Kiera was right. Vallar’s life, for now, was more valuable than most in attendance, but that didn’t stop Aerion from wanting a challenge. Baelor would be angry if he challenged his son, but Baelor needed to understand it was Aerion who was the capable fighter, not his son. “So precious that he’s sheltered beyond measure,” Aerion laughed. “Do you think he’ll fall asleep, waiting for a decent challenge?”

A tourney was more than child’s play, but Aerion did not expect a Tyroshi to understand their customs. “I thought you Tyroshi were supposed to have some intelligence?” He asked with a mocking tone. “Shall I put your theory to the test and challenge my cousin? When I drive my sword into his side, I’ll tell him he has his wife to thank.” He didn’t say it, not yet, but Aerion did not mention it was a kind thing they didn’t have children. It was one thing to embarrass his cousin, but if he had a family of his own, Vallar’s defeat would bring shame upon his non-existent sons. 

𝖙𝖍𝖊  𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖒  𝖑𝖔𝖗𝖉  𝖍𝖆𝖉  𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖉  𝖙𝖔  𝖊𝖘𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖊  𝖆𝖘𝖍𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖉  after  baelor's  funeral  —  the  roast,  he  had  jovially  called  it  …  to  none  but  the  hedge  knight  —  but  what  was  lyonel  to  do  while  his  caravan  began  their  preparations  to  leave?  his  own  pavillion  was  half-struck  by  now,  as  servants  and  squires  packed  the  tent  down,  readied  the  horses,  prepared  for  the  journey  ahead.  so  here  he  was,  in  the  ale  tent,  instead  of  hosting  some  loud  baratheon  gathering  …  𝔩𝔦𝔪𝔭𝔦𝔫𝔤  𝔟𝔢𝔱𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔫  𝔱𝔞𝔟𝔩𝔢𝔰  with  a  grin  that  fools  almost  everyone.  he  claps  hands,  trades  jests,  lets  smallfolk  and  fellow  knights  clap  his  shoulder  as  if  he  isn't  carrying  two  fresh  ghosts  behind  his  ribs  …  (  beesbury  and  hardying  were  good  friends  …  they  will  certainly  be  missed  in  the  years  to  come  ).  still,  the  laughter  comes  easy  enough,  it  always  did  for  the  boisterous  storm  lord,  even  if  the  edges  of  it  are  slightly  hollow. 

but  then  the  air  shifts. 

in  𝔞  𝔯𝔲𝔰𝔥  𝔬𝔣  𝔪𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱,  the  cold  steel  kisses  the  side  of  his  throat  —  not  deep,  but  dangerous.  intimate  in  a  way  only  a  dragon  with  too  much  pride  and  too  little  sense  can  manage  …  aerion's  blade  presses  him  back  against  the  table  in  the  short  skirmish,  wood  biting  into  his  bruised  spine.  a  grunt,  a  slight  hiss  of  pain,  and  the  laughing  storm's  grin  𝔣𝔞𝔩𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰  for  just  a  heartbeat  before  steadying  into  something  sharper  than  before. 

amber  eyes  flicker  with  something  dark.  merriment  cooling  into  challenge.  did  the  little  princeling  really  want  to  make  a  fool  of  himself  again?  for  a  long  moment  lyonel  let's  the  silence  stretch  into  something  𝔲𝔫𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔞𝔟𝔩𝔶  𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔰𝔢  ...  as  entertaining  as  it  was  to  goad  the  targaryen's,  this  particular  dragon  had  a  reputation  for  erratic  behaviour.  lyonel  enjoyed  a  certain  level  of  unpredictability  …  but  less  so  when  the  wrong  words  might  result  in  his  throat  being  cut  by  a  petulant  little  prince.  still,  he  tilts  his  head  slightly,  just  enough  for  the  blade  to  slide  along  his  skin  …  not  away  from  the  danger,  but  into  it.  defiant,  naturally.

❝  careful  ᴍʏ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇ …  ❞  the  storm  lord  cautions,  voice  eerily  steady.  calm  given  the  perilous  situation,  as  a  dark  brow  raises  in  questioning.  ❝  …  don't  you  think  enough  blood  has  been  spilled  already?  ❞

a  beat.  a  breath.  those  sharp  eyes  flicker  over  the  prince's  features.  studying,  as  if  trying  to  figure  out  his  next  move.

❝  I  ᴀssᴜʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ,  no  insult  was  uttered  …  ❞ 

With the faltering of the Laughing Storm’s smile and his hiss of pain, Aerion’s mouth twisted into something resembling a smile. His dagger didn’t waver. It was pressed close enough that Aerion could feel the Laughing Storm’s pulse, steady as a war drum. The tent had fallen deathly quiet, with only the sound of the fires burning. “There’s never enough blood to honour the dragon.” Aerion said, his bruised eye throbbing and every breath feeling like a stab in his ribs. The Hedge Knight had hurt him more than Aerion would ever admit, but this was about honour. They’d all heard the whispers. There were those who had whispered that the realm was better with one less dragon in the world. Others celebrated, raising a glass in honour of the Hedge Knight. Celebrating the man who caused all of this.

While not wanting to alert the Master of Ships too early, he took it upon himself to confirm the rumors as well as reconnect with Prince Maekar's second son. Partially in hopes that they boy would have matured some through his experience and seeking any potential news he would have.

He needed to travel disguised as Maynard Plumm, a particular character he used when traipsing around pretender territory. Distant family member of another bastard of the unworthy king, but removed enough that his loyalty wouldn't be questioned. Only a few knew of his skills, and Prince Aerion was soon to be privy to them.

@brightflme: ❝ Say one more word ❞ | aerion

" O n e ," Brynden drawled as he unclipped the large moonstone brooch at his should and placed it in a leather pouch fastened to his belt. The shoulder-length dirty blond hair melted into white and lengthened, though most of it was tucked in his cloak to prevent unexpected strands to touch someone. His pale skin turned paler, and the pale eyes now visibly shined bright red. The left that was taken, now presented itself as such, instead of the facade that had be placed due to the glamour.

Maynard Pulmm vanished before Aerion’s eyes, but he did not attempt to hide his indifference to his great-uncle. He saw the dirty blonde hair turn white; another Targaryen hiding his identity. Egg had certainly set a trend. Aerion didn’t move to greet his great-uncle. He remained sprawled across the cushioned divan. His relatives across the Narrow Sea didn’t make any effort to contact him, and so Aerion gave them the same treatment. “The crow sheds his feathers at last,” he taunted. Finally, Aerion rose, his red silk robes trailing behind him across the marble floor. Aerion’s moves were deliberate and graceful, watching Blood Raven’s every move.

“You cross the narrow sea, disguised, to summon me home." Aerion almost laughed at the explanation. “Offering me promises of repatriation at the cost of raising my sword and flame for a father and country that cast me aside?” All for the honour of a traitor and a hedge knight. The years since hadn’t calmed Aerion’s anger. He’d cultivated it, let it grow within him, promising that one day he would return. Aerion knew the names by which they called him. Aerion the Monstrous. Aerion the Cruel. If that is what Westeros wanted him to be, then he would gladly play that role. 

He thinks he's a dragon in human form.

𝖍𝖊  𝖜𝖗𝖎𝖙𝖊𝖘  𝖔𝖓𝖑𝖞  𝖇𝖊𝖈𝖆𝖚𝖘𝖊  𝖍𝖊  𝖎𝖘  𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖉  𝖙𝖔.  why  else  would  the  storm  lord  address  such  a  pathetic  creature   …   he  has  no  respect  for  aerion  at  all,  could  not  care  less  about  the  ill-mannered  brat.  and  yet,  he  must  find  the  words.  he  cannot.  parchment  litters  the  table  ―  half-formed  openings,  abandoned  courtesies,  lines  crossed  out  so  hard  that  the  quill  had  torn  the  page. 

𝓎𝑜𝓊  𝒶𝓇𝑒  𝒶  𝒻𝑜𝑜𝓁𝒾𝓈𝒽  𝒷𝑜𝓎.  ℐ𝒻  𝒹𝓇𝒶𝑔𝑜𝓃𝓈  𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒  𝒶𝓈  𝓃𝑜𝒷𝓁𝑒  𝒶𝓈  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓈𝑜𝓃𝑔𝓈  𝒸𝓁𝒶𝒾𝓂,  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓂  𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹  𝓃𝑜𝓉  𝓉𝓇𝑒𝓂𝒷𝓁𝑒  𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎  𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒  𝑜𝓃𝑒  𝑜𝒻  𝓎𝑜𝓊  𝒹𝓇𝒶𝓌𝓈  𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽.  𝓎𝑜𝓊  𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓂𝑒𝒹  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉𝓈.  𝓎𝑜𝓊  𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓂𝑒𝒹  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓂.  𝓎𝑜𝓊  𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓂𝑒𝒹  𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇  𝒻𝒶𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓎  𝒶𝓃𝒹  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓉𝒾𝓉𝓁𝑒  𝓎𝑜𝓊  𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓉𝑒𝓃𝒹  𝓉𝑜  𝒹𝑒𝓈𝑒𝓇𝓋𝑒.

he  should  burn  them.  he  does.  gathering  the  worst  of  the  pages  (  the  honest  ones,  the  dangerous  ones  ),  he  feeds  them  to  the  hearth,  flames  curling  eagerly  around  the  parchment,  devouring ink and fury alike.  words  twisted,  blackened,  vanished.  only  when  the  last  scrap  fell  to  ash  did  he  reach  for  a  fresh  sheet.  only  then  did  he  begin  the  letter  his  father  demanded   …   the  one  formed  of  hollow  words,  tasting  like  𝔰𝔴𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔡  𝔭𝔯𝔦𝔡𝔢  &&  𝔰𝔞𝔩𝔱𝔴𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔯. 

❝  𝒫𝓇𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒  𝒜𝑒𝓇𝒾𝑜𝓃,       

𝓂𝓎  𝓁𝑜𝓇𝒹  𝒻𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇  𝒽𝒶𝓈  𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓃𝒹𝑒𝒹  𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉  ℐ  𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒  𝓉𝑜  𝓎𝑜𝓊  𝓇𝑒𝑔𝒶𝓇𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓉𝓇𝒾𝒶𝓁  𝒶𝓉  𝒜𝓈𝒽𝒻𝑜𝓇𝒹  𝒶𝓃𝒹  𝓂𝓎  𝓅𝓁𝒶𝒸𝑒  𝒶𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒  𝓈𝑒𝓇  𝒟𝓊𝓃𝒸𝒶𝓃  𝒶𝓈  𝑜𝓃𝑒  𝑜𝒻  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝒹𝑒𝒻𝑒𝓃𝒹𝒶𝓃𝓉'𝓈  𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓂𝓅𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈.  ℐ  𝑜𝒷𝑒𝓎  𝒽𝒾𝓂,  𝒶𝓈  𝒶𝓃𝓎  𝒹𝓊𝒻𝒾𝒻𝓊𝓁  𝓈𝑜𝓃  𝓂𝓊𝓈𝓉,  𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽  ℐ  𝒾𝓂𝒶𝑔𝒾𝓃𝑒  𝓂𝓎  𝑜𝒷𝑒𝒹𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒  𝓂𝒶𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈  𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒  𝓉𝑜  𝓎𝑜𝓊,  ℐ  𝒹𝑜𝓊𝒷𝓉  𝒾𝓉  𝒸𝒶𝓇𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈  𝒶𝓃𝓎  𝓌𝑒𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉  𝒷𝑒𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝒿𝓊𝒹𝑔𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉  𝑜𝒻  𝒶  𝓅𝓇𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒.  𝓇𝑒𝑔𝒶𝓇𝒹𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈,  𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒  𝒾𝓈  𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉  ℐ  𝓂𝓊𝓈𝓉  𝓈𝒶𝓎  …

ℐ  𝓈𝓉𝑜𝑜𝒹  𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒  𝒽𝑜𝓃𝑜𝓊𝓇  𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓇𝑒𝒹  𝓂𝑒  𝓉𝑜  𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝒹.  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓁𝒶𝓌  𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹  𝒻𝑜𝓇  𝓈𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃,  𝒶𝓃𝒹  ℐ  𝒶𝓃𝓈𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒𝒹  𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓁𝓎.  𝓃𝑜  𝓂𝒶𝓃  𝑜𝒻  𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹  𝒷𝒾𝓇𝓉𝒽  𝒸𝒶𝓃  𝓇𝑒𝒻𝓊𝓈𝑒  𝓈𝓊𝒸𝒽  𝒶  𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝑜𝓃𝓈  𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉  𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔  𝒽𝒾𝓂𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻  𝒶𝓃𝒹  𝒽𝒾𝓈  𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝑒.  𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉  𝒶𝓈𝓈𝓊𝓇𝑒𝒹  𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉  𝓂𝓎  𝒸𝒽𝑜𝒾𝒸𝑒  𝓌𝒶𝓈  𝓃𝑜𝓉  𝓂𝒶𝒹𝑒  𝒾𝓃  𝒹𝑒𝒻𝒾𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒  𝑜𝒻  𝓎𝑜𝓊,  𝓃𝑜𝓇  𝒾𝓃  𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒𝓃𝑔𝑒  𝓉𝑜  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝓃,  𝒷𝓊𝓉  𝒾𝓃  𝒶𝒸𝒸𝑜𝓇𝒹𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒  𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝒸𝓊𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓂𝓈  𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉  𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒  𝑔𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓃𝑒𝒹  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓂  𝓈𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒  𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔  𝒷𝑒𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑒  𝑒𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇  𝑜𝒻  𝓊𝓈  𝒻𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉  𝒹𝓇𝑒𝓌  𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽.     ℐ  𝒹𝑜  𝓃𝑜𝓉  𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓊𝓂𝑒  𝓉𝑜  𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉𝒾𝒸𝑒  𝓎𝑜𝓊  𝓈𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉  𝓉𝑜  𝓊𝓅𝒽𝑜𝓁𝒹,  𝓃𝑜𝓇  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓂𝒶𝓃𝓃𝑒𝓇  𝒾𝓃  𝓌𝒽𝒾𝒸𝒽  𝓎𝑜𝓊  𝓅𝓊𝓇𝓈𝓊𝑒𝒹  𝒾𝓉.  𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒  𝓂𝒶𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈  𝓁𝒾𝑒  𝒻𝒶𝓇  𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓋𝑒  𝓂𝓎  𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃.  𝓎𝑒𝓉,  ℐ  𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁  𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓉𝑒  𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈  𝓅𝓁𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓁𝓎  ~  ℐ  𝒶𝒸𝓉𝑒𝒹  𝒶𝓈  𝒶𝓃𝓎  𝓀𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉  𝓈𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓃  𝓉𝑜  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓁𝒶𝓌𝓈  𝑜𝒻  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓈𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃  𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔𝒹𝑜𝓂𝓈  𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹  𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒  𝒶𝒸𝓉𝑒𝒹  𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃  𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹  𝓉𝑜  𝒹𝑒𝒻𝑒𝓃𝒹  𝒶  𝓂𝒶𝓃'𝓈  𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉  𝓉𝑜  𝓉𝓇𝒾𝒶𝓁.    𝓂𝓎  𝓁𝑜𝓇𝒹  𝒻𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇  𝒷𝒾𝒹𝓈  𝓂𝑒  𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓋𝑒𝓎  𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉  𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝑒  𝒷𝒶𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝑜𝓃  𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓈  𝓎𝑜𝓊  𝓃𝑜  𝒾𝓁𝓁  𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁  𝒻𝑜𝓇  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝑜𝓊𝓉𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒  𝑜𝒻  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓉𝓇𝒾𝒶𝓁,  𝓃𝑜𝓇  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈  𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉  𝓅𝓇𝑒𝒸𝑒𝒹𝑒𝒹  𝒾𝓉, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓌𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝒶𝒾𝓃 𝓁𝑜𝓎𝒶𝓁 𝓉𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝓃.  ℐ  𝓇𝑒𝓁𝒶𝓎  𝒽𝒾𝓈  𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹𝓈  𝒻𝒶𝒾𝓉𝒽𝒻𝓊𝓁𝓁𝓎,  𝒶𝓈  𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓉𝓇𝓊𝒸𝓉𝑒𝒹.  𝒽𝑒  𝒾𝓈  𝒶  𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓊𝓈  𝓂𝒶𝓃,  𝒶𝓃𝒹  𝒽𝑒  𝒷𝑒𝓁𝒾𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓈  𝒾𝓉  𝓌𝒾𝓈𝑒  𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉  𝓃𝑜  𝓈𝒽𝒶𝒹𝑜𝓌  𝑜𝒻  𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔  𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹  𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇  𝒷𝑒𝓉𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓃  𝑜𝓊𝓇  𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝑒𝓈.   

𝒶𝓈  𝒻𝑜𝓇  𝓂𝓎𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻  ~  ℐ  𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁  𝓈𝒶𝓎  𝑜𝓃𝓁𝓎  𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈,  𝒶  𝓂𝒶𝓃'𝓈  𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓉𝒽  𝒾𝓈  𝓂𝑒𝒶𝓈𝓊𝓇𝑒𝒹  𝒷𝓎  𝒽𝑜𝓌  𝒽𝑒  𝓉𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝓈  𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒  𝒷𝑒𝓃𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽  𝒽𝒾𝓂,  𝓃𝑜𝓉  𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒  𝒽𝑒  𝒸𝒶𝓃  𝓈𝓉𝓇𝒾𝓀𝑒  𝒹𝑜𝓌𝓃  𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉  𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓈𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒.  𝒾𝓉  𝒾𝓈  𝒶  𝓉𝓇𝓊𝓉𝒽  ℐ  𝓌𝒶𝓈  𝓇𝒶𝒾𝓈𝑒𝒹  𝓉𝑜  𝒽𝑜𝓁𝒹.  𝓇𝑒𝒸𝑒𝓃𝓉  𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈  𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒  𝑜𝒻𝒻𝑒𝓇𝑒𝒹  𝓂𝓊𝒸𝒽  𝒻𝑜𝓇  𝒶𝓁𝓁  𝓂𝑒𝓃  𝓉𝑜  𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓇,  𝒶𝓃𝒹  ℐ  𝓉𝓇𝓊𝓈𝓉  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝑔𝑜𝒹𝓈  𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁  𝓈𝑒𝑒  𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉  𝓉𝓇𝓊𝓉𝒽  𝒸𝒶𝓇𝓇𝒾𝑒𝒹  𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒  𝒾𝓉  𝓃𝑒𝑒𝒹𝓈  𝓉𝑜  𝒷𝑒  𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝒹 ...    

ℐ  𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁  𝓃𝑜𝓉  𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓊𝒷𝓁𝑒  𝓎𝑜𝓊  𝒻𝓊𝓇𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇,  ℐ  𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒  𝓃𝑜  𝒹𝑒𝓈𝒾𝓇𝑒  𝓉𝑜  𝒾𝓃𝓉𝓇𝓊𝒹𝑒  𝓊𝓅𝑜𝓃  𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇  𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓈  𝑜𝓇  𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇  𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒.

𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽  𝓉𝒽𝑒  𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒸𝓉  𝑜𝓌𝑒𝒹  𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇  𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃,     ℐ  𝓇𝑒𝓂𝒶𝒾𝓃,  𝒶𝓈  𝒹𝓊𝓉𝓎  𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓇𝑒𝓈,     ~  𝒮𝑒𝓇  ℒ𝓎𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓁  𝑜𝒻  ℋ𝑜𝓊𝓈𝑒  ℬ𝒶𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝑜𝓃.  ❞

Lord Baratheon,

I am surprised to hear that one Baratheon holds some sense; I do wonder if your father is the only one to possess such a thing. I have yet to understand the reasoning for siding with a hedge knight, one who has no honours or victories attached to his name, but I assume you were well within your cups when you were asked to join Ser Duncan’s side. I see no other reason but that.

You speak of honour, and yet is it not honourable to side with the princes of the realm and not to turn against your king and his kin? Nor does it uphold the customs of the realm that matter, to respect and honour the blood of the dragon. If your choice was not made in defiance of me but in support of a man who had struck the dragon’s blood, please explain your reasoning without these feeble excuses.

There is no question of justice or the reasons behind my actions. I was protecting the realm against treason, or did you forget that we have had peace only for thirteen summers? If someone thinks they can strike against the royal household without punishment, then war would surely follow. I would think that a man such as yourself was aware of these things, yet your actions in Ashford prove otherwise.

I care not for men like Ser Duncan, who have nothing to lose when it comes to defying the crown. He has no family or history to speak of, and yet you hold him in such high esteem. Even the man who knighted him was of no consequence, and still Ser Duncan the Tall is to be regarded as a worthy knight? I pity those who have fallen for him. 

You, like the hedge knight, are inconsequential to me.