ok ka ba dyan

The world had narrowed to the sharp edge of a sword against a throat.

Aerion, caught in his own arrogance, lay pinned in the churned mud. The air had been driven from his lungs, the taste of dirt and blood thick on his tongue. The giant stood over him, his blade cold and rimmed with death against the pulse hammering in Aerion’s neck. The black enamel of his helm was dented, the ridiculous plumes torn away and trampled into the muck. 

He did not struggle. He went still, like a predator when recognizing a greater force. His violet eyes, visible through the raised visor, were not wide with fear, but rather narrowed with a furious, lucid calculation. He saw the resolve in the hedge knight’s plain face, the absence of mercy. Violence he understood. He courted it, danced with it, wore it like perfume. This was not a knight playing at chivalry; this was a man who would kill him.

The roar of the crowd was a distant ocean. Aerion’s gaze flickered past the giant’s shoulder, to where his father Maekar stood, to where his brother Daeron had fallen, to the seething mass of faces that had come to see a show and were now witnessing a truth: fear in a face that did not know it could bleed. 

He hated them more in that moment than he had ever hated anything.

The sword pressed deeper. He felt a sting, then the warm trickle of blood down his neck, into the collar of his gorget.

Aerion’s lips parted. He did not shriek, nor beg. The sound that left him was low, guttural, stripped of all its theatrical fire. It was the raw acknowledgment of defeat, a simple exhalation of surrender.

“I yield.”

The words hung in the heavy air, then were swallowed by a sudden, greater silence that fell not from the stands, but from the centre of the field.

Aerion, his submission granted, shoved at Ser Duncan’s sword with the last of his strength, rolling away from him. He ripped off his ruined helm and threw it into the mud, his silver hair plastered to his skull with sweat. He was looking past Ser Duncan, his face a mask of boiling fury, but his eyes were fixed on a point farther down the field.

Clarice, from the royal box, followed his gaze.

The Hand of the King sat on his horse, swaying slightly. His armor was battered, the black plate dented in a dozen places. He reached up, his movements slow and uncoordinated, to remove his helm. An irregular choir of gasps went through the audience.

Maekar stood by his side, his mace hanging limp from his hand at the sight of his brother’s head. The rage drained from his face, replaced by a dawning horror so profound it stripped him of all humanity. He looked like a man waking from a nightmare to find he was still dreaming. He took a step back, then another, shaking his head in tiny, frantic denials.

Baelor Breakspear, the finest man to ever bear the name Targaryen, smiled faintly at his brother. It was a tender, reassuring gesture for his younger brother. 

"I think..." Baelor’s voice was gentle, fading, like a bell ringing from a great distance. "I seem to have taken a blow to the head."

Clarice watched, her breath trapped in her lungs, as the greatest man she knew faltered. He did not fall like a tree; he crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Baelor Breakspear, the hope of the realm, slid from his saddle and hit the ground with a final, hollow clatter of steel.

“No,” Maekar started whispering. The word was a puff of air, lost. “No, no, no.”

A stunned, petrified silence fell over the courtyard. Clarice caught a breath of a horrified, desperate prayer at her side. 

But the gods were silent. It was the men who began to scream.

Maekar’s roar of anger was the first to cut through the din. He fell to his knees beside his brother, his big, calloused hands hovering over Baelor’s form, afraid to touch. “No, no, no, no…” The word was a mantra of horror. He looked at his warhammer again, then at his hands, as if seeing them for the first time. He had swung true, aiming for the helm, a blow to win a trial. He had not meant to kill his brother. His face, usually so stern and impassive, crumpled into a landscape of pure, defenseless grief.

Clarice turned away from the field, the image seared into her mind. She pushed herself up, ignoring the lancing pain in her back, the tightness in her chest that had nothing to do with the baby. The box was in an uproar. Valarr had surged forward and jumped into the field while screaming, his scholarly calm obliterated, his face a portrait of shock. Kiera was sobbing openly. 

She moved through the panicked crowd like a ghost. No one noticed the pregnant woman in the ivory and blue dress, pushing against the current of bodies flowing towards the tragedy. She was a stone in a river, parting the flow without a ripple.

***********

Clarice found him in a dim corner of the royal pavilion’s antechamber, away from the panicked scurrying of squires and maesters. He was standing before the bronze mirror, naked save for his breeches. A basin of water, now turned pink with blood and dirt, sat on the vanity. He was scrubbing his chest with a rough cloth. He scrubbed hard, turning the pale skin angry and red, as if he were trying to flay the memory of the mud on his flesh.

Aerion saw her reflection in the mirror before she spoke. “Come to gloat?” he asked, his voice hoarse. He didn’t turn.

“I came to see if you were harmed,” she said, her own voice flat. She stepped closer, her gaze taking in the bruise blooming on his jaw, the dirt ground into his knuckles, the shallow but angry cut Ser Duncan’s sword had left on his neck. A strange, unwelcome relief loosened something in her chest. He was whole. He was here.

“Disappointed?”

“Frequently.” She reached for the rag. “Let me.”

He caught her wrist before her fingers could touch him. His grip was fierce, trembling slightly. “Don’t.”

She looked at his hand, then up at his face. The fury in him was a living thing, worthy of its own name; a caged beast pacing behind his eyes. It wasn’t directed at her, not yet, but it was looking for a target.

“You’re bleeding,” she stated.

“I am aware.” He released her and turned back to the mirror, dabbing at the cut with a savage jerk that reopened it. A fresh bead of blood welled and traced a path down his throat. “It’s nothing. A scratch from a particularly ambitious peasant.”

Clarice felt her eye twitch. “He beat you, Aerion” She said, simply because she knew he needed to hear it, to taste the truth of it.

Aerion’s shoulders tightened. “He cheated. He used his weight. It was a brawl, not a duel.”

“It was a trial. And you yielded.” She pushed, watching him flinch as if she’d struck the bruise on his jaw.

He finally turned to face her fully. The vulnerability she’d glimpsed on the field was gone, burned away by a hotter, more familiar fire: hatred. It contorted his beautiful features into something ugly and sharp and vicious.

“And my noble uncle is dead,” Aerion spat, the words dripping with wildfire. “The great Baelor Breakspear. The most honorable man on the realm. Felled by his own brother’s clumsiness. Poetic, isn’t it? Father killed the brother he loved to save the son he hates.” A brittle, horrible smile touched his lips. “They’ll sing songs about it. A tragedy. How they’ll weep.”

Clarice felt a cold disgust wash over her. She had loved Baelor. He had been a spot of decency in the madness, a steady hand, a kind smile. “He’s dead, Aerion. Show some respect.” She hissed. 

“Respect?” Aerion laughed, a short, barking sound. “For what? For being weak enough to die? He interfered. He chose the wrong side. The gods judged him for it.” He took a step toward her, his eyes blazing. “He should have stayed in his box, eating his plums and dispensing his wisdom. But he had to play the hero. And look where it got him. A warhammer to the skull and a legacy of stupidity.”

She wanted to slap him. She wanted to make him feel a fraction of the grief that was curdling in her own stomach. Instead, she reached for the rag again, her movement deliberate. “You need stitching.”

He batted her hand away. “I said don’t touch me.” The command was sharp, final. But there was a flicker beneath it, a frantic desperation. 

“Fine,” Clarice said, dropping her hand. “Bleed onto your shirt. See if I care.”

He stared at her, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The hatred warred with something else, something that looked almost like panic. He needed her. She could see it in the rigid line of his spine, in the white-knuckled grip of his hands at his sides. He needed her sharpness to deflect his shame, her ice to quench the humiliation burning in his gut. He needed to wound her to prove he could still wound something.

But he could not bear to be touched. Not now. To feel her hands, gentle or not, would be to acknowledge a vulnerability deeper than the sword at his throat. It would be a second yielding.

“Get out,” he said, the words low and strained.

“What?”

“Get out of my sight,” he repeated, turning his back to her, gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white. “Go tend to the mourners. Go weep for the dead hero. I don’t want you here.”

It was a dismissal, but it felt like a plea. Go, before I say something worse. Go, before I break something I love. Go, because I can’t stand for you to see me like this. She heard it all in the tense line of his back, in the tremor he couldn’t quite suppress.

Clarice looked at him for a long moment, the proud, cruel boy brought low, lashing out at the only person who ever dared come near the wreckage. The relief she’d felt curdled into a weary, all too familiar ache. She turned and left without another word, the silence between them louder than any screamed insult.

***********

The Ashford sept was a small, seven-sided stone building nestled in a copse of willow trees near the river. It was cool and dim inside, the only light filtering through thick panes of yellow glass, painting the dusty air in shafts of somber gold. The silence there was a physical being all on its own, old and dressed in rich velvet, swallowing the distant sounds of the camp’s anguish.

Clarice walked to the center of the room, before the crude carved statues of the Seven. She looked at each face: the stern Father, the loving Mother, the fierce Warrior, now stained with the irony of the day. Her eyes lingered on the Stranger, hooded and faceless. Today, he felt the closest.

Her knees gave way. Not gracefully, but with a heavy, ungainly thud that echoed on the stone flags. The impact shuddered up her spine, and the baby kicked in protest. She didn’t care. She folded her hands in her lap, but no words came. She shut her eyes close until it hurt.

She had prayed here yesterday. She had lit a candle to the Mother, begging for a safe delivery. She had whispered to the Crone for wisdom she knew she lacked. She had even, in a moment of bitter irony, asked the Warrior to grant Aerion a clarity that was not madness.

But the Gods had not listened. Or they had, and this was their answer. The Warrior had guided Maekar’s hand. The Father had judged Baelor dead. The Stranger had taken the best man in the Seven Kingdoms and left the monster to roam.

Baelor was dead. Baelor, who had always made a point to acknowledge her. Baelor, whose smile was genuine, whose eyes held no calculation when they looked at her, only a gentle, weary kindness. He had been the closest thing to a shield she had in this family of fire and sharp edges. And now he was gone, his light snuffed out by the chaotic clash of pride and vanity. 

She lowered her head into the floor, the exhaustion finally overtaking her. Her knees ached against the hard stone, the cold biting onto her lips. 

A sob welled up in her throat, raw and sudden. It was not a ladylike tear, but a harsh, gasping thing that tore at her lungs. The grief came in a wave, cold and absolute, carrying with it the fear she had kept caged for days. She cried for Baelor, who had been a true prince, who had stood for a hedge knight because it was right. She cried for the hedge knight, who was likely weeping too. She cried for her faith, which now ran dry and hollow. Baelor had been the only one who had listened to her about it. I’ve lost my faith more times than I can count, my girl, he’d told her, but many people pray for me, and I find that’s allowed the Gods an easier path towards me. 

Clarice let out a heart-wrenching sob, as she lifted her gaze to the silent, marble figures.

Do the dead men pray to you too, Father?

She didn’t hear the soft footsteps on the flagstones.

"The Warrior has a dark sense of humor, does he not?"

The voice was rough, familiar, and stripped of all pretense.

Clarice started, wiping her face hastily with the back of her hand, the gesture futile. Her cheeks were blushed and wet, her eyes wide, swollen and rimmed with redness. She took a shuddering breath, trying to summon her mask of porcelain indifference, but it had shattered on the sept’s cold floor. Nevermind, it was futile with him anyway.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice thick and wobbly. 

She heard the soft scuff of boots on stone. He came around to stand a handful of steps beside her, not looking at her, but gazing up at the statue of the Father with an expression of profound, weary contempt. His hair looked disheveled; messy, sandy locks falling over his face; his skin clammy, and pale. But his eyes were clear, terrifyingly so. He was —for once— sober, she noted. 

“I looked for you in the box. Then I figured you’d either be sharpening knives or seeking divine intervention.” He said, lowering his gaze towards her. His usual sarcastic mask was absent, leaving only a profound, gentle sadness. “Seems the gods are out.”

“They’re not listening,” she whispered through gritted teeth, a fresh wave of tears welling up. “Or maybe I can’t hear them anymore. I kneel and I feel nothing but stone.”

A sob broke from her throat, harsh and ugly in the quiet sept. She did not cover her face. She simply lowered her head and let the tears come, familiar and silent, streaming down her cheeks.

Daeron crossed the space in a few hasty strides. He did not hesitate. He sank to his knees on the cold stone in front of her and gathered her into his arms.

Clarice hesitated for only a heartbeat before collapsing into him. She buried her face in the gentle linen of his shirt, her body trembling with suppressed grief. She wept openly now, her tears soaking the fabric, her hands clutching at his back. He held her firmly, one hand cradling the back of her head, his chin resting on her hair. 

She cried until she was empty, until the sobs subsided into shaky, hiccupping breaths. The baby shifted, a slow, weary roll, as if exhausted by the emotion. Daeron’s hand, which had been splayed against her back, drifted lower, coming to rest lightly on the swell of her stomach. 

After a long time, she pulled back, her face raw and feeling flayed. Daeron let her go, his hands returning to his own knees. He didn’t look at her. He stared at the floor, his profile sharp and tired in the dusty light.

“He’s dead,” she finally said, the words a bare, painful whisper.

“I was there,” Daeron replied, his voice devoid of its usual sarcastic bite. It was simply a statement of fact, heavy with a grief he would never voice aloud. “I saw him fall. He was the only one who didn’t make me want to drown myself on sight. Typical, really. The good ones die. The rest of us linger on, for what it seems like eternity, making messes and wondering why the Stranger didn't come for us instead.”

Clarice looked up towards him, a wobbly, mournful pout displaying at her lips. Her eyes were wide and dark and set unwielding on his. 

“Aerion…” she sobbed, the name a confession of utter exhaustion. “He was… so vile. About it. He’s glad. Or he acts like he is. The madness is eating him whole, Daeron. I can see it.”

“He’s not glad,” Daeron said quietly, his hand stroking her hair, then swiping a tear away from her cheek. His fingers then rested on her chin. “He’s terrified. It’s the only emotion he knows how to translate. Fear becomes cruelty. Hurt becomes rage.” He sighed, a heavy, world-weary sound. “He’s a cornered animal, readying to lash out at the first growl. ”

“I can’t do it anymore,” she confessed, the words torn from a deep, hidden place. “I can’t stand between him and the world. I can’t calm the storm. I’m so tired.”

“I know,” he repeated, and there was an ocean of understanding in those two words. 

Daeron reached for one of her hands, inspected it silently, carefully. “He didn’t hurt you?” He asked, fingers moving from her arm towards her neck, tenderly tracing the skin there.

“No. Not… not like that. He sent me away.” She managed a weak, watery smile. “I think I might’ve frightened him with my concern.”

Daeron snorted. “Aerion, frightened of kindness. That sounds about right.” He stood, offering her his hand. She took it, and he pulled her up with careful strength. “Come on. You shouldn’t be on your knees in your condition. Let’s go. The gods have made their indifference quite clear.”

She followed him out of the sept, the twilight air a slight relief. They walked in silence for a while, through the quieter corridors of Ashford Keep.

“What happens now?” Clarice asked, her voice small.

Daeron’s expression darkened. “Now, the realm mourns. Valarr is the heir. My father…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “My father is in pieces. He loved Baelor, for all their differences. This will break something in him that can’t be mended.”

They turned a corner, and a sober-faced steward approached, bowing low. “My lady. Prince Maekar requests your presence in the solar. At your convenience, but… soon.”

A cold finger traced Clarice’s spine. She glanced at Daeron, who gave a slight, imperceptible shrug. “Go,” he said softly. “I’ll be nearby.”

***********

The Ashford Keep was a somber place. The vibrant energy of the tourney was gone, replaced by a stunned, heavy quiet. Servants moved like ghosts, speaking in hushed tones. The black and red banners of House Targaryen hung limp, like mourning shrouds.

Clarice had returned to the pavilion only long enough to change into a gown of charcoal grey, a silent, unbidden mourning. Ellyn had helped her in silence, her eyes wide with fright. Aerion was not there. No one knew where he was. She was both relieved and terrified.

The solar given to the Targaryens was a high, vaulted room in Ashford keep, lined with books and hunting trophies. A fire crackled in the hearth, fighting against the evening chill that had finally, all too mercifully, come. Maekar stood before it, his back to the door. He was still in his riding leathers, stained with dust and other darker things. He looked smaller without his armor, a compact, coiled spring of a man radiating a grief so potent it dampened the air.

He did not turn when she entered. Clarice closed the heavy oak door behind her, the click echoing in the quiet room. She curtsied, the motion awkward with her burden.

“Your Grace.”

“Sit, girl,” Maekar said, his voice gravelly with exhaustion. It was not unkind. He gestured with a jerk of his head towards a high-backed chair by the fire.

Clarice obeyed, lowering herself carefully. The warmth of the flames was a distant thing that did not quite manage to reach her. 

Maekar turned. His face was a landscape of harsh lines and simmering pain. His eyes, a darker violet than his sons’, were red-rimmed but dry. He had not been weeping. Maekar would consider weeping a luxury he could not afford.

He looked at her for a long moment, his gaze assessing. It was not the hungry, possessive assessment of Aerion, nor the gentle kindness of Baelor. It was the look of a commander surveying a strategic piece on a cyvasse board.

“How are you?” he asked finally. The question was startling in its simplicity.

“I am… managing, Your Grace,” Clarice replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “And you?”

“My brother is dead,” he stated, the words final as a tombstone closing. “I killed him. Some men will say I meant to kill my brother. The gods know it is a lie, but I will hear the whispers till the day I die. And it was my mace that dealt the fatal blow, I have no doubt. The only other foes he faced in the melee were three Kingsguard, whose vows forbade them to do any more than defend themselves. So it was me. Strange to say, I do not recall the blow that broke his skull. Is that a mercy or a curse? Some of both, I think.”

Clarice felt a lump on her throat, her eyes once again shimmering with tears, as her breathing grew ragged. “It was an accident—” She began, but he cut her off with a sharp shake of his head.

“Intent matters little to the Stranger.” He insisted. “My house is cracked. Baelor is gone. Valarr is a boy. And I have a son who believes he’s a dragon in human skin, who today proved only that he can be beaten, not that he can be humbled.”

“I cannot control him,” Maekar continued, his voice dropping. “Not here. Not in Westeros, where every slight fuels his madness, where every privilege enables his cruelty. He is a danger. To himself. To the realm.”

“I have always known it. A father knows. I saw the cruelty in him when he was a boy pulling the wings from beetles. I told myself it was strength. I told myself the world needed dragons. I was a fool.” He finally looked at her, his eyes boring into hers. “He is a fool."

Clarice blinked. "My lord?"

"My son," Maekar grunted. "He is a boy who needs a beating. But I am done beating him. I am cutting him off."

“I don’t think I understand, Sir.” Clarice asked, her throat tight.

“I am exiling him,” Maekar said bluntly. “To Lys. For five years. Perhaps ten. Let him simmer in the Free Cities, away from the symbols of his birthright. Let him be just another silver-haired exile with a sharp tongue and an empty purse. Perhaps the world will teach him the humility I failed to instill."

Clarice felt the world tilt. Lys. Across the narrow sea. Away.

“I am telling you first,” Maekar said, his tone shifting, becoming almost… gentle. It was so unlike him it was disorienting. “Because the choice is yours. You may go with him, as his wife. Or you may stay.”

He walked around the table and stood before her. “Summerhall is your home, Clarice. It has been since you married. It will remain so. You, and the child, will want for nothing. You will be under my protection. You will be safe.” He paused, his stern face softening marginally. “And I am not a man given to pretty words, you know this.”

Tears, stupid, traitorous tears, welled in her eyes again. Not of grief this time, but of a terrifying, dizzying hope. And the following crushing, immediate guilt.

“He is my husband,” she whispered, the words a reflex.

“He is a danger,” Maekar countered, his voice gentle but implacable. “To the realm. To you. To that babe. A dragon in a tantrum does not distinguish between foe and family.”

The image rose, unbidden: Aerion’s hand, tender on her belly one moment; his voice, whispering about snapping Arryn bones the next. 

“I…” she began, but her voice failed. The conflict was a physical pain, a twisting knot in her chest. The thought of peace, of safety, of quiet halls in Summerhall where she could raise her child without flinching at every footstep… it was a siren song. But the thought of Aerion, proud, vicious, beautiful Aerion, sailing away into exile, alone, broken, furious… it pierced her with a sorrow that felt like betrayal.

Did she love him? The question was a maze with no exit. She hated him. She feared him. She was fascinated by him. She understood the desperate, lonely boy beneath the monster, and that understanding was a hook in her soul. Theirs was a love written in poisonous ink, but it was a bond, deep and snarled and inescapable. To cut it felt like cutting out a part of herself.

Maekar watched her struggle. He did not press, he simply waited.

“He will hate you for this,” she said finally, her voice hoarse.

A ghost of a smile, cold and mirthless, touched Maekar’s lips. “He already hates me. This will merely give the feeling a name and a direction. It is a burden I can bear.”

He reached out, and with a clumsiness that spoke of a man unused to gentle gestures, he placed a calloused hand on her shoulder. The weight was solid, paternal. “Think on it. You do not have to decide this moment. But know this: whatever you choose, you have a place here. You are family.”

The word, from him, meant more than any vow. It was a shield offered. Clarice nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. 

He hesitated, searching for words. “Baelor was fond of you. He would have wanted you safe. Consider this my last act of duty to him.”

Clarice closed her eyes. It should have been easy. It should have been the easiest choice of her life. Safety. Peace. Sanity.

So why did her heart feel like it was being torn in two?

***********

The night air was thick with the smell of rain that hadn't fallen yet, swollen and pregnant with a storm that refused to break. The mud of the courtyard sucked at Clarice’s sandals as she walked out from the castle.

"Careful," a voice rasped from the shadows. "The mud is treacherous tonight. It seems to be catching Targaryens by the dozen."

Clarice stopped. Daeron was waiting by the door outside, leaning against the rough stone wall, arms crossed over his chest. He straightened as she emerged, the torch sconce above him illuminating the deep lines of exhaustion on his face. His skin looked clammy and pale, as always. He had an empty flask hanging from his hand. 

“Well?” he asked softly.

She walked to him, her steps slow, dragging the weight of the evening with her. “He’s exiling Aerion. To Lys.”

Daeron’s eyebrows rose. A flicker of something —relief? vindication? guilt?— crossed his face before it settled into its usual weary lines. He let out a short, sharp exhalation, a derisive sound that was almost a laugh. “Lys. Appropriate. All perfume, whores, and poison. He’ll fit right in.”

“He gave me a choice,” Clarice whispered, looking up at him, searching for an answer he couldn't give. “I can go with him, I can go with Aerion. Or I can stay at Summerhall. With the baby.”

Daeron went very still. His eyes searched hers, dark and lucid in the night. “I see.”

“It would be… easier,” he ventured after a moment, his voice carefully neutral, testing the waters. “Quieter. For the child.”

“I know,” Clarice said, the words tasting like treachery. “I know it would. Maekar… he was kind. He called it his grandchild. He promised safety.”

Daeron was silent for a long moment, listening to the distant sounds of the camp. “Safety is a rare commodity in our family,” he said finally, his tone wry and bitten with bitterness. “You should take it.”

Clarice shook her head. “But Aerion… he’s my husband,” she repeated, the mantra feeling fainter, like a prayer to a god she no longer believed in. “And… I love him.”

She forced the words out, a confession that tasted both true and tragic. It hung in the air between them, undeniably toxic. “And he loves me. In his way. He would love the baby, too. Despite his words. He would. I know he would.”

She thought of Aerion kneeling before her womb, his hands spread wide, speaking of fire and legacy. She thought of the desperate way he had clung to her leg earlier that day. His love was a possessive, consuming thing, a wildfire that burned everything it touched; it wasn’t gentle, but it was real.

“I guess he would,” Daeron conceded, though the words sounded hollow, a polite lie offered to a woman desperate to believe it. He clearly didn't share her faith, his eyes darkening with the memory of his brother's cruelty, but he wouldn't strip it from her, not in her condition. “He is capable of it. In his twisted fashion.”

They stopped in a secluded corner of the castle gardens, standing by a low stone wall looking out over the darkened tourney grounds. The moon was rising, painting the trampled grass silver, turning the mud into a sea of ink.

"I am afraid, Daeron," she confessed, the words tumbling out before she could check them, her hand tightening on her belly. "I am afraid to do this alone. To bring this child into the world without... without a father."

"He will have a father," Daeron stepped closer. He looked at the swell of her stomach, at the life growing inside. The cynicism dropped from his face, replaced by a raw, terrifying guilt. He cleared his throat, but the sound was rough, devoid of its usual sardonic edge. "Aerion will send letters. He will send gifts. He will claim it from afar."

Daeron reached out, his hand hovering for a moment before he gently placed it on her arm. The touch wasn't electric; it was heavy, grounding, but ultimately tentative, like a ghost trying to offer warmth it didn't possess.

“And you wouldn’t be alone,” he said quietly, his eyes holding hers. “You know that.”

Clarice wanted to believe him, but her eyes wandered towards the empty flask on the ground. That had been not a promise. Daeron was too broken, too aware of his own weaknesses, to make promises. He was a man drowning, offering her his piece of driftwood.

"Stay," he said, and it sounded like a plea. "Stay at Summerhall. It’s beautiful there, Clarice. There are gardens. Lemon trees. It’s warm. Maekar is stern, but he is safe. You will be safe."

Clarice thought of the red door. The lemon tree. A quiet room in Summerhall, away from the madness. The sound of children’s laughter in a sun-drenched garden, unmarred by the snap of breaking bones.

Then she thought of the look of undisputed wonder that Aerion had gifted her when she told him she was with child. The way he cradled her in his sleep. All of the reluctant ways in which he showed he loved her.

She looked away from him, her gaze lifting to the rising moon. It hung pale and indifferent in the bruised sky, an ancient eye that had watched centuries of Targaryen madness and Arryn honour crumble into dust. If it held any wisdom for a woman in her predicament, it kept its counsel, offering only a cold, silent light. How many other women have prayed to you too, my lady? "I ought to think about it," she finally murmured.

Daeron remained quiet, frighteningly still, for a heartbeat, and then he laughed. It was a sound of pure, jagged incredulity that shattered the quiet intimacy of the garden. The mask of the supportive brother-in-law, the man who had tried to find a scrap of humanity in Aerion for her sake, finally cracked and fell away. The pretense was over.

"You need to think about it?" he asked, his voice tight with unfeigned frustration. "Clarice, are you mad? Maekar is offering you an out. A life without him."

"He is the father of my child," Clarice said defensively, retreating a step as if to shield the unborn life from his judgment.

"He is a monster!" Daeron countered, the words exploding from him. He couldn't keep the lie alive anymore, not even to comfort her. "You saw him today! You saw him yield! You saw him crawling in the filth! There is no glory in him, Clarice. There is no dragon. Just a sick, cruel boy who hurts things to feel powerful."

"I know what he is!" Clarice snapped, turning on him, her eyes flashing. "Do not presume to tell me who my husband is, Daeron! I sleep in his bed! I know every scar, every cruelty, every nightmare he has!"

"Then why do you hesitate?" Daeron demanded, stepping closer, invading her space. 

The question hung in the humid air, heavier than the coming rain.

"I don't know," Clarice whispered, the fight draining out of her. "I hate him. I despise him. But... I know him. I am the only one who knows him. If I leave him... he will be alone. He will deteriorate. He will become exactly what everyone fears."

"He will become that anyway, and you know it," Daeron flicked his hand, dismissing the notion. "With or without you. You cannot save him, Clarice. You can only save yourself. And the baby. You owe that to the baby."

"And what of my vows?" she asked, tears pricking her eyes again. "For better or for worse?"

Daeron scoffed. It was a dry, incredulous sound that scraped against the stone walls. He looked at her, shaking his head, a dark amusement dancing in his eyes that had nothing to do with humor. "Your vows? Your vows, Clarice?"

Clarice pursed her lips, shame painting her cheeks red even under the gentle moonlight. 

"Do not insult me by offering that shield, Clarice," he rasped. “Like I’m supposed to pretend they bind you now, suddenly and conveniently, just because you are too cowardly to leave him for good."

Clarice, now far too embarrassed to hold his gaze, looked down at the mud staining the hem of her gown. "I think... I think I might go with him."

Daeron stared at her. He shook his head slowly. A strange look crossed his face, not anger, but a deep, sorrowful resignation. The look of a man who has read the end of the book and knows the characters cannot change their lines.

“No, you won’t.” Daeron let out a low, ragged sound; almost a laugh, but steeped in scorn. He knew, with the heavy, terrifying certainty of his blood, that a dream had already written her future. “I saw you, Clarice.”

She frowned, stepping back. “What?”

"I saw you old," he said, his voice drifting into that hollow, prophetic tone she so feared. "Your hair was white. White like snow. You were in a bed, surrounded by pillows of blue silk."

He paused, his eyes unfocused, staring through her into a future she hadn't lived yet, a future he would likely never see.

"And there were children," he continued. "Three of them. Grown. Strong. A woman with your eyes. A man with a kind smile. And another..."

He refocused on her face. His expression was sad, but kind.

"You won't get those three children by going to Lys with Aerion, Clarice," he said, his voice flat, stripped of all emotion save for the devastating exhaustion of being right. “You know that.”

Clarice faltered. She took a step back, her eyes glistened in the pale moonlight, the very thought of such a future laden with a heavy, aching yearning.

"Three?" she breathed.

"Three," Daeron confirmed, lips finding their way to a gentle smile.

Clarice’s lips turned into a haunting pout, her big eyes glistening with tears. It was a beautiful fantasy she wouldn’t dare to dream. And it terrified her more than the nightmare she was living. It meant a life after Aerion. A life where she survived him, outlived him, and flourished. It meant that the fire would not consume her.

"You're drunk," she then snapped, her voice losing its trembling weakness as a hot spark of anger ignited in her chest. 

"I wish it was that," Daeron replied. "But the dreams don't lie, sister. You won't go. You'll cry, and you'll scream, and you'll hate yourself for it. But you will stay. Sure as Baelor had to die today, and the hedge knight survive."

Clarice's hands balled into fists. The fear in her chest calcified, hardening instantly back into the familiar, defensive anger of the Eyrie. She took a step toward him, pointing an accusing finger towards him.

"I know what you are doing," she hissed, her voice vibrating with a sudden, desperate fury.

Daeron let out a long, ragged sigh, resting his head back against the stone. "Clarice, please, I—"

"You are trying to frighten me!" she pressed, ignoring his plea, her voice sharpening to a blade. "You spin these tales of blue pillows and white hair… you use your own nightmares as a weapon to strip away my choice! You think me so fragile that I need a ghost story to manipulate me into doing what you and your father want?"

"I am offering you the truth!" Daeron snapped back, pushing off the wall, his own exhaustion flaring back into anger. "For once in my miserable life, I am giving you a truth that can save you, and you are too stubbornly tethered to that monster to—"

A small scuff of a boot against the stone cut him off.

They both turned, the heat of their argument freezing in their throats.

Standing at the edge of the torchlight was Aegon.

He looked incredibly small. His roughly shorn head was smudged with dirt, his roughspun tunic torn at the sleeve. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen from crying, staring up at them with the raw, unguarded pain only a child could manage.

"Daeron?" Egg's voice trembled, cracking on the syllables. "Clarice?"

The anger drained from Clarice as if a vein had been opened. The fierce, sparring woman vanished, replaced instantly by the maternal instinct she had been guarding so fiercely all evening. She forgot the prophecy, forgot the mud, and sank down as far as her aching back and heavy stomach would allow, holding out her arms.

"Oh, Egg. Oh, sweet boy, come here," she whispered softly.

Aegon didn't hesitate. He ran to her, practically throwing himself against her chest. Clarice wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. He smelled of horses, damp earth, and dry meat.

"Uncle Baelor is gone," Egg sobbed into her shoulder, his small hands clutching the charcoal silk of her gown with a desperate strength. "I saw them carry him. He didn't wake up."

"I know, Egg. I know," Clarice soothed, rubbing his back in slow, steady circles, her own tears threatening to spill again. Over the boy's shoulder, she met Daeron's gaze. He stood silently, watching them, his expression a portrait of unutterable sorrow.

Aegon cried for a few moments, letting the terror of the day wash out of him. Then, he pulled back, wiping his nose roughly with the back of his dirty sleeve. He took a shuddering breath, looking up at Clarice with wide, impossibly earnest eyes.

"I heard the guards talking," Egg sniffled, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "They said Father is sending Aerion away. Across the water. To Lys."

Clarice stiffened. The name of the city felt like a punch. She glanced up at Daeron, but he offered no help, merely watching her face to see what she would do.

"Yes," Clarice said carefully, smoothing a patch of dirt from Egg's cheek. "He is."

Egg's face changed. The grief for Baelor was still there, etched in the redness of his eyes, but beneath it bloomed a profound, illuminating relief. It was as if an anvil had been lifted from his small shoulders.

"I'm glad," Egg whispered. The confession was raw, innocent, and completely unfiltered. "I know I shouldn't be, because he's my brother. And Baelor said we should love our brothers. I love Daeron, and I love Aemon. But I do not love Aerion."

Clarice stared at the boy's face.

She looked at the pure, unadulterated relief of a child realizing the monster under his bed was being locked away forever. She saw the tremor in his hands finally stop. And then, unbidden, her mind conjured the image of her own child, silver-haired or blonde, looking over their shoulder with that exact same terror. A terror she had been fully prepared to excuse as "love" or "duty."

Something inside Clarice finally, irreparably shattered.

The toxic loyalty, the twisted devotion, the arrogant belief that she was the only one strong enough to weather Aerion's fire… it all broke under the unbearable weight of a child's relief. The romanticized tragedy of her marriage was stripped bare. And she would be damned if she let her baby grow up shivering in the dark like Aegon.

She looked up at Daeron. He wasn't gloating. He wasn't even smiling. He was just watching her, mourning the pain of the realization he knew she finally had to face. 

Clarice looked back at the boy. She placed a hand on either side of his face, her own hands remarkably steady.

"Yes, Aegon," Clarice promised, her voice ringing with an iron certainty she hadn't possessed since she first arrived at Ashford. "He is leaving. And he shall never, ever hurt you again. I swear it."

***********

a/n: this chapter was SO hard to write but hopefully it was worth it! it might go through some edits after the episode releases, but nothing major I believe.

sorry if everything surrounding Baelor's death is too exaggerated but honestly I don't play about him he is THAT important to me

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