TYWIN!

▍ one shot / maekar / grief .

i wanted so badly to write about baelor's death and maekar fresh reaction so badly, i apologize if there is mistakes, english is not my first language.

Ashford Meadow always seemed like a paradise on earth, the grass was greener than one of those tangy and sour apple, the air smelled sweet if ale wasn't consumed by knights and squires, if freshly hunted meat weren't grill by a holy fire, dressed with spices and vegetables from the Highgarden's areas. Laughs, music and loud murmurs were reigning in the atmosphere, the night was very young for some, dancing until the Sun exchange his place with his lady the Moon, the tent of the Laughing Storm was the perfect example. And yet, a such paradise can become one of the seven hells. A tourney was organized for a birthday of a young daughter of a lord, a celebration for a young life, a moment of pride for a father. And yet, lord Ashford never thought he would have to hold a funeral on his land, not for one of his men, no. For a beloved prince, the one who—perhaps the small-folks would've put their trust in, a prince whose priorities were about the Realm and his subjects.

Baelor looked so peaceful lying there, on a bed of wood and flowers given by his family and lords friends if they weren't only being polite to the Dragons. Some reckoned a smile on his face, perhaps an illusion, perhaps not. He was dressed with the rightful colours of the Targaryen, a dark red almost as dark as the blood spitting out from the enemy on the battlefield and the black reminding of the legends of dragon glass, dark and yet were making the prince as charming as possible. Some voices, speaking like mice were already speculating about the guilty man behind this—at least one of them : The other prince, the one with the immaculate locks and the scar as a reminder of a disease he used to fight against, the cadet of four, the one described as not as bold as Baelor, not as clever as Aerys, not as gentle as Rheagel, the widower who was never enough.

Some were calling him Kinslayer sometimes even Kingslayer when the night comes and the alcohol swam in the blood of men. Maekar wasn't deaf, at least not the lords and servants around him nor his children. He didn't care much for those appellations, he knew the truth resting in his heart. He didn't meant to kill. Not Baelor, not his blood, his brother, his friend of a life time. But why this voice was whispering darkness in his mind, what kind of witchcraft were those words playing with his grief? The widower felt emptied and full of emotions in the same time, a strange contrast. Part of him couldn't believe he was gone, not so young, not when he had a realm as a secure heritage. Not when he was the Golden son. Maekar felt his hand getting numb, like a bite of a venomous beast spreading from his carpals to his phalanges, his heart was dancing with anxiety on the rythme of a dornish war song, noise were so close and yet so far away, like the sound of the waves coming and going to the sea of the Ironman's bay—for a moment, the youngest of the four princes thought about drowning in those waves, running away from this nightmare. After all, he was not as good as his brothers, far from the succession line, nor that he cared much of that cursed throne of his family. And yet, his thoughts went for a second to his children, what kind of father would abandon his blood ? Yes, his oldest was maybe a failure with nothing to save him from his drinking poisoning, yes, the second was a psychological issue who needed to be casted far away, and yet, they were his blood, her blood, their children.