ReptileRae

--

Baelor watches with a furrowed brow as Ser Duncan rides forward on his horse, alone. His helm tucked under his arm.

“Could you not find six men to stand for you, ser?” Aerion calls, mocking. Ser Duncan merely smiles.

“Nay, my prince. You asked for a Trial of Seven, I have Seven,” Ser Duncan says, his voice starting to take on an odd, almost other-worldly quality. “The Seven Who Are One,” he states and there is a flash of light and six ghostly figures form from out of the mist, atop ghostly horses of their own.

“In the name of the Warrior,” a dead man calls, as Baelor stares at the ghostly figure of his once knight master, his great uncle Aemon, the Dragonknight. “I charge you to be brave.”

“In the name of the Father,” his own father says, the smile on his face the one he wears when he’s about to absolutely shred someone in council. “I charge you to be just.”

“In the name of the Mother,” his mother says, and gods, but Baelor had almost forgotten the sound of her voice in the years she’s been dead. “I charge you to defend the young and innocent.”

“In the name of the Maid,” Ser Duncan says, a vicious smile on his face. “I charge you to defend all women,” the knight says, his eyes blazing fire as they stare Aerion down.

“In the name of the Smith.” Baelor is relatively certain that one is his own namesake, Baelor I. “I charge you to mend what has been broken, put to rights what has been torn asunder.”

“In the name of the Crone,” his grandmother says, eyes dark as they look upon Aerion, flickering to Maekar, and Daeron, then back to Aerion. “I charge you to light the way forward, a shining beacon for all to follow after.”

“In the name of the Stranger,” a hooded, figure states, head bowed. Their voice is ambiguous, neither male nor female, neither young nor old. “I charge you to uphold these vows until your last breath leaves your body, and you come into my halls.”

“This is ridiculous!” Aerion exclaims, but when Baelor looks at him, he can see the terror in his nephew’s face, in his eyes. Baelor cannot blame him. He would not want to be facing the might of the Seven, either.

“You asked for a Trial of Seven, little one,” Baelor’s mother says, the smile on her face is all teeth. It’s the smile she used to wear when she has planted traps and just seen someone willingly stick their foot in one. “Is it not all that you hoped it would be?”

“No, if he knew the truth of his favoured ancestor, he would have been smart enough to recant,” Baelor’s father says, cocking his head to the side.

“You see, little fool,” grandmother says, a dark smile on her face that Baelor doesn’t think he ever saw in life. “Maegor died on the field that day, but he was not one of ours.”

“No,” Baelor I says, inclining his head. “Maegor followed the Fourteen, and they were still so strong then. Alive, not quite thriving, no, but certainly still a force to be reckoned with.”

“And, let us not forget, there was the Great Balerion, too” the Stranger says, annoyed. “The Great Dread funneling his life into Maegor's, even as I tried to snuff it out in my hand.”

“Do you have a dragon, little Maegor?” Mother asks, laughing at her own question. The sound one Baelor doesn’t think he’s ever heard. “No. You have no dragon and you do not follow the Fourteen, you do not even follow the Old Gods, little monster. You’re ours and ours you will remain, even if we choose to let you crawl from this field like the wretched creature you are.”

“I have not decided yet,” the Stranger says, cocking their hooded head to the side. Baelor can just make out a pair of glowing embers hidden in the hood. “Let us dance, little Maegor, and I shall see the true worth of your heart and decide whether I allow you to see another dawn.”

“Wait, wait-!” Aerion exclaims, but Aemon snarls.

“If you retract your accusation now, without even a token effort to fight, I will brand you a coward and personally deliver your heart to the Stranger myself. Stand and fight or die in the mud as you deserve, little Maegor,” Aemon states. Aerion shivers then bows his head.

The Trial commences. Ser Duncan handedly beats Aerion to a pulp, before turning to the Stranger to wait quietly for his judgement as Aerion yields.

“The Mother wanted him to craw off the field, our Maiden,” the Stranger points out. Ser Duncan hesitates for a second then drops Aerion to the floor. “Crawl, little dragon. Crawl away like the cowardly, wretched, little thing that you are. I will weigh your life in my hands every morning for as long as you live. If you are found wanting… well, I’m sure you can figure that out. Afterall, I caught up with Maegor, too, eventually,” the Stranger declares, then turns and steps into the mist.

“Aerion of the House Targaryen, you are forsworn. You are not now, and never shall you be, again, a Knight of the Seven. Never call upon me ever again,” Aemon says, before he, too, turns and steps into the mist. One by one, the other Seven turn and step into the mist, until there is only Ser Duncan and Aerion’s seven in the mud of the tourney field.

--

“How did you do that?” Baelor asks, as he pushes a goblet of wine into Ser Duncan’s hands sometime after the end of the Trial.

“Hedge knight magic,” Ser Duncan says, with a little hum. “So long as the knight under Trial can represent an aspect of the Seven, they can beseech the others to make their will known.”

“You could have failed?” Baelor asks, Dunk inclines his head.

“Yes, but if I didn’t have the favour of the Seven anyway, then what would be the point?” Dunk asks. Baelor sighs, then he furrows a brow.

“You represented the Maiden?” Baelor asks, Dunk laughs, his cheeks flushing.

“Well, it was fitting, given the whole reason for this stupid trial in the first place, but… only those who are still ‘pure’ can represent the Maiden,” he says, smiling. Baelor blinks.

“Is that… why you told me to wait until after the Trial?” he asks, flushing even against his best attempts not to.

“Maybe?” Dunk says, putting the wine goblet down, and leaning forward towards Baelor, his eyes glittering. “If you’re still interested?”

“Oh, Ser Duncan,” Baelor says, setting his own goblet down with a thunk. “The gods themselves could not douse the flames of my interest,” he says, crossing the room to press his lips to Dunk’s own.

--

Baelor watches with a furrowed brow as Ser Duncan rides forward on his horse, alone. His helm tucked under his arm.

“Could you not find six men to stand for you, ser?” Aerion calls, mocking. Ser Duncan merely smiles.

“Nay, my prince. You asked for a Trial of Seven, I have Seven,” Ser Duncan says, his voice starting to take on an odd, almost other-worldly quality. “The Seven Who Are One,” he states and there is a flash of light and six ghostly figures form from out of the mist, atop ghostly horses of their own.

“In the name of the Warrior,” a dead man calls, as Baelor stares at the ghostly figure of his once knight master, his great uncle Aemon, the Dragonknight. “I charge you to be brave.”

“In the name of the Father,” his own father says, the smile on his face the one he wears when he’s about to absolutely shred someone in council. “I charge you to be just.”

“In the name of the Mother,” his mother says, and gods, but Baelor had almost forgotten the sound of her voice in the years she’s been dead. “I charge you to defend the young and innocent.”

“In the name of the Maid,” Ser Duncan says, a vicious smile on his face. “I charge you to defend all women,” the knight says, his eyes blazing fire as they stare Aerion down.

“In the name of the Smith.” Baelor is relatively certain that one is his own namesake, Baelor I. “I charge you to mend what has been broken, put to rights what has been torn asunder.”

“In the name of the Crone,” his grandmother says, eyes dark as they look upon Aerion, flickering to Maekar, and Daeron, then back to Aerion. “I charge you to light the way forward, a shining beacon for all to follow after.”

“In the name of the Stranger,” a hooded, figure states, head bowed. Their voice is ambiguous, neither male nor female, neither young nor old. “I charge you to uphold these vows until your last breath leaves your body, and you come into my halls.”

“This is ridiculous!” Aerion exclaims, but when Baelor looks at him, he can see the terror in his nephew’s face, in his eyes. Baelor cannot blame him. He would not want to be facing the might of the Seven, either.

“You asked for a Trial of Seven, little one,” Baelor’s mother says, the smile on her face is all teeth. It’s the smile she used to wear when she has planted traps and just seen someone willingly stick their foot in one. “Is it not all that you hoped it would be?”

“No, if he knew the truth of his favoured ancestor, he would have been smart enough to recant,” Baelor’s father says, cocking his head to the side.

“You see, little fool,” grandmother says, a dark smile on her face that Baelor doesn’t think he ever saw in life. “Maegor died on the field that day, but he was not one of ours.”

“No,” Baelor I says, inclining his head. “Maegor followed the Fourteen, and they were still so strong then. Alive, not quite thriving, no, but certainly still a force to be reckoned with.”

“And, let us not forget, there was the Great Balerion, too” the Stranger says, annoyed. “The Great Dread funneling his life into Maegor's, even as I tried to snuff it out in my hand.”

“Do you have a dragon, little Maegor?” Mother asks, laughing at her own question. The sound one Baelor doesn’t think he’s ever heard. “No. You have no dragon and you do not follow the Fourteen, you do not even follow the Old Gods, little monster. You’re ours and ours you will remain, even if we choose to let you crawl from this field like the wretched creature you are.”

“I have not decided yet,” the Stranger says, cocking their hooded head to the side. Baelor can just make out a pair of glowing embers hidden in the hood. “Let us dance, little Maegor, and I shall see the true worth of your heart and decide whether I allow you to see another dawn.”

“Wait, wait-!” Aerion exclaims, but Aemon snarls.

“If you retract your accusation now, without even a token effort to fight, I will brand you a coward and personally deliver your heart to the Stranger myself. Stand and fight or die in the mud as you deserve, little Maegor,” Aemon states. Aerion shivers then bows his head.

The Trial commences. Ser Duncan handedly beats Aerion to a pulp, before turning to the Stranger to wait quietly for his judgement as Aerion yields.

“The Mother wanted him to craw off the field, our Maiden,” the Stranger points out. Ser Duncan hesitates for a second then drops Aerion to the floor. “Crawl, little dragon. Crawl away like the cowardly, wretched, little thing that you are. I will weigh your life in my hands every morning for as long as you live. If you are found wanting… well, I’m sure you can figure that out. Afterall, I caught up with Maegor, too, eventually,” the Stranger declares, then turns and steps into the mist.

“Aerion of the House Targaryen, you are forsworn. You are not now, and never shall you be, again, a Knight of the Seven. Never call upon me ever again,” Aemon says, before he, too, turns and steps into the mist. One by one, the other Seven turn and step into the mist, until there is only Ser Duncan and Aerion’s seven in the mud of the tourney field.

--

“How did you do that?” Baelor asks, as he pushes a goblet of wine into Ser Duncan’s hands sometime after the end of the Trial.

“Hedge knight magic,” Ser Duncan says, with a little hum. “So long as the knight under Trial can represent an aspect of the Seven, they can beseech the others to make their will known.”

“You could have failed?” Baelor asks, Dunk inclines his head.

“Yes, but if I didn’t have the favour of the Seven anyway, then what would be the point?” Dunk asks. Baelor sighs, then he furrows a brow.

“You represented the Maiden?” Baelor asks, Dunk laughs, his cheeks flushing.

“Well, it was fitting, given the whole reason for this stupid trial in the first place, but… only those who are still ‘pure’ can represent the Maiden,” he says, smiling. Baelor blinks.

“Is that… why you told me to wait until after the Trial?” he asks, flushing even against his best attempts not to.

“Maybe?” Dunk says, putting the wine goblet down, and leaning forward towards Baelor, his eyes glittering. “If you’re still interested?”

“Oh, Ser Duncan,” Baelor says, setting his own goblet down with a thunk. “The gods themselves could not douse the flames of my interest,” he says, crossing the room to press his lips to Dunk’s own.