ABlogDedicatedTo KidzBop

"Honour? You don't know the meaning of the word!" You stand up from your seat, your hands shaking so violently you had to clench them into fists. "You have just demanded that your brother, your cousin, and your father risk their lives because you had a tantrum! Because you couldn't handle a commoner standing up to your cruelty!"

You turned on him, your face pale and eyes wild. "I spent nights rocking you to sleep! I told your father you were just sensitive! I lied to the King himself to protect you from your own shadow! And this is how you repay me? By starting a small war in the middle of a meadow?"

"Mother, you’re being hysterical," Aerion sneered, regaining his footing, though his voice wavered.

You didn't just yell this time; you lunged. You grabbed him by his fine doublet, shaking him with a strength born of pure, unadulterated panic. "Hysterical? I am watching my son turn into a monster! I am watching you drag your family into the dirt because you think you’re a god! You are a boy! A cruel, spoiled boy who thinks blood is a toy!"

"That’s enough."

Maekar’s hand, heavy and solid as a mountain, landed on your shoulder. He pulled you back, not unkindly, but firmly.

You spun on him, your rage finding a new target. "Enough? You heard him, Maekar! He wants a Trial of Seven! He’s going to kill Daeron! He’s going to kill you! Do something! Break his legs, lock him in a cell, beat him until he forgets his own name. Just stop this!"

You were sobbing now, the gentle mother you once were gone, replaced by a woman who could see the funeral pyres already burning. You grabbed Maekar’s tunic, your knuckles white. "Tell him he can't. You're his father! Tell him he's a fool!"

Maekar looked at Aerion, his expression a mask of stony, miserable resignation. "The challenge has been issued and accepted. It’s out of my hands. The King’s law-"

"To hell with the King's law!" you shrieked, stumbling back. You looked at the two of them. The husband who was too rigid to stop the disaster and the son who was too mad to care.

"I hope you’re happy, Aerion," you hissed, your voice dropping to a terrifying, dead whisper. "I hope the sight of your family’s blood on the grass is everything you dreamed of. Because if your father or your blood don’t come back from that field, don't you dare look for a mother in me. You'll be nothing but a stranger with my blood in his veins."

You didn't wait for an answer. You turned and bolted from the hall, needing the escape of the cold night air before the walls of the Targaryen dynasty smothered you completely.

Inside the hall, Maekar didn't move for a long time. He just looked at Aerion, who was staring at the door where you'd disappeared, looking for the first time in his life like he might actually be afraid.

"You heard her," Maekar said, his voice deathly quiet. "You’ve lost her. I hope your 'honour' was worth it."

The silence that followed your outburst was heavier than the screaming had been. You had collapsed onto a low bench outside Ashford castle, staring down at the meadow below you littered with tends and drunkards making merry, unaware of what was to come. Your breath coming in jagged, hitching gasps, your face buried in your trembling hands. The realization of what you’d just said that you’d effectively disowned your own flesh and blood, the bone-deep terror of the morrow.

The heavy tread of boots sparked a fresh jolt of panic in your chest, but it wasn't the erratic, sharp step of Aerion. It was the slow, deliberate weight of your husband.

Maekar didn't speak at first. He simply sat beside you, the bench groaning under the weight of the world on his shoulders. He smelled of old leather, sharp wine, and cold iron.

"He’s gone," Maekar said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the wood of the bench and into your own bones. "I sent him to his chambers. With a guard. He won't be practicing his madness anymore tonight."

You didn't look up. "He’s going to die, Maekar. Or he’s going to kill Daeron. Or you are going to..." You choked on the word, a fresh sob wracking your shoulders. "I can't watch it. I can't be the woman who watches her husband and her sons be slaughtered for nothing."

Maekar’s hand, calloused and massive, settled on the nape of your neck. He didn't just touch you; he grounded you. His fingers were warm, a stark contrast to the icy dread in your veins.

"Look at me," he commanded. It wasn't the shout of a prince, but the quiet plea of a husband.

You lifted your head, your eyes red-rimmed and blurring. Maekar’s face was a map of hard lines and old scars, but his eyes usually so cold and judgmental were softened by a fierce, protective light.

"I am the Anvil," he whispered, leaning his forehead against yours. "I have survived the Redgrass Field. I have survived a dozen border wars and the bitter politics of my father’s court. I am not going to fall to a hedge knight or a group of tourney lords. I will not leave you a widow. You hear me? I will be back in your bed tomorrow night, complaining about the bruises and the wine, and you will be here to tell me I'm being grumpy."

"And the boys?" you whispered, clutching at his forearms. "Daeron is half-dead from drink and shame, hiding in the shadows, and Aerion... Aerion is losing his soul."

Maekar’s jaw tightened. He knew the truth of your words better than anyone. Daeron was a disappointment, and Aerion was a nightmare, but they were his.

"I will protect them," Maekar promised, his voice turning into something steel-hard. "I will be on that field. I will stay close to Aerion. If he tries to do something truly monstrous, I will be the one to check him. I will haul him back from the edge if I have to drag him by his hair. And Daeron."

He pulled you into his chest, wrapping his heavy arms around you until you felt small and shielded. For a moment, the madness of the Targaryen dynasty, the "Trial of Seven," and the looming tragedy of Ashford Meadow felt like they were outside a fortress wall.

"You’ve carried the weight of their spirits for too long," Maekar murmured into your hair. "Trying to be the light for two boys who seem determined to walk in the dark. Rest now. Let me be the one who carries the sword tomorrow. Everything will be okay. Not because the gods are good, but because I will make it so."

You clung to him, wanting to believe him, wanting to believe that the Anvil could truly stop the hammer from falling.

"Promise me," you breathed against his tunic.

"On my life," he replied. "And on the crown I don't even want. They will both come back to you. We all will."