DECREE | aerion targaryen
CHAPTER TWO: The Hammer and the Anvil
note: i don't know how often i'll post, but i do have the first few chapters ready to go : )
word count: 2.8k
warnings: none
Willam glanced through the open doorway, waiting a moment to make certain no servants or stewards lingered in the corridor beyond. The castle had become a hive since the news of the royal progress arrived. Every hallway seemed crowded with people carrying armfuls of linen, hauling barrels of wine, or gossiping about the Princes, something Elaenora refused to do… in the presence of anyone other than her brothers.
Satisfied they were alone, Willam eased the door shut and turned back toward Elaenora.
‘Well,’ he muttered, lowering his voice as though he were about to reveal a state secret, ‘I heard Prince Aerion killed one of Lord Runceford’s bitches because it pissed on his shoe.’
Elaenora let out a derisive snort.
She stood at the foot of the bed that would soon belong to Prince Baelor, smoothing a thick woollen blanket across the mattress. The coverlet had already been straightened twice, but keeping her hands busy gave her something to do while the entire castle tied itself into knots.
‘Dogs know that kind of stuff about a person,’ she said. She then jabbed a finger into Willam’s shoulder as she passed, earning a grin from him. ‘I heard Prince Daeron drank Lord Runceford dry of all the Arbor wine in the south.’
Willam barked a laugh and muttered, ‘Gods, the Redwynes don’t have much luck with the princes, do they?’
He wandered toward a writing desk, picking up a quill and inspecting the feather as though judging its quality before carelessly tossing it back into the holder.
‘Think they’ll drink us out of stock?’
Elaenora folded back one corner of the blanket, scrutinising it for imperfections before giving it a sharp tug and musing, ‘I think they’ll try.’
Willam laughed again, louder this time, but Elaenora wasn’t joking.
Every tale she had heard about the royal party painted the same picture. Prince Daeron left empty wine cellars wherever he travelled. Prince Aerion left frightened servants and bruised pride behind him. Even Prince Baelor, the best of them by all accounts, brought an entourage large enough to devour a castle’s stores in a fortnight, stressing out Lords and Ladies throughout the realm.
Aside from the Starks, the rest of Winterfell seemed excited, at least.
Elaenora and Willam finished their work not long after their chatter; after all, there was only so much arranging one could do before a room was simply a room again.
Willam gave the blanket one final tug, then stepped back to proudly inspect the bed.
‘There,’ he declared. ‘If Prince Baelor finds fault with that, he can make his own bed.’
Elaenora rolled her eyes.
The chamber looked fine. Better than fine, in truth. It was the nicest it had ever looked.
Fresh rushes had been laid across the floor. The hearth had been swept clean and stacked with dry wood. New candles sat waiting in their holders. The linens smelled faintly of perfume, and the shutters had been opened just enough to allow the afternoon light to spill across the stone floor.
But for a prince who spent most of his life in palaces, it was likely still drab.
Willam stretched his arms above his head until his shoulders cracked, then yawned and exclaimed, ‘We’re done!’
The moment one task ended, another would inevitably appear, that much Elaenora knew. Sure enough, a shadow crossed the doorway, and a sigh left her lips before she could stop it.
‘You two.’
Beron stood outside the chamber, broad-shouldered and stern-faced. He looked exhausted, and rightfully so. For the past fortnight, Winterfell had been preparing, and Beron looked as though he had aged five years in that same span.
‘Gods preserve us,’ Willam muttered. ‘Look at him. That’s the face of a man about to give us more work.’
‘What are you talking about? I notice nothing out of the ordinary.’
Beron fixed them both with a look and mused, ‘Would either of you like to repeat yourselves?’
‘No, Father,’ they answered together.
His expression suggested he’d heard every word regardless. He stepped into the room, casting a glance around as he asked, ‘This finished?’ He didn’t sound impressed by any means.
‘Unless Prince Baelor intends to inspect the dust beneath the bed,’ Willam said, placing his hands on his hips.
Beron ignored him and turned to Elaenora, who was rolling her eyes.
‘Aye,’ Elaenora answered. ‘It's ready.’
‘Good. Then I need you both elsewhere.’
Willam sighed loudly, earning a disgusted look from Elaenora.
‘The castle is short-handed, you know this,’ Beron said, giving his son a stern look. ‘Prince Maekar’s chamber isn’t ready.’
‘Not ready?’ Elaenora asked. ‘How? I- I know you just said we’re short of staff, but…’
‘Because half the servants are helping in the Great Hall, the other half are preparing guest quarters, and the remainder seem determined to run in circles, accomplishing nothing. Therefore, you’ll finish Prince Maekar’s room.’
‘Why us?’
‘Because I know you’ll actually do it.’
Unfortunately, neither of them could argue with that.
‘Can’t Mel do it?’ Willam asked.
Elaenora glared at him and asked, ‘You’d make your pregnant wife do your chores? Gods! You are a terrible husband.’
‘I didn’t say—‘
Beron had already turned toward the door as he called over the top of them, ‘The chamber is in the east tower! Hurry up with it.’
Before he could say something smart and get them both into trouble, Elaenora shoved Willam toward the doorway after their father, muttering, ‘Hurry up.’
Willam stumbled forward, glancing at their father as he turned to the left and they went right.
He called, ‘You see this? She’s violent!’ He gestured to Elaenora’s tight grip on his arm.
‘She knows how to get things done. She’s efficient.’
‘A terrible thing in a woman—efficiency.’
Elaenora reached up with her other hand and smacked the back of his head, causing him to bark with laughter.
The siblings set off through Winterfell’s winding corridors, bickering and shoving one another back and forth.
Winterfell’s visitors flooded through the gates in a cluster of black, polished silver, and crimson red.
Elaenora’s eyes widened at the sight.
There had to be nearly two hundred knights, bannermen and sworn swords all riding under the same banner: a three-headed dragon breathing flames, laid in red upon a black background. Maester Archer had spent years drilling the great houses into each of his pupils until she could have identified every banner in Westeros with her eyes half closed.
She had once thought those lessons dreadfully dull; now she silently thanked him.
‘Gods… they’ve brought half of King’s Landing with them,’ she muttered, glancing at Artos.
Artos leaned closer and replied, ‘What they’ve brought is an army… must think we’re a threat.’
Elaenora glared up at him but said nothing as people began to dismount their horses.
One man caught her attention quickly. Prince Baelor Targaryen.
Even from a distance, there was something undeniably regal about him that caused her shoulders to square and her spine to straighten.
His light brown hair caught the pale sunlight whilst a heavy cloak of black and red draped across his shoulders. He didn’t rush to take his gloves off, prying at one finger carefully. He seemed to carry himself with the ease of a man long accustomed to respect, much different to his younger brother, who rode beside him—Prince Maekar.
Where Baelor appeared approachable, Maekar looked as if he were carved from stone.
Truth be told, neither prince looked particularly impressed by what stood before them, but Baelor hid it better than Maekar did. Elaenora believed Maekar wasn’t even trying, judging by the way one eyebrow was raised and his lips curled back as an unpleasant smell from the stables swept through the yard.
The Hammer and the Anvil had arrived in Winterfell.
A magnificent black and silver wheelhouse rolled into the courtyard, pulled by ten large horses. Its polished wood and gilded detailing looked absurdly expensive against the grey stones of Winterfell. Inside, the curtains had been drawn back against the daylight, allowing Elaenora a small glimpse of those travelling within.
She caught sight of silver hair first, followed by a handful of sharp faces. She didn’t know which prince was which, and she didn’t have enough time to begin wondering, for her father stepped forward.
Lord Stark didn’t bow deeply. Instead, he inclined his head, the respect owed to the blood of the dragon, but nothing more.
‘Prince Baelor, your grace,’ Beron greeted.
‘Lord Stark,’ Prince Baelor replied with a voice calm and polite. He shook Beron’s hand firmly, one hand locked in his clasp and the other patting him softly on the shoulder.
Prince Maekar stepped forward and offered his hand as he said quietly, ‘Lord Beron Stark.’
‘Prince Maekar… Welcome to Winterfell.’
Elaenora's eyes drifted towards the wheelhouse as its polished doors swung open. One by one, the younger princes descended the narrow steps, boots sinking slightly into the churned earth before they took their places behind their fathers with practised precision. A pair of the youngest murmured to one another, earning a glance from an older brother before they fell silent.
One prince, however, spoke to no one.
His lilac eyes swept slowly across the courtyard, lingering on the battlements, the guards upon the walls, the stable yard beyond, and finally the Stark family assembled before him. It was not the idle curiosity of a person seeing Winterfell for the first time, but the measured appraisal of someone who missed very little—and judged everything he saw.
Elaenora found herself holding his gaze for the briefest moment before he looked away.
He was, rather unfairly, the prettiest of them all. She disliked him immediately for it. No man so pretty ought to have the attitude of anyone but someone who had been told that all their life.
Then her father glanced over his shoulder, drawing her attention back to the introductions.
‘This is my wife, Lady Lorra,’ Beron said, reaching back and taking Lorra’s hand firmly into his own.
Elaenora watched her mother carefully, worried. She noted the way her fingers dug into the fabric on her father’s arm as she curtsied politely. She leaned into him ever so slightly, using him more as an anchor than anything else.
Prince Baeron and Prince Maekar offered her a simple smile and a nod.
‘These are my children,’ Lord Beron said, gesturing to his left.
Before he could continue the introductions, Prince Baelor stepped towards Donnor, his deep brown eyes travelling over him from head to toe.
‘You must be Donnor. My, you are the very image of your father,’ Baelor said warmly, clasping Donnor's forearm.
He stepped sideways to the broad-shouldered man beside him and gave an approving nod.
‘You're a sturdy one. Willam, I presume?’
‘Yes, Your Grace,’ Willam replied, unable to hide a flicker of surprise that the heir to the Iron Throne knew his name.
As Baelor released his hand, his gaze dropped to where Willam's fingers remained intertwined with the young woman standing just behind his shoulder. Her free hand rested instinctively upon the swell of her stomach beneath the heavy wool of her gown.
Baelor's expression softened as he murmured, ‘And this must be your lady wife.’
‘My wife, Melantha, Your Grace,’ Willam said, gently drawing her forward.
Melantha dipped into a graceful curtsey, steadied by her husband.
‘It is an honour to welcome you to Winterfell.’
‘The honour is mine, Lady Melantha,’ Baelor replied kindly. His eyes flickered briefly to her rounded belly before returning to her face. ‘Congratulations to you both. I hope the babe continues to grow strong.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ Melantha answered with a warm smile, while Willam's hand instinctively settled more firmly around hers.
Baelor inclined his head before moving along the line until he stood before Artos and mused, ‘I've heard about you... Are you as good a fighter as I'm told?’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘Good,’ Baelor said with a small smile, then he moved on.
Elaenora suddenly became very aware of the weight of her sword hanging at her hip as Baelor stopped before her.
For a moment, he said nothing at all. He simply took in her appearance: the dark curls of her hair that fell just inches from the ground, even whilst tied back, the wolf clasp of her cloak at her throat, and the sword resting comfortably against her side.
The silence stretched long enough that she became aware of everyone watching.
Slowly, she dipped into a curtsy and said, 'Elaenora, your grace.'
When she straightened, Baelor was still looking at her with an expression she wasn’t able to decipher all too well, that was, until a small smile appeared on his lips.
'So this is the Beauty of the North I’ve been so earnestly told about?’
Heat immediately threatened to climb into her cheeks as she said, 'I fear the North has exaggerated, your grace.’
'I don’t think it has.' His eyes flicked once more toward the sword. 'And yet somehow neglected to mention the blade.'
'My father saw fit to educate all of his children on the art of protecting themselves.'
'A wise decision.'
Baelor inclined his head to her before moving onward.
Berena received a far easier greeting, as did Alysanne. Errold and Rikard got even warmer greetings, Baelor bending down to their height to speak with them and politely inform them that no, they did not bring any dragon with them.
They all then met Prince Maekar, and where Baelor’s warmth filled the courtyard easily, Maekar brought something altogether different.
He moved down the line as his brother had with measured steps and observing eyes. Nothing seemed to escape his notice. He spoke with Donnor longer than any of the others. He asked Willam one question, nodded at Melantha, offering her a quiet, ‘Congratulations,’ and silently examined Artos as though assessing a warrior rather than the third son of Lord Stark.
When he reached Elaenora, his gaze immediately settled upon the sword at her side. He said quietly, 'You carry steel.'
'I do, your grace.'
'Can you use it?'
'Well enough.'
Maekar grunted, and whether that was approval or disapproval, Elaenora couldn’t tell. He moved along, greeting the rest of the Stark children with a small incline of his head.
Then at last came the princes that Baelor beckoned forward.
One by one, the sons of House Targaryen stepped away from their fathers and began making their way down the line of Stark children, though not in order. They didn’t introduce themselves, but Baelor did from just over their shoulders.
Prince Aegon was kind enough to smile at everyone.
Prince Matarys made sure to shake everyone’s hands, even Elaenora’s, Berena’s and Alysanne’s.
Prince Valarr and Prince Aemon were the only two kind enough to do both.
Elaenora was then standing toe-to-toe with Prince Aerion, who seemed rather firmly planted in place, his lilac eyes sweeping her entire figure. She almost found herself frowning: Up close, the songs suddenly seemed far less exaggerated. Elaenora hated that she had to admit it.
Silver-gold hair, pale unblemished skin and features so finely cut they might have been carved from marble by only the steadiest hands of whichever Gods deemed him so lucky.
But Elaenora had learned long ago that a pretty face could hide all manner of things and that beauty was only skin deep.
His gaze finally rested squarely upon the sword hanging from her hip, one pale brow lifting.
Elaenora followed his stare and then looked back at him.
‘Do you actually know how to use that?’ His question was quiet, and not loud enough to be insulting, but it seemed far from innocent.
Artos immediately shifted beside her, simply to favour his weight on the other leg, but Elaenora knew her brother and that he hadn’t taken kindly to the Prince.
Aerion’s careless glance at Artos made Elaenora realise that perhaps Aerion knew not of her brother, but what he was capable of, and still didn’t care.
Elaenora met his gaze evenly as she murmured, ‘Don’t have to be clever to know you’re supposed to stick someone with the pointy end.’
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Lord Beron closed his eyes briefly. Of all his children to provoke a prince of the realm, he would have wagered on Artos or Willam long before Elaenora.
Aerion, however, simply stared at her as the smallest flicker of surprise crossed his face. It was gone almost immediately, but Elaenora saw it.
‘Is that what they teach in the North?’ Aerion asked.
Elaenora shook her head slightly and muttered, ‘No.’
‘And your sisters…’ Aerion trailed off, jousting his lips out into a pout as he looked down at Berena and Alysanne.
Berena wore a sword at her hip, much like her sister, though hers was far smaller. The narrow blade was short enough that, at a glance, it could easily have been mistaken for a long knife rather than a true sword. Alysanne, by contrast, carried no weapon of her own.
Something unreadable passed through his expression.
For the first time since approaching her, Aerion looked less like a prince inspecting something unfamiliar and more like someone who had finally found something interesting. It made Elaenora's stomach tighten. She had heard enough stories about Prince Aerion Targaryen to know that becoming interesting to him rarely ended well.
Gods give her strength…
