The Anvil and The Spinster - Chapter 5: Honor Among Ashes
Summary:
“Very well,” he said, sliding his sword back into its sheath. “I have grown bored of safe choices.”
He gave Aegon a sideways look. “And I would enjoy seeing Aerion’s face if he loses.”
“That is not the reason,” Emma said sharply.
Robyn lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Of course not, my lady. Pure honor.”
Warnings:
TW: reputational slander
TW: misogyny / honor shaming
TW: violence and trial by combat
TW: threats to reputation
TW: court politics and manipulation
TW: discussion of death and grief
TW: public humiliation
TW: canon-typical Game of Thrones violence
The corridor still echoed faintly with their parting footsteps.
“Good evening, Lady Ashford.”
“Your Grace.”
Emma had barely taken three steps away when one of her father’s stewards hurried toward her, pale-faced.
“My lady — there is to be a Trial of Seven.”
The words settled cold in her stomach.
“A Trial of Seven?” she repeated.
“For Prince Aerion’s accusation against Ser Duncan.”
The world sharpened.
A Trial of Seven meant spectacle. Blood. Judgment by the gods themselves.
And then came the second blow.
“They say,” the steward swallowed, “that the prince has named you as one of the causes. He claims you defied him. That you… that your honor is questionable.”
Emma did not react at first.
“Questionable how?”
The steward looked as though he wished to vanish. “He is spreading the word that you are no maiden of virtue. That you keep company too freely.”
Silence.
Her honor.
Her name.
Not content to maim a puppeteer, to drag down a hedge knight , Aerion now sought to stain her.
Emma’s spine straightened.
“Very well,” she said evenly. “If my honor is on the line, then I will not stand idle.”
She found Ser Duncan near an old oak tree, training with his sword. The blade caught the moonlight as he moved through steady, disciplined strikes — not flashy, but honest. The rhythm of steel through the air was almost calming.
“Lady Ashford,” he said, lowering his sword at once and offering a small bow, breath only slightly quickened.
“I came to congratulate you,” Emma replied, folding her hands behind her back as if she had not sought him out deliberately. “Few men would stand against a prince.”
He shifted, clearly uncomfortable with praise. “I did what was right.”
“Yes,” she agreed evenly. “And now you are to answer for it.”
She did not soften the truth.
His expression sobered. “I had reckoned as much.”
“I have been pulled into this as well.”
That caught him off guard. His brow furrowed. “You?”
“Prince Aerion claims I slighted him. He spreads rumors to weaken my word.” Her voice cooled. “A weak man’s whims. He prides himself on being a dragon, but all I see is a scared boy.”
Duncan stared at her, shocked.
Emma lifted a brow. “What?”
“You speak boldly of princes, my lady.”
“I speak accurately.”
A reluctant grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “If he hears you say that—”
“He already spreads lies about me. I hardly think the truth will worsen my standing.”
Duncan’s grip tightened slightly on his sword hilt. “He questions your honor?”
“He attempts to.” Her chin lifted. “He forgets I was present.”
“And that you saw.”
“Yes.”
A pause passed between them — heavier now.
“You should not be dragged into this,” Duncan said firmly. “This is my quarrel.”
“It stopped being solely yours when he tried to ruin my name.”
“My lady—”
“You will need seven knights,” Emma cut in, practical now. “And I intend to help you find them.”
“My lady, that is not your burden.”
“It is now, hedge knight.”
There was the faintest spark in her eyes when she said it.
Duncan huffed a soft breath that might almost have been a laugh. “You use that title like an insult.”
“Is it not?”
“It is honest work.”
“So is mine.”
He sheathed his sword slowly, studying her. “You would stand beside a hedge knight over a prince?”
“I would stand beside a good man over a cruel one.”
That silenced him.
For a moment, the breeze stirred the oak leaves above them.
“You understand what a Trial of Seven means?” he asked quietly.
“I do.”
“It is not a tourney, my lady. It is not pageantry.”
“I know what blood looks like, Ser Duncan.”
Something shifted in his expression then — respect, perhaps.
“You are not afraid?”
Emma considered that honestly.
“I am,” she said at last. “But fear does not decide my actions.”
Duncan nodded once.
“Very well then,” he said. “If we are to find six more fools brave enough to join me, we had best begin.”
“Seven,” she corrected lightly.
He blinked. “Seven?”
“You forget, Ser. You already have one.”
He looked at her in alarm. “You cannot fight.”
“I did not mean with a sword.”
She found him near the stables, arguing with a squire over a saddle strap.
He looked up — silver hair catching the light.
Prince Aegon.
She inclined her head, but not deeply. “Your Grace.”
He sighed. “You knew.”
“I suspected.”
Aegon studied her for a moment. “You mean to aid Ser Duncan.”
“I do.”
“And you understand what that means?”
“That my house may bleed for it,” she said calmly. “Yes.”
A slow grin spread across his face — not mocking, but approving.
“Good,” he said. “Then we hunt knights.”
They found Lord Lyonel Baratheon in the outer yard, laughing thunderously as he watched two men attempt to outdrink one another.
He was broad as a warhorse and twice as loud.
“Your Grace!” Lyonel boomed when he spotted Aegon. “Come to test your liver?”
“Not today,” Aegon replied dryly. “I come to test your loyalty.”
That caught Lyonel’s attention.
His eyes slid to Emma. “And who is this sharp-eyed falcon?”
“Lady Ashford,” Aegon answered. “She seeks champions.”
“For Ser Duncan,” Emma added, steady and unflinching.
Lyonel barked a laugh. “The hedge knight who kicked Aerion like a mule?”
“The very one.”
“And you want me to stand against a prince?”
“I want you,” Emma said evenly, “to stand for justice.”
Lyonel studied her more carefully now.
“You speak bold for one whose house could suffer.”
“It already does.”
A pause.
Lyonel scratched at his beard. “Aerion’s temper grows fouler by the day. I’ve no love for it.” His grin returned. “Besides, I’ve always preferred a good fight to a quiet one.”
He extended a hand.
“You have my sword.”
They found Ser Humfrey Hardyng near the lists, overseeing squires drilling with wooden blades.
He was older, careful-eyed, the sort of knight who measured consequences before speaking.
“A Trial of Seven is no small matter,” Hardyng said once they explained.
“No,” Emma agreed.
“And Prince Aerion will not forgive those who oppose him.”
“I am aware.”
Hardyng looked at Aegon. “And you support this?”
Aegon’s answer was simple. “I do.”
That weighed heavily.
Hardyng’s gaze returned to Emma. “Why risk yourself for a hedge knight?”
“Because if we allow cruelty to go unanswered, we teach princes they may do as they please.”
A long silence followed.
Finally, Hardyng nodded. “Then I will stand.”
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
But firmly.
They found Ser Robyn Ryswell oiling his blade beneath a shaded awning.
He was younger than the others, sharp-featured, restless.
“I heard about the puppet girl,” he said before they even spoke. “Ugly business.”
“It was,” Emma replied.
“And this hedge knight means to answer for it?”
“He does,” Aegon said.
Robyn rose smoothly to his feet. “And what does the lady gain from this?”
“Little,” Emma answered honestly.
“Then why involve yourself?”
She met his gaze without wavering. “Because someone must.”
Robyn’s mouth twitched faintly. “That is either very brave or very foolish.”
“I have been called both.”
He laughed under his breath.
“Very well,” he said, sliding his sword back into its sheath. “I have grown bored of safe choices.”
He gave Aegon a sideways look. “And I would enjoy seeing Aerion’s face if he loses.”
“That is not the reason,” Emma said sharply.
Robyn lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Of course not, my lady. Pure honor.”
But there was respect in his tone.
As they walked away, Aegon glanced at her.
“You recruit well.”
“I speak plainly.”
“That is rarer than you think.”
They paused at the edge of the yard, watching knights spar.
“You realize,” Aegon said quietly, “that when this is done, nothing will be the same.”
Emma’s gaze remained fixed ahead.
“I know.”
Aegon studied her for a long moment.
“You are not what I expected, Lady Ashford.”
“No?”
“No. Most would shrink from this.”
She allowed the faintest hint of steel into her voice.
“I am not most.”
Aegon smiled slightly.
“No,” he agreed. “You are not.”
And somewhere across the castle grounds, word was already spreading.
Aerion would not be pleased.
And the Trial of Seven was no longer merely a spectacle.
It was becoming a line drawn in the sand.
The torches burned low in the council chamber.
Prince Baelor stood with hands braced against the table. “Aerion has already dragged our house through mockery,” he said sharply. “A Trial of Seven over wounded pride?”
Prince Maekar stood opposite him, rigid. “He is your nephew. My son.”
“And he is reckless,” Baelor snapped. “You would defend this?”
Maekar’s jaw tightened. “I defend the crown and my own.”
“The crown is not served by cruelty.”
Silence stretched between them — heavy, brittle.
“Aerion dishonors us all,” Baelor said more quietly. “If you stand with him blindly, you choose his shame as your own. I know he is your brother’s son, but this is a step too far.”
Maekar said nothing for a long time.
Then, quietly: “I will not stand with cruelty.”
Baelor looked at him sharply.
But Maekar had already made his decision.
Later that night, without announcement or declaration, Maekar withdrew his pledged support from Aerion’s side. In his place, he quietly appointed another Kingsguard to fulfill the political obligation. The court would see balance, not division. Duty, not sentiment.
He did not tell Baelor the full truth — not yet.
But he did send for his eldest son.
Daeron entered his father’s solar hesitantly, a book still tucked beneath his arm. He looked tired — as though he had not slept since the challenge had been declared.
“You sent for me, Father?”
Maekar did not look up at first. “Close the door.”
Daeron obeyed.
A long pause. Then:
“I have withdrawn my support from your brother’s cause.”
Daeron blinked. “You… have?”
“I will not stand beside him in this,” Maekar said evenly. “The crown does not require me to defend folly.”
Daeron’s shoulders sagged in visible relief before he could stop himself.
“I am glad,” he admitted quietly. “I feared… what this would make of us. Of you.”
Maekar’s gaze lifted then, sharp but not unkind. “You fear for our name.”
“I fear for him,” Daeron said. “And for the men who will bleed for his temper.”
Something flickered across Maekar’s expression — pride, perhaps.
“You are not wrong,” he said at last. “But understand this: I do not abandon my son. I simply refuse to arm his worst impulses.”
Daeron nodded slowly. “That is more mercy than he deserves.”
“Mercy,” Maekar replied, “is not always gentleness.”
Silence settled again — softer this time.
“Thank you, Father,” Daeron said quietly.
Maekar dismissed him with a small motion of his hand, though his voice followed him to the door.
“Pray this ends cleanly.”
When Daeron was gone, Maekar remained alone with the guttering torchlight and the weight of his choice.
He had chosen his side.
And this time, it was not blood — but honor.
The Ashford sept was silent.
Emma had not stepped inside since her mother’s death.
Not since the candles had burned beside her still form.
Not since the prayers had felt unanswered.
But tonight, she knelt.
“For courage,” she whispered. “For protection. For clarity.”
She did not ask for safety.
She did not ask for comfort.
Only strength.
Footsteps echoed softly behind her.
She did not turn at first.
Maekar stopped a respectful distance away.
“This is an unusual hour for prayer,” he said quietly.
Emma rose slowly. “I could say the same.”
He glanced toward the altar. “The last time I stood in a sept was when my wife died.”
Dyanna.
There was no sharpness in his voice — only memory.
“I am sorry,” Emma said softly.
He inclined his head, accepting the words but not dwelling in them.
“They say you seek knights,” he said.
“I do.”
“And you understand the cost?”
“Yes.”
Silence settled between them — not strained, not awkward.
Steady.
“You spoke of conscience,” he said at last. “Few are willing to pay its price.”
Emma met his gaze in the candlelight. “Are you?”
The question lingered.
He stepped closer — not touching, but near enough that she felt the warmth of him.
“I have chosen,” he said quietly.
Understanding dawned in her eyes.
“You changed sides.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“For justice?” she asked.
“For what is right.”
Their eyes held.
There was no flirtation. No teasing.
Only recognition.
Two people standing at the edge of consequence.
“You should not be here,” he murmured.
“Neither should you.”
A faint shadow of something almost like a smile touched his expression.
“Then perhaps,” he said softly, “we are both exactly where we ought to be.”
The candles flickered between them.
Something had shifted.
Not fire.
Not infatuation.
Something steadier.
Something dangerous.
Emma inclined her head. “Good night, Your Grace.”
“Lady Ashford.”
He remained long after she left.
And for the first time in years, Maekar knelt.
