Chapter Text
Maekar wakes with a snarl on his lips and frustration blooming in his gut.
“These fucking Gods.” Maekar is beyond at his wits end, flinging the sheets from his body to stalk across the room and grab the pitcher of wine. With his nerves frayed as they are, he’s likely to go and stab that fucking hedge knight in the mood he’s in, and that would likely end worse than the time he’d punched the giant oaf.
At this stage, Maekar is close to grinding his own teeth into dust, ripping out his hair and locking all his sons in their rooms until they’re old. He’s at his wits end with all of them, not only Aerion’s flagrant cruelty and pride, Aegon’s unending insolence and Daeron’s incomprehensible babbling, but now the Gods have chosen to chase what’s left of Maekar’s sanity with an unending monotony of the most insufferable blasted day of his life.
He’d sooner be dealing with those Blackfyre fucks all over again.
A knock signals the maids with food, the door opening to the same mousey young woman carrying the unchanged tray of food offerings before she quickly scurries from the room as Maekar refills a goblet with wine to drain it, uninterested in the serving.
It was bland and unsatisfying the first time he had it, he doubts it’s changed countless times later.
After dressing for the day, again, he crosses to the door to get the guard to fetch Aegon, then telling him to send for one of the household knights and ensure Daeron remains in his room. It’s almost old hat at this point, Maekar going through the motions of a near tried and tested routine.
And that’s the most annoying fucking thing. With this awareness, this understanding, not quite like the dreamers of their family, not like the prophecies written on daggers or in the fucking skies, but actual tangible understanding of events, and Maekar still cannot change every outcome. Cursed is the kinslayer, so they say, well, Maekar is most definitely fucking cursed.
“Father,” the meek, cautious voice of his youngest son pulls his attention from the window, gazing out at the Tourney field, already being cleared for the trial in a few short hours. “You requested to see me?” There’s a skittishness to his little boy that Maekar knows has only come about from this nonsense. The bright, energetic boy from Summerhall is a distant memory presently, Aegon’s excitement to squire at the Tourney now overshadowed by the fear for family and this lumbering idiot of a knight he’s thrown his lot in with.
“Daeron is unable to ride today,” Maekar is unwilling to see his son trampled again, to watch as a horse gallops over his sweet, drunken idiot of a firstborn, spilling his brains over the mud and dirt, or crushing his ribs so he drowns in blood. “Ser Lomas will ride in his place.” There’s a distant hope in Maekar that he can change enough, although it’s slowly growing smaller and smaller, more faded and bitter. Lomas is from the West, a nobody knight who seems to think he’ll be worth something riding to Aerion’s cause—it’s the seventh time Maekar has substituted him in, he’s died all the times before. Maekar is prepared to make that sacrifice if he can save his family.
Something like relief flashes over Aegon’s face, one less person for the boy to worry over. Maekar isn’t blind, he knows there’s something off between Aegon and Aerion, knows that his wild second born somehow did something to terrify his youngest son. Gone are the days when Aegon would crawl into Maekar’s bed, burrow under the covers to hide between Maekar and Dyanna, pretending that all was well. But he still sees when his little boy is hiding something.
“Go and help your knight find his six,” Maekar turns back to the window, clasping his hands behind his back, sighing at the notion of Aegon helping that fucking giant against his kin, but knowing better than trying to contain the boy. “And Aegon,” the lad stops, hesitant but hopeful, “put on a hat, you’ll catch a fucking chill with that bald fucking head.” What possessed Daeron to allow Aegon to shave off his silver-white locks, Maekar will never fathom.
Lomas, as expected, agrees instantly to ride in Prince Daeron’s place, obviously believing that Aerion’s side will see no true opposition from the gathered knights. Explaining that to Daeron seems to get a glazed look on his face, slightly different from the other times, but his eldest simply accepts it and lays back down in bed.
It takes another hour for Maekar to procure the newest addition in his efforts to thwart tragedy. Stalking through the Ashford castle to find his nephew, skittish and attempting subterfuge as Maekar glares at him.
“For your father.” He presents the helm with little fanfare. It’s nothing special, but it’s of larger size and suited to Baelor more than Valarr’s borrowed helm; a proper face guard, ample support, properly made by the blacksmith at the Tourney. There’s no need to modify it for Baelor as the borrowed helm required. And several modifications later, it’s still unsuitable.
“What—No, that’s—I—” the boy is too much like his father, and Maekar has been raising hellions for years now. Aegon’s turn towards reckless antics and wilful lying is new, but not the most egregious thing one of his sons has done. “How did you know?” Valarr eventually concedes, taking the offered helm with a sheepish expression.
“I know my brother better than he knows himself.” Especially with this fascinating new torture devised by the Gods. “Inform him we shall be having words when this fucking farce is over.” And Maekar is going to shake the stupid out of his second son, or so help him he might do something regrettable.
The lead up to the trial is the same as ever; the Kingsguard are reluctant, Aerion is an arrogant shit about the Fossoway cunt—and Maekar is absolutely not letting the shit stain of a knight get away with his bullshit easily—and Lomas shows up preening like the fool isn’t about to die with a lance through his throat.
Idiot.
“Where’s Daeron?” Aerion grumbles, as if putting his brother in this mess is a requirement.
“Abed.” Maekar snaps back, watching yet another rendition of the rousing speech from that giant pain in his ass towards the crowds. “His replacement is adequate.” And Maekar doesn’t care if he dies, so long as his boy's head isn’t cracked open like a fucking egg.
He can’t stomach having to watch that again. But every time it’s something; Baelor’s skull being crushed, Aerion’s throat being impaled, Daeron being trampled, Aerion bleeding from the nose and ears, Daeron drowning in blood from broken ribs, Baelor being stabbed, or the time Maekar punched the hedge knight and got himself recused from the trial and all three of them were killed. Countless times, and Maekar is utterly fed up with all of them.
“I will take Ser Duncan’s side.” Maekar is going to drown his fucking brother in a pond.
Maekar doesn’t question it this time, doesn’t ride over to Baelor—although the man is at least wearing the helm that fits—doesn’t bother to allow a bigger spectacle to be made. This is a fucking child’s name-day celebration, and they’re fighting in the mud, for fuck’s sake.
“Your Grace,” the Kingsguard are clearly unsettled, as with each time before, which tells Maekar that at no point has Baelor opted to tell anyone of his stupid fucking idea, save for his son, and that little prince will never push back against his father anyway. Fucking Baelor and his well-behaved sons, oh what that must be like. Perhaps Aemon got all the sense his children were born with, leaving none for the rest.
“Do your fucking duty,” Maekar reminds the knights. They’re sworn to the Crown, they follow the Crown, but similarly, they cannot strike towards any of the royal family—even if they are on the opposite side. “Keep that fucking Baratheon away from Aerion, I don’t care about the rest.” The Laughing Storm would be laughing out the wrong side of his face if he strikes Aerion in the throat again, accident or not.
The tilt goes as always. Maekar hardly feels the blow of the lance to his ribs now, knocking him to the dirt, but this time Baelor is unhorsed as well—do the same thing enough times, and it sinks in, at least. Beesbury dies under his horse—again—while the Kingsguard dismount to keep the field covered. The Fossoway cunt faces that mad-one-eyed shit, and Hardyng makes a pass for Aerion which sees Ser Willem’s sword hobble the horse, landing Hardyng in the dirt. He might survive, he might not, what does it matter to Maekar?
Before long, it’s challenging to actually track anything; the fog, the dirt, the clash of weapons, it blends together until Maekar is simply trying to remember to hold back his swings. Even when he hears Aegon’s yelling, when he knows Aerion is about to clash with that mountain of a man. Two Kingsguard are down, injured but not dead, and Maekar is attempting to hold off Baratheon, aware that his brother is close, pushing down his instinct to lash out when he hears Aerion’s scream.
His boy his hurt, but not fatally, the hedge knight isn’t trying to kill, just to stop this. Maekar feels his body move while his mind fights it, hoping for a different outcome just this once. The distraction causes him to lose the upper hand with the Stormlord, a flurry of more fierce attacks pulling his attention back to his actual opponent, until he hears Aerion’s withdrawal and the horn is blown.
As it’s blown, a sharp and sudden pain flares in Maekar’s side, hot and bright on his ribs. It’s just damage, and he can tolerate it as he checks that his brother is standing, no damage to his helm, before Maekar is pushing over the field to Aerion’s crumpled form.
“Aerion,” his face is bloodied, leg twisted, bloody and bruised but not mortally wounded, and maybe he’ll finally be able to put this all behind him. The maester has Aerion taken inside, Maekar checking the Kingsguard—all three surviving with minor injuries—with Lomas, Hardyng and Beesbury all dead—again—but the other participants surviving.
“Go ensure Prince Baelor is seen to,” Maekar demands at Ser Donnel, who seems the least worse for ware as he nods and heads towards the castle to find Baelor. Gods, but the mess this is. Maekar follows the path the maester took with Aerion, wishing to check on his son before praying this nonsense is over with.
He’s standing in the hallway leading towards Aerion’s chamber when the dizzy spell hits, halting his progress as he braces against the wall, gritting his teeth to let the moment pass. It’s likely just tiredness, unease from all the failures, the worry of something turning. A metallic taste crawls up his throat, reminding Maekar he hasn’t eaten properly since the first trial, since the time he’d thought it a horrible dream and lived it three times over before realising something was off.
“Father?” His youngest son calls for him, Maekar startling towards Aegon’s voice, realising he’d closed his eyes. The newly knighted Fossoway boy is holding Ser Duncan up—comical really given their size difference—Baelor to their side, without his helm and just slightly bloodied, while Aegon halts in the middle of the hall, his big doe eyes gazing at him with his eldest brother behind him.
He’s not wearing the hat like Maekar told him to, his ears pink from the chill, and the boy is going to get ill if he doesn’t wrap up. Maekar begins to tell him as such, scold him for not ensuring he was warm enough. But the spots dance in his vision, and Maekar steps forward, only for his legs to crumple under him, sending him to the stone floor with a grunt. He can hear his boys, Daeron and Aegon, rushing to his side, and Baelor calling his name, but it fades in the distance, and Maekar realises in all his changing things, he didn’t think to worry more about himself.