Chapter Text
“King Baelor, near the end of his reign, fasted so severely in an effort to quell his sinful desires that he often fainted. In 171 AC, on the forty-first day of one such fast, he collapsed and died, despite the efforts of Grand Maester Munkun and the young High Septon. After his death, his sisters were released from the Maidenvault. Some argued that the Iron Throne should pass to Daena Targaryen, the eldest surviving child of Aegon III Targaryen, yet years of confinement had left her without strong allies. With memories of the Dance of the Dragons and of Rhaenyra Targaryen still lingering, many remained wary of a ruling queen, and thus the line of Aegon the Younger came to an end-”
Elorie had to stop reading to allow for Hella’s cackles.
“Here,” the younger woman handed the water goblet to Hella.
Elorie had spent many of her afternoons at her Great-grandmother’s rooms to read. Hella is six and eighty, her eyes are as white as her hair and she could no longer move without any assistance. She had already outlived her husband and her son, yet the Old Dowager of the Hightower continued to breathe.
Hella’s favorite tales were about the Dance of the Dragons. She was a child during that time and would often claim that many of the events were not as they were written in the tomes. Most of her stories sounded fantastical and were difficult to believe. Yet there were moments when she spoke with such emotion, sometimes even bringing herself to tears, that Elorie felt there must be some truth in them. Even so, Elorie would outwardly agree with her if only to appease her, since Hella’s versions often differed from what the maesters had written and could even be considered treasonous. And of all the figures she spoke of, Hella reserved the most scorn for King Aegon the Third.
Among all her grandchildren and great-grandchildren, only Elorie had the patience to spend time with Hella. Perhaps it was pity that drew her there, for the old woman had been left behind or ignored by most of her family. Or perhaps Elorie saw in her great-grandmother a glimpse of what her own future might be. She too will grow old without a husband or children, but at least Hella has grandchildren. Elorie could only hope that someone might show her the same kindness she now gave Hella.
“I always knew the bastard’s line would perish,” Hella said with a faint smile. “The gods have punished him for all the wickedness he wrought.”
“Well, the Blackfyres still remain—”
“Bah! Did you hear that, Aegon?” Hella burst into laughter. “The last hope your line has for the Iron Throne is a pack of bastards. Fitting, wouldn’t you say?”
It was always the same story, told in endless variations: that Aegon the Third’s blood was cursed for his misdeeds, and that Hella would not rest while his sons and their sons still dared to hope for the throne.
Elorie had never understood Hella’s hatred for King Aegon. Once, she had asked her great-grandmother about it, and Hella had only replied with a faint smile, ‘Whyever would you ask that, Little Flame? I could never hate him.’
“Should I continue, Great-grandmother?” Elorie asked.
“Yes, yes,” Hella waved her hand, inviting the girl to go on.
“The crown was then passed on to King Baelor’s uncle, Viserys—”
A knock interrupted her. Elorie called for the person to enter. It was her cousin, and his expression was solemn.
“Elorie, can I speak to you for a moment?” he asked. She nodded, leaving her great-grandmother with a promise to return.
“Yes, Martyn?” she asked, stepping into the corridor and offering him a small smile.
“Elorie, I—” He hesitated. “El…”
“Is something the matter?”
“We have received a raven from Ashford,” Garth looked down, his voice heavy. “I’m sorry, Elorie. I am terribly—”
“Martyn, you’re scaring me,” she said with a nervous chuckle. “Is it about Father?”
“Uncle has fallen in Ashford.”
“You mean at the joust?” Elorie’s heartbeat quickened. Her father was a great warrior, perhaps one of the greatest in the Seven Kingdoms, but accidents could happen. “Is it his leg—”
“No, El—” Garth sighed. “He… he died at Ashford.”
“No—” Elorie laughed, but it was hollow. “No… Martyn, that’s… impossible. He is a good fighter, he’s slain hundreds in battle. It’s just a joust—”
“Your father participated in the Trial of the Seven—”
“The… what?!” She had never heard of such a thing. “What?”
“It is an ancient practice, a type of trial by combat,” Martyn explained. “He fought for Ser Duncan, a young knight accused by Prince Aerion—”
“Of course he did,” Elorie breathed out, closing her eyes. “But he’s not… No, perhaps there is an error in the missive, cousin. Perhaps he’s only injured… or lost an arm or—”
“El—” Martyn shook his head. “I’m terribly sorry.”
“Oh.” Elorie felt her world tilt and shatter. It was as if invisible hands were dragging her down, deeper and deeper into a darkness she had no desire to escape. Her lungs screamed for air, but she could not, or would not, draw a single breath.
“Father, Garth, and Uncle Denys are already on their way with Uncle Olyvar’s body. They’re a day’s ride from Oldtown,” Martyn continued. “This also came for you.”
Black spots clouded her vision as she took a sealed letter from him.
“El, do you need me to walk you back to your rooms?” her younger cousin asked.
“No… I’m—” She shook her head. “No. But can you tell Hella I couldn’t finish our book? I just… I need a moment.”
“Of course,” Martyn said gently, patting her shoulder before returning to Hella.
Elorie walked toward her room, though she barely registered the path. She only became aware of where she was when she collapsed onto her settee, the one tucked between her bookshelves, with a view of the port. And then the tears came, unstoppable, streaming silently down her face. She cried and cried, but no sound escaped her lips. She could not summon a scream.
She remembered when she was nine, and she and her cousins had an outing at the Honeywine. She could not swim, and the current had dragged her under. Her lungs had burned, her mouth choked with water she could not swallow, her legs gone from beneath her. The sensation was the same now, paralyzed, breathless, and trapped beneath an invisible weight. She could not cry out nor draw in air.
Hours may have passed, or days, she no longer had a sense of time and the sun rose again. Servants tried to rouse her from her position, now slumped on the floor, but she remained unresponsive. Only her Aunt Daphne had succeeded, coaxing her to sit with a gentle voice as she placed a tray of food and a flagon of Arbor Red before her.
Elorie did not drink the wine, but the water that the servants would place every morning in her rooms. It was only then that she realized how lightheaded and parched she had become. She drank until the pounding in her head eased to a dull ache and the floor no longer seemed to swim beneath her. Slowly, she rose and dressed herself in black. She would need more purple, dark blue, gray clothes, beyond the few mourning gowns she currently possessed.
She was preparing to go down and meet her uncles and the Hightower contingent returning from the Ashford Tourney when she saw the note Martyn had handed her earlier. The letter was sealed with crimson wax, embossed with a flaming sword entwined by a dragon, a sun pierced by a spear behind it, and stars along the edge. With a deep breath, Elorie broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
Lady Elorie,
I am deeply sorry for your loss. Your father, Ser Olyvar, was a knight of remarkable courage and unwavering honor, and even in his passing, he remains a shining example of the virtues to which we all aspire. He bore his sword not for glory, but for justice, and with a warmth that inspired those around him. Every tale I have heard of his deeds speaks of a man devoted to the protection of the innocent, a man whose very presence gave hope to the helpless and strength to his companions.
It is easy to see why he earned the name Brightblade, for he truly was a beacon of the Seven’s blessing. At the Trial of the Seven, he stood to aid a young knight who sought only to defend the innocent, not because the knight could not fight for himself, but because Ser Olyvar’s heart was too steadfast to allow another to face peril alone. In that, he showed the truest measure of the Warrior, courage tempered by loyalty, skill guided by honor, and strength given freely to those in need.
Though his passing is a grievous blow, I hope you may take comfort in knowing that he fell as he lived, with valor and compassion. His life leaves a light that cannot be extinguished, and his memory will continue to guide all who knew him. The ache of grief may be heavy now, but may you find some solace in the knowledge that your father’s deeds and the goodness that he embodied remain, enduring beyond this moment.
You may grieve, my lady, but do not despair. His courage, honor, and devotion were not lost to the world, and they live on in the hearts of those he loved, and in you.
Please accept my deepest condolences, and may the Seven grant you strength in the days ahead.
Baelor Targaryen