- 25 AC -
For several long moments after Prince Maegor left the field, no one moved.
The tourney grounds had fallen so silent that the seagulls from Blackwater Bay could be heard crying above. Hundreds of men and women stared down at the red mud, the broken bodies and the two white-cloaked knights lying where the Prince had struck them down.
Then the speechlessness was broken.
Men shouted for maesters. Baseborn women screamed their children's names, and the noble women the names of husbands, fathers, and sons who had entered the melee. Squires poured onto the field, slipping in batches of blood as they searched for their knights. The wounded or hurt groaned, horses shrieked for good measure, and the frightened smallfolk pushed against one another in their haste to leave before something else happened.
King Aegon remained standing in the royal box, gripping the wooden railing.
His face had become as hard as Dragonstone, but his hands betrayed him. His fingers were clenched around the wooden railing with such strength that the old timber cracked.
He had expected Maegor to win.
He had even expected the boy to humiliate men twice his age and experience. Just look at his size and what he had accomplished in Meereen. That had been the entire point of the tourney: to give Maegor a challenge, and humble him if the Gods were good, or, if not, to display his strength before the realm and secure his place beside Aenys.
Instead, his son had turned a celebration into an execution ground and announced himself as a butcher who killed out of pettiness. Aegon didn't think that Lord Hightower died randomly. He wasn't that naive.
"He must be seized," the High Septon found his voice.
The holy man had gone pale beneath his crystal crown after seeing the death of Lord Hightower. His eyes were fixed upon the bloody remains that had once been Lord Manfred. Blood stained the silver-and-white chestplate, while what remained of the Lord of Oldtown's face lay half-submerged in the mud.
"That was no competition," the High Septon continued, his voice growing louder as his shock and fear became outrage and fury. "That was execution! Murder under the eyes of the Seven. Your Grace, I demand that the Prince be seized and punished according to these crimes!"
Aegon slowly turned his head and looked the High Septon in the eyes. Hearing the man, his pride sparked up instinctively.
"You demand?"
The two words were spoken calmly, but the High Septon remembered himself at once. Realising where he was and who he was talking to, he coughed lightly.
"I beseech it of Your Grace," he corrected himself, though there was little humility in his tone. "For the sake of the King's Peace, for the honour and justice of House Hightower and for the soul of your son before the Seven's anger."
"My son's soul is no concern of yours at this moment," Aegon said and looked down at the field again.
Ser Richard Roote had begun to stir, although he did little more than twitch and groan. Ser Robin Darklyn remained motionless; his white cloak on the muddy ground was slowly soaking up the blood from the various men who had lost some.
For one short instant, Aegon had feared that both men were dead. That would have been a terrible thing indeed. These were not merely knights. They were his Kingsguard, part of the order his sister Visenya had created for his protection. They had carried his will and authority onto the field, and Maegor had struck them down.
It was a great offence and provocation on Maegor's part, and Aegon knew he had done so deliberately. He hadn't killed them, from what he could see, but he had knocked them down hard, as though the King's own voice meant nothing.
"Grand Maester," Aegon said.
Grand Maester Gawen nearly stumbled as he rose. He was pulled from his own thoughts.
"Y-Your Grace?"
"See to Ser Robin and Ser Richard yourself. I want them tended to and looked after. Don't spare any effort, do you understand?"
"At once, Your Grace."
"Ser Corlys," Aegon called to the Lord Commander standing behind the royal box. "Take your brothers and find Prince Maegor. He is to return to his chambers in Aegonfort at once and remain there under house arrest until I summon him."
Queen Visenya rose from her chair.
"You will not have your men approach and confront him with swords drawn. Not after he has already shown you what will happen."
Aegon looked at her. Gone was any brotherly affection he may have had for her. He looked at her like the King looked at a vassal. Not that this look bothered or intimidated Visenya. She didn't back down in the slightest.
"Then perhaps you should have considered that before giving him such freedom and placing Dark Sister in the hands of a boy already searching for men to kill."
The insult struck its mark, and Visenya's eyes narrowed into violet slits.
"He is no boy. And before you dare question me about my education, you should first think about how often you were there to take care of it yourself!"
"You're right, he's not a boy. He's a petulant child, which lacks a firm hand," Aegon said, looking at the carnage below. "That much he has made plain to everyone."
For once, Visenya did not answer. She was too angry to do so. In truth, she was incredibly proud of what Maegor had done. It took an unbelievable strength of will and character to go through with his plan and go against the status quo and the King.
Below them, the sons of Lord Manfred had reached their father.
Martyn Hightower dropped to his knees in the mud, unmindful of the blood staining his pale cloak. He did not touch the body of his father at first. There was nowhere left to touch that seemed appropriate, or wasn't drenched in blood and gore.
Ser Morgan Hightower, the youngest child of Manfred, reacted differently. The younger son stood above his father's corpse, trembling and making the plates of his armour rattle. His face twisted with grief at first seeing his father and then turned to rage.
His hand grabbed the handle of his sword.
"I'll kill him," Morgan said.
Martyn looked up sharply at his brother's words and shook his head vigorously.
"No."
"He butchered Father!"
Morgan ripped his sword halfway from its scabbard and turned toward the path Maegor had taken, ready to get his revenge right now.
Martyn lunged to his feet and caught his brother's wrist with both hands, holding him back desperately.
"And he will butcher you as well!"
"Let go of me!" Morgan shouted.
"Look at the field, you fool!" Martyn hissed. "Look at it!"
Morgan did. As if he had lost his ability to move smoothly, his head moved in jumps.
He saw Lord Hoster Bracken with a bloody hole in his throat. He saw Quellon Greyjoy lying face-down in the little pool of blood in which Maegor had drowned him. He saw the Bolton knight almost split from shoulder to ribs.
And beyond them lay two of the finest knights in all the Seven Kingdoms, both knocked out in moments.
Morgan's sword slid back into its sheath. Not because his rage had lessened, but because he understood that his brother's words were correct. He had to admit that he wouldn't fare better than two Kingsguard.
Martyn released him and looked down at their father again. All of his strength left him once more.
"One Hightower has died for the Prince's bloodlust today," he said, his voice full of bottled-up emotion. "We will not give him another."
Martyn realised that everyone near them was looking at them. But he didn't care right now until he realised why they were looking at him.
His father was dead.
That made him Lord of the Hightower, Lord of Oldtown and Defender of the Citadel. One moment earlier, he had been a son kneeling beside his murdered father. Now, before he had even processed everything, he had become responsible for one of the oldest and most powerful houses in Westeros.
Martyn forced himself to stand tall and proud, as his father had taught him.
"Cover him," he commanded the Hightower knights. "No more gawking from the masses. Take my father from this place and prepare him for transport back to Oldtown."
Knights and stewards hurried to obey their new lord's command. As Manfred's remains were wrapped in his torn cloak and carried off the field, Martyn raised his head toward the royal box.
His gaze met King Aegon's. The two looked at each other. There was immense grief in Martyn's eyes, but also hatred, and something even more dangerous beneath both emotions: expectation.
The new Lord of Oldtown wanted to know whether the King's Peace protected a great lord from a dragon's whim and crimes, or whether it allowed Targaryens to do anything they wanted simply because they were Targaryens. There was potential for great resentment here.
The ball was now in King Aegon's court, and the realm would observe very closely how he reacted to all of this.