| With Maegor Targaryen, at Harrenhal, during the year of 281AC:
The air beyond Harrenhal's walls carried the smell of grass and cold stone, a sharp scent that belonged to the early hours. Dew still clung to the blades, and the crows had not yet grown tired of their own noise.
Maegor Targaryen walked with purpose, his boots whispering across the worn flagstones, the white shadow of Ser Gerold Hightower following half a step behind.
The castle yard besides them rang faintly with the clamor of distant training,— steel on steel, men shouting, horses stamping restlessly in their lines. The noise faded as they crossed through the postern gate and down the slope that led toward the treeline, and the world grew quieter there, the air cooler beneath the shade.
Maegor preferred it that way. "My father's madness grows worse with each passing day." he said at last, the words breaking from him like stones rolling downhill. Ser Gerold's answer came calm and steady, his tone that of a man who'd worn caution for too many years. "Best not speak of such things, my prince. Walls have ears, it is said,— even trees, some say, and I wish not for your father to hear you say such things by the mouths of spies."
Maegor's mouth curled slowly, though not into a smile. "Do not trouble yourself, Ser Gerold. I shall not speak much on the matter, and I know your thoughts, even when you keep them caged behind those 'white' lips of yours."
The old knight did not rise to the jest, his eyes stayed fixed ahead, pale and watchful beneath the sun. "Do you, now?" he said, as if testing the weight of the words.
"Mhm." Maegor rolled his shoulders, working the stiffness from them. "In any case, I think a spar might serve me well. I ate too much bread and not enough patience at breakfast."
Gerold's reply came with that same measured gravity. "If it is a spar you desire, my prince, I am honored to face you,— as ever." Maegor laughed quietly, the sound dry and short. "As ever, yes. You never tire of losing to me."
"I do not lose, my prince." The old knight said, a ghost of pride in his tone. "When I cross blades with you, I find your weaknesses, whatever those might be. And better I find them than your enemies, one day."
"Ah, that's the tale you always tell."
"For it is the truth."
"Mhm." They walked on without another word, the silence between them filled only by the crunch of grass underfoot. The field opened before them soon enough,— a wide stretch of packed earth and soft moss ringed by tall oaks. Behind them, behind the clearing, the banners of a hundred noble houses rippled in the wind... the direwolf and the stag, the sun-and-spear, the falcon and the rose.
The colors caught the light like a painter's palette, bright and restless in the morning breeze.
Maegor stopped at the edge of the clearing and drew a long breath. He could still taste the small ammount of wine he had tried from breakfast,— too sweet, too heavy. His swordbelt hung low on his hip, the dragon-headed pommel gleaming faintly where the sun caught it. The weapon was not Blackfyre nor Darksister, but its edge had drunk enough blood to earn its own name.
"Armor or no?" Gerold asked, unclasping his cloak. The Kingsguard's white was clean and simple, though the man beneath it was anything but.
"No armor today." Maegor said. "I want to feel the blows today."
"As you wish." Gerold drew his blade, the sound of steel on leather sharp and clean. Maegor unbuckled his own scabbard and let it fall into the grass.
His eyes had gone flat and distant, the way a man looks before a fight,— not with hatred, but with hunger. Gerold gave a small nod.
"Then let us begin, my prince."
For a heartbeat, the clearing was still. Then the swords met, a flash of motion, a sharp report of steel against steel that broke the morning calm, and the crows took flight.
The first blow came from Maegor.
He moved without warning,— no cry, no breath drawn in showmanship,— only the sudden twist of his shoulders and the swing of bright steel, so fast it hissed through the morning air. Gerold caught it, barely, his arms bracing beneath the force.
The clang rang out like a bell struck in anger.
For a moment they held, blade to blade, eyes locked. Gerold's expression was calm, while Maegor's was unreadable. Then the prince shifted, pressing in, his strikes flowing one into the next,— sharp, precise, and relentless.
Each swing was measured for intent, not spectacle. Maegor fought like a man who sought to break his opponent, not dance with him.
He used the edge of the sword as often as the flat, turned shoulders into weapons, and when Gerold parried high, Maegor's knee struck low,— a brutal, soldier's move. The white knight grunted, adjusting his stance, the years in him showing only in breath, never in skill.
"You are too slow today, old man." Maegor muttered, circling. "And you remain too proud, my prince." Gerold answered, turning his blade aside with a flick that forced Maegor to step back or bleed.
The prince smiled faintly,— just a sliver of amusement,— and came again, faster now.
His strikes built like a storm, first steady, then rising, until the rhythm itself became a weapon.
A downward cut feinted left, turned right, then drove forward with a step that nearly threw Gerold off balance.
Steel screeched, and Gerold twisted away and countered, their swords binding for half a breath before Maegor broke free with a shoulder shove that sent the older man stumbling. Not much,— just enough to remind him of the gap between age and youth,— though the towering figure of the 'White Bull' was taking things slow, and not overly serious.
"You fight harder when you're angry." Gerold said, catching his breath. "I'm not angry." Maegor's tone was calm, almost bored. "Merely frustrated."
"Frustrated is it? You'll be half-dead if you overreach that swing again." That earned the old knight a grin,— sharp as the edge of Maegor's sword. He pressed in once more, low to high, driving the older man back across the clearing.
When Gerold turned a strike aside, Maegor pivoted on one heel and slammed his shoulder into the knight's chest, sending him staggering.
His swordpoint was at the Kingsguard's throat before the man could fully recover, a single breath passed between them.
"Dead." Maegor said quietly, and Gerold looked down at the blade and then back at him. "If you'd struck true."
"If?" Maegor's smirk returned. "You'd not have time to finish that word." He stepped back, lowering his sword. The tension bled out of the air, leaving only the sound of their breaths and the distant murmur of the castle.
Gerold sheathed his weapon. "You fought well, my prince, as always."
"I fight as I was taught to,— by you."
"Not only me, my prince. But by men who meant to teach you on how to win fights in wars." said Gerold. "Not tourneys."
Maegor's gaze drifted past him, toward the banners stirring beyond the trees. "Wars and tourneys end the same way, Ser Gerold. With one man on his knees." He sheathed his blade then, wiping a fleck of dust from his sleeve, and turned toward the castle again. "Father will want to hear how I spent my morning, so let us rest a few moments before we leave toward Harrenhal again."
Gerold nodded in silence. The sun climbed higher, and behind them, the trampled grass marked where the prince had stood,— a perfect circle of disturbed earth, like the print of a dragon's claw.
...
The clearing had gone eerily still again after the sparring. The grass bore the marks of their boots,— scuffed earth, torn roots, a few bright drops of sweat fallen like dew. Maegor sat on a half-buried stone, rolling his wrist, his sword laid across his knees. Ser Gerold stood beside him, helm tucked under one arm, watching the treeline in that calm, silent way of his.
The breeze carried the distant sounds of the tourney ground,— laughter, hammers, horses snorting,— and then, footsteps.
Measured, and oddly amiliar.
"Brother, here you are." Came the voice, and Maegor looked up to see his brother, Prince Rhaegar stepping from the trees, pale as moonlight even beneath the day. His hair caught the sun like woven silver, and his eyes held that distant, searching calm that had once seemed wisdom to Maegor and now felt only like absence.
Ser Gerold inclined his head. "My prince." Another shadow followed behind the crown prince,— Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, quiet as his title, his greatsword Dawn slung across his back.
"Arthur." Gerold said with the faintest nod.
"Lord Commander." Dayne replied, his gaze already sweeping toward Maegor.
"Rhaegar." Maegor said at last, rising to his full height. The difference between them was plain as blood and bone,— the younger taller, broader, the elder finer, frailer. "Fancy seeing you beyond your books."
"I might say the same thing." Rhaegar replied, his voice light but his eyes fixed. "I have been looking for you, brother,— we haven't had the chance to speak ever since you arrived."
Maegor tilted his head. "Is that so? You found me. What is it you want?" Rhaegar hesitated, glancing at the knights as though to measure their discretion, then stepped closer. "You know the jousts are set to begin soon. Surely, you know that I have every intention of winning."
"So I've heard." Maegor said. "And I suppose you came to bless me with the news."
"No." said Rhaegar. "I came to ask you to stay out of them." The words landed like a stone tossed into still water, and even the breeze seemed to die as maegor stared. "Are you serious?"
"Very."
"Seven hells, brother." A dry laugh escaped him then. "And why would I do that? Has your harp finally rotted your wits?" Rhaegar's tone hardened. "Because I ask it of you, little brother. I need this victory."
"You need it?" Maegor's voice was a low growl now. "For what, another prophecy? Another song no one will live long enough to hear?"
The crown prince's gaze didn't waver. "For the future. The realm's, and mine. I must win this tourney, Maegor,— I must crown the queen of love and beauty, and set the course that must be. If you ride, if you unhorse me, all of it changes."
Maegor took a step forward, the sunlight catching the faint sweat on his throat. "And you think I'll bow out so you can play at destiny?"
"I think." said Rhaegar, "You will respect my command. I am your elder, and the prince of dragonstone. I will not have my will defied, Maegor."
Maegor's lips curved, though there was no humor in it. "Respect? You come to me in a forest, with your pet knight at your side, to order me from the lists like some stableboy, and speak to me of respect?"
Rhaegar's hand shot out suddenly, barring his path as Maegor had already moved to leave. "We are not finished, Maegor." His voice remained level, but something feverish flickered behind the calm. "You will do as I say,— or you will find me most displeased with your defiance."
Arthur Dayne shifted, just barely, while Gerold's eyes narrowed.
The air between the brothers seemed to thicken, and Maegor's jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to his brother's hand on his chest. "Remove your hand, Rhaegar." he said softly. "Not until you,—..."
"Remove it." Maegor repeated, his voice had dropped to a whisper now, but it carried the sharpness of drawn steel. "Or I swear by every dragon buried beneath our name, you will lose it."
Arthur's hand went to his hilt, and Gerold's followed, slow and reluctant. For a heartbeat, all stood poised on the edge of violence.
Then Rhaegar's hand fell away, his face unreadable. "You are blinded by pride." he said, quietly now.
"And you." Maegor replied, "By your own fucking reflection." Rhaegar said nothing more, simply turned, his cloak stirring faintly in the grass, and walked back toward the castle. Arthur followed, his eyes lingering a moment on Maegor before he disappeared between the trees.
When they were gone, Gerold exhaled, long and low. "That was unwise, my prince."
"Perhaps." Maegor said, retrieving his sword, the steel caught the light like a living thing. "But satisfying nonetheless." He watched the shadows where his brother had gone. "Tell me, Ser Gerold,— what do you call a prophecy that needs the world to kneel for it to come true?"
Gerold frowned. "A lie, perhaps."
Maegor nodded. "Indeed, or madness seeking to wear a crown." He turned back toward the castle then, sword resting across his shoulder, his thoughts dark and clear.
The tourney would come soon.
And one way or another, his brother's song would end in silence.
...
Author's Note: To all who've read so far,— thank you. I put a great deal of care into crafting this story, and I want it to grow with every chapter. But truth be told, stories like this only move forward when there's a spark to keep the fire alive,— and that spark is you, the readers.
So if you're enjoying this world, or even if you just have a thought, a theory, or a small bit of feedback, please take a moment to leave a comment. It truly makes the difference between silence and inspiration,— and without that spark, it's hard to find the will to push the tale onward.
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