Chapter 3: A Clash of Steel

Chapter Text

Aerion was awakened abruptly by a sharp knock on his door in the early hours of the next morning. He bolted upright in bed and stretched his arms as he called for them to enter. 

The same maid from yesterday slipped through the door as he opened the heavy curtains and was blinded by the early morning sunlight.

'Ah, you again. At least this time I am clothed.' he chuckled. 'What is it?'

The maid dipped a shallow curtsy. 'My Prince, the King has requested your presence in his chambers.' 

'Very well. What is your name? I ought to know it if you will be a frequent visitor.'

'Leanne, my Prince.' She laid a set of clothes on the end of the canopy bed that he hadn't noticed she was holding and he smiled.

'That is a beautiful name. Tell me, do you have family?'

'I do, my prince.'

'Good, I am sure they are very proud that you have a position here in the Red Keep.'  He grabbed a pouch of coins from the desk and pulled out a few.

'I have a proposition for you, and you won't have much choice in the matter.

Leanne blanched and she stared at the floor, her hands pressed firmly to her thighs. 

'I am well aware of how the servants talk in any great keep. When you hear anything pertaining to the royal family, you bring it to me.'

He approached her and reached for one of her hands, pressing the gold dragons into it. 'You will be rewarded.

'And…if I refuse?' she asked, still determinedly avoiding eye contact but he noticed she was not quite so tense.

'Then you will be dismissed from the Keep, of course. I can hardly imagine how disappointed your family would be to lose your income.' he smiled.

He patted her hand and dismissed her, and Leanne left the room swiftly after bobbing another curtsy.

He turned to the pile of clothes and examined them as he pulled them on. They were decidedly less extravagant than his outfit from yesterday; a simple white tunic, black breeches and brown leather boots. 

Aerion dressed quickly, not wanting to keep the King waiting. He buckled a knife to his belt and left his chambers to make the short walk to the King's chambers, deep in the heart of Maegor's Holdfast.

Ser Harold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, was positioned outside the King's door when he approached. Aerion fought the awe that rose up as he recognised one of the realm's most famed knights, legendary for his chivalry and skill with a blade.

He could feel the man's gaze on him, lingering on the dagger at his hip. Westerling nodded tightly and opened the door behind him.

'Your Grace, Prince Aerion.'

Aerion nodded in return and stepped past him, and immediately halted.

The King was sitting by a great stone city that covered more than half of the room, and Aerion's gaze was drawn to the miniature dragon figurine that his uncle held.

'Your Grace,' he bowed, 'this is truly magnificent.' He came closer and ran his fingers along the city walls.

'Is this what I think it to be? Old Valyria?

Viserys nodded. 'Indeed, it is as good a depiction as we can manage from the details in the histories. The truth is we will never know for certain.'

'I have gone through every book available at Runestone on Old Valyria, and have even written to the Citadel to ask for more. The Valyrians were far more advanced than the Westerosi; the Andals and the First Men must have been considered almost primitive in comparison.'

'Ah, a fellow scholar!' the King replied. 'I did not take you for one, I must admit.'

'How could I not be, your Grace? They built the finest civilisation the world has ever seen; there is so much we do not know of them. Our ancestors and their culture are truly fascinating.'

'Perhaps our lack of knowledge is for the best, Aerion.' Viserys said, shaking his head slightly. 'The truth of the matter is that the Valyrians destroyed themselves. Had it not been for Daenys the Dreamer, the Targaryens would have been among them.'

'Surely there is some purpose to our house's survival that is yet to be fulfilled. I know there is.' Aerion said. 'There must have been some reason for Aegon to conquer the Seven Kingdoms, more than just ruling over it.'

Viserys' eyebrows drew together almost imperceptibly, but his expression was gone almost before Aerion could notice it. 

'Well, enough of that for now, eh? Let us break out fast.' The King rose and led him into an adjoining room, with a small table positioned in front of two large windows that filled the room with sunlight.

The table was laden with an assortment of foods; fresh bread, sausage, bacon, cheese and lemon cakes. In the middle sat a flagon of summer wine and two goblets. 'I hope you will find something to your liking.'

'A fine selection, your Grace.' The two men seated themselves and Aerion poured them each a glass of the watered down wine. He then filled his plate with bread, cheese and bacon.

'It is good to have you in King's Landing, nephew. It has been too long since our family has been together. I remember holding you when you were just a babe, the lightest dusting of silver hair and light eyes. Now you are grown and I see you bringing great honour to our house.

'You honour me with your words, uncle.' Aerion replied with a smile, reaching for a piece of cheese.

'The sword you gave me served me well in the melée, just as it will in the duels today.''Of course.' Viserys sipped from his cup. 'Every dragon must have the tools to achieve renown.'

His next sentence was cut off by a persistent cough that came upon him, dry and rough. Aerion half rose from his seat but Viserys waved him off, reaching for his wine. Was the King ill? That cough had not sounded like one that passes easily; Aerion's mind began spinning with the potential consequences of the King's death.

'I am fine…just fine.'

'Are you sure, your Grace?' Aerion replied, 'I can send for a maester?' He hesitantly sat down and Viserys shook his head again. He helped himself to bacon as the King began to speak.

"I wish to discuss what happened yesterday," Viserys said, letting out a small cough and then taking a sip of his wine.

'While Otto's timing could have been better, he was correct. Killing a yielded knight is punishable by death for most; only our shared blood has saved you.'

Aerion glanced away as he recalled the knight's insults and the red haze that had come over his vision.

'It was well within my right to defend my honour. He insulted me. I am a Targaryen prince and he named me dragonless, spineless; that I am unworthy of our house.' he spat, barely containing his anger.

Viserys nodded, 'I understand well, nephew, but you must promise me it will not happen again. Next time there is only so much I can do to protect you from demands for justice.'

Aerion pursed his lips and bowed his head, drawing up a contrite expression. 'I promise, your Grace.'

Viserys nodded and bit a chunk of sausage. 'Good. Now, have you heard from your father?'

Aerion blinked in surprise. Was the King truly unaware of the relationship between him and his father? To be exact, that one such relationship didn't exist?'

He couldn't help but pinch his nose in frustration before replying. 'I do not know why I should have.'

He was already hoping the King would let it drop; how did he not know that Daemon had rarely visited the Vale? When he was not defending the Crown in the Stepstones, he was here in King's Landing.

'I sent him to the Vale, I would have thought he had arrived before you left. Then again, he has often found an excuse to stay away. I am sorry, my boy.' Viserys sighed.

'He knows too well that the most my mother Lady Rhea would grant him is a spot on the stable floors to sleep on.' He slouched in his chair and Viserys leaned forward in his chair. 

'I have always known that their union has been a rocky one; one my brother would love to have annulled. I never granted his request, solely because of you.' He ran his thumb along his lips. 'I thought perhaps for your sake, they could make it work.'

'You thought wrong, uncle.' Aerion replied, almost sadly. 'Though it is best not to dwell on the past overlong. May I be excused? I must prepare for my duel.'

'Of course, my boy. Make me proud today.' 

Viserys remained at the table as Aerion left hastily, opening the door and slipping past Westerling with a tight-lipped smile.

Aerion weaved his way through the maze of the Keep's corridors, managing to locate the courtyard from his recollection of the day before. The growing commotion he could hear didn't hurt either.

As he strolled onto the balcony, he could better hear the heated conversation that was taking place below. The balcony and courtyard were both packed with nobles and servants, and Aerion managed to find a spot where he could lean against the stone railings to watch.

There were two large men circling each other in the centre of the yard, both breathing heavily. One was bleeding from a shoulder wound.

'You're a cheating bastard!' he yelled, clutching the wound.

His opponent scoffed and rolled his eyes. 'You're overreacting, as always.' He turned his back on the other man and began to walk away. 

The wounded man pounced, raising the pommel of his sword and hitting the other man in the back of the head, dropping him to the floor.

His groans of pain were audible as the crowd quieted, although no one stepped forward to intervene.

Aerion pulled himself away from the railing with a sigh, quickly making his way down to the courtyard and shoving his way into the centre of the circle and approaching the two men.

'What do you want?' the man spat. 'This is between him and me, and no business of yours'. As he spoke, he gestured towards the man on the ground, who was slowly pulling himself to his feet.

'Who said I wanted anything?' Aerion replied, hands clasped behind his back. 'From what I've heard, this fight was over when you lost.'

The man's face reddened and opened his mouth to retort before he was interrupted by a hand on his shield.

'Apologies, my prince. My name is Jory, and this is my fool of a brother, Rickard.' Aerion could see now that he wore a muddied gold cloak; a City Watchman, perhaps?

'He has always been a sore loser, I'm afraid.' 

Aerion chuckled and looked at them more closely, trying to spot the similarities. Rickard towered over him and sported a great brown beard that was at odds with his bald head. He couldn't be more different to Jory, who was far leaner and of a height with Aerion himself.

'This is your brother?' he asked.

'Unfortunately.' replied Jory, casting an annoyed glance at Rickard.

'You hail from the North, do you not?' Perhaps that accounted for Rickard's abnormal size. He had read that some Northmen were rumoured to have giant's blood in their veins but had always dismissed it as a fairytale. Such beasts and legends only existed in the minds of children, though he'd be lying if he didn't admit that Rickard's size gave him pause.

'Aye, from White Harbour.' 

'What brings you to the capital? It is rare to see Northmen so far south.' A smirk played at his lips. 'I hear the weather is not good for your skin.'.

'Our father thought we would serve more use as members of the City Watch and playing nice with other lordlings.' Jory nudged his brother, 'We can't complain, in truth, not with everything the Street of Silk has to offer.'

'The Street of Silk?' Aerion knew little of the capital's layout save the great monuments: the Keep, the Dragonpit and the Grand Sept.

The Northmen exchanged a glance and turned back to him with wide smiles. 'Meet us here at nightfall and we'll show you.' 

Aerion nodded and watched as they each sheathed their blades.

'Now come, you great oaf. The Commander wants to see us both.' Jory nodded to the prince and with that, they made their way out of the courtyard, pushing past the few people that had lingered after Aerion had interrupted the fight.

Aerion smiled to himself; the brothers' lack of courtly niceties was refreshing; no bowing, barely a mention of his title. It was a breath of fresh air.

As he stood there, looking after the two men, he sensed someone else approaching and turned. Rodrik had come to fetch him for the tournament and the tension between them was palpable as they made their way to the amphitheatre in silence. It was clear that Rodrik's disturbance over the Bracken knight's death had not dissipated overnight.

Inside his tent, Rodrik helped him put his armour on and the tension and silence had gone on long enough.

'You are oddly quiet, Rodrik. What is it?'

'I am not angry with you, my prince. I fear only that you do not understand the consequences of your actions yesterday.' he replied, tightening the buckles on his gauntlets.

'Today you will face Ser Rymun Mallister, who won the melée at Cider Hall. He is quite the skilled warrior.'

With that, Rodrik finished with his armour and quickly knotted the Princess' favour around his left bicep.

'Mallister sounds familiar, did they not once come to Runestone?'

'Aye, for your grandfather's funeral. Lord Lymond was a good friend to him.'

Aerion flexed his arms, testing the fit of the armour. 'Let us carry on to the arena, Rodrik.;

Once again, there were hordes of people crowding the entrance to the amphitheatre, and Aerion ambled slowly through them, allowing his hair and Targaryen armour to create a path for him as people recognised him and made way.

His hand lazily gripped the pommel of his sword and he fixed his eyes on the royal box. Rhaenyra was dressed in an elegant white dress with accents of gold, accompanied by a simple yet beautiful gold chain around her neck. She was beauty incarnate.

Making his way towards the balcony, he bent the knee to his uncle and cousin, listening as the crowd roared his name. Rising, he turned to view the amphitheatre and the herald from the day before.

The herald soon commanded the crowd's attention as he began to introduce the man who was only now entering the field. Ser Rymun Mallister wore steel-plated armour and a deep blue tabard. Stitched across his chest was the silver eagle on a field of purple of House Mallister.

'Ser Rymun Mallister, winner of the melée at Cider Hall, will face Prince Aerion Targaryen, the Bronze Dragon!'

Aerion raised an eyebrow at the new moniker, but raised his sword to receive the crowd's screams.

'Let the match begin!' cried Viserys from the royal box, and the bell rang in response. Both men drew their swords.

'It will be fun to beat a champion,' he said, and watched as Rymun rolled his eyes at his prince. 

Before his opponent could come at him, Aerion went on the offensive, dashing towards him and swinging his sword at Mallister's left arm. When it was blocked, he twisted and struck at his right leg, which was also blocked.

Breathing hard, he retreated a few steps. He needed to assess this man, watch for the weaknesses he would eventually reveal.

Mallister charged at Aerion, bringing his sword down as he raised his own up to block it. A loud clang rang in his ears as the two blades collided.

Aerion stumbled back, losing his balance as well as his sword and falling onto the ground. Mallister pushed his advantage and he was forced to twist and turn in order to avoid being struck. Each time he tried to get up, he lost his footing and fell again.

His feet scrambled beneath him, eventually finding purchase on a rock that he could use to pull himself up. He had not noticed how successful Mallister had been in pushing him to the amphitheatre wall; the yells of the men and women above him were deafening. 

As Mallister advanced again, his eyes scanned the ground for his sword, finding it lying just behind his opponent's feet. The blade came down and Aerion dodged, only just managing to avoid a blow. Mallister's sword hit the stone wall instead and he slid between his legs to grab for his sword.

Standing again, he tightened his grip on the sword and swayed slightly. He was out of breath and exhausted, even by such a short fight. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths as he watched Mallister turn and advance once more.

He sidestepped to the right as Mallister struck, leaving his side open. Spotting an opportunity, Aerion lunged and slashed just above the belt, cutting through cloth and biting flesh. Mallister grunted and gritted his teeth.

Aerion darted around his opponent and aimed a blow at the back of his legs but was thwarted by an elbow to the face. He struck back wildly, and Mallister caught the blow on his shield and retaliated with finally drawing blood. Aerion's upper right arm exploded in pain and he couldn't help the instinct to clutch at the wound with his other hand. 

He snarled in pain and bore his teeth at Mallister, who pushed forward and knocked him to the ground. He knelt over Aerion's prone body and struck his face, blow after blow.

He was outside of his body, he was watching it from above. How pathetic he looked, lying in the dirt. Submitting to a Mallister. 

Eventually Mallister pulled his punches and sat back on his chest. 'Yield!' he cried, and Aerion only chuckled lowly, smiling through the pain as he turned to spit blood onto the dirt.

Mallister rose and looked to the crowd, who cheered his supposed victory..

Attempting to sit up was a very bad idea, Aerion discovered, as the world bent and span around him. He flipped onto his belly, and somehow crawled over to where his sword lay, abandoned. 

He gripped the pommel and used the blade to help him stand, and made his way to Mallister on unsteady feet. Raising it for a final time, he held it against Mallister's unsuspecting neck and he felt the other man tense up.

"Yield,' he murmured. The other man made no move. He wanted nothing more than for this fight to end, to collapse onto the ground as his body begged him to do.

'I said… yield.' he dug the blade into Mallister's neck, drawing a few drops of blood.

Mallister threw his sword to the dirt and pushed away the blade. 'I yield!' he growled.

Aerion staggered back, his sword held loosely at his side. He watched Mallister storm from the field in a haze, and turned to watch the crowd cheering the victor. He hadn't earned this, hadn't fought well. Had won only because Mallister was stupid enough to turn his back on an opponent who hadn't yielded.

The amphitheatre began to spin again, and he lost his grip on the sword. His vision darkened, the roar of the crowd muted, and he fell to the ground.