Work Text:
The Council-Which-Should-Not-Have-Been
The Hall of a Hundred Hearths was filled with lords and landed knights, gathered in their hundreds to choose the future Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Maekar, First of His Name, had fallen into a slumber from which he might never awoke, wounded from a stone thrown from Starkpike’s walls, in Peake’s ill-thought rebellion. The Small Council, lacking a king to rule over them, and with Bloodraven’s acquiescence, had handed over the reins of the realm to Aegon, the king’s fourth son.
Yet the awaited demise of the king brought trouble in its wake, as lords expressed their concerns regarding the king’s heir, or lack of an established one, for Maekar had not named a Prince of Dragonstone after Aerion’s gruesome death.
The king’s late firstborn son had but one daughter, Vaella, yet feeble-witted, and her claim once more dismissed by most on account of the usual custom of dismissing females ever since the Dance, and on the fact that her own grandfather had chosen to name Aerion as his heir after her father’s death.
Aerion had foolishly taken his own life by drinking of the alchemists’ dread concoction, chasing draconic dreams of grandeur. He left behind one son of ill-omened name, but one year old, and some whispered that mayhap he’ll follow in his father’s madness one day. Were he not so young, his claim would have trumped all, for his mother was the daughter of Rhaegel, elder brother to Maekar.
The third son had been sent to the Citadel by old king Daeron, in the days when the tree of Targaryen bore plentiful fruit. He was now bound by shackles of his own making, and had sworn an oath to serve, not rule.
The fourth son, Aegon, was in the flower of his youth, and had two sons and three daughters of his loins, begotten of a daughter of House Blackwood, and some swore that Bloodraven had his hand in that marriage. Yet whispers came also of his days of youth, spend without dignity in the service of a hedge-knight, and his all too free frolicking with peasants.
There were also the king’s daughters, one married to the Lord of Tarth, the other to the Master of Driftmark, yet neither husband wished to put forth the claims of their wives, lacking faith in the success of such endeavours, and wary of embarrassment.
When Aegon had enough of whispers, or he had heard the whispers of his own ambition, it was by his seal as Prince Regent that ravens were sent forth, summoning lords to a Great Council to choose an heir for Maekar before his inevitable passing. Aenys Blackfyre had put forth his claim, and Bloodraven offered him safe passage, only to slay him in King’s Landing’s harbour, which soured the relation between him and the Prince Aegon.
And now, in Harrenhal, lords and ladies debated whether to hold to the claim of the prince Maegor, young and of an uncertain character… or name as their future king the prince Aegon, even half a peasant as he was. There were others who’d have preferred to choose the third son, yet Maester Aemon had refused to go to Harrenhal, calling it a farce for lords to decide the heir of a living king, and has stayed by his sire’s bedside, continuing his ministrations, even as the Grandmaester swore there was no aid to be given to the king.
In the midst of such debates, and manifold arguments sometimes veering in quarrels, and the occasional duel between a Bracken and Blackwood, the doors of the Hall of a Hundred Hearths opened, and men in Targaryen livery marched in, followed by knights of the Kingsguard ahorse, and in the middle, upon a black horse sat Maekar King, pale and withered, yet living still, gripping tight his mace with his right hand.
The king dismounted and walked slowly towards the Arryns, in whose midst sat Daenora, holding to her chest the infant Maegor, whose claim she had defended until her voice was hoarse.
“Give me the boy,” said the king, in a ragged yet kind voice. His mother was not keen to part with him, but the boy was surrendered to his grandfather.
“Now, might I ask,” said the king loudly and wrathful, “who came up with such a foolish idea? I do not remember summoning a Great Council, nor putting into doubt the notion of my rightful heir.”
The prince Aegon came out of the crowd, his face still betraying the surprise of his father’s appearance. Yet he could not speak before his father’s wrath returned.
“Aye, Aemon told me you claimed the regency, though I do not know why Bloodraven allowed it. It is no matter; his head has rolled already. Explain yourself, Aegon,” demanded the king, the name of his son spat out with disgust.
“You had not named an heir before your condition, and with the lords…”
“The lords… the lords,” roared Maekar, “it is the lords who rule over the crown or the crown over the lords? I had not named Maegor prince of Dragonstone for he was but one year old. I had thought the matter could wait, where it not for Peake’s treachery…” and then he stopped, his head whipping suddenly to the side, and the back to his son.
“Tell me, boy,” he hissed, his words dripping out with hatred from his mouth, “why is a Peake in this gathering?”
“After you were wounded, Lord Peake’s son offered to surrender the castle and his father’s life in exchange for that of his own and of his lordship. And I am a man of my word…”
“Then you should not have given it… you should have stormed the castle… or starved them all, and rooted that wretched house of traitors… I would have expected that from a son of mine!”
“Come forth!” the king summoned the new, and frightened, Lord Peake. “Kneel!” he demanded. The lord obeyed, and then the mace came crashing down upon his head. Blood gushed, and Peake’s corpse slumped to the ground. Held safely in his grandfather’s left hand, the boy Maegor giggled.
“Bring me a chair!” yelled out the king, trying to hide the unsteadiness of his legs following the blow.
Sat upon his seat, enthroned in the middle of the hall, his grandson upon his lap, the bloody corpse lying on the side as a warning for the rest, king Maekar summoned lords and ladies.
First was called Blackwood, first in their support of Aemon. The lord knelt, and kissed the sovereign’s hand, dutiful in appearance, yet all knew the new frustration that dwelt in his heart.
“Now, lord Blackwood, swear your loyalty to Maegor, to honour his right as my heir…” the Maekar halted, “no… the lords of this realm once swear to uphold a king’s rightful heir, but when King Viserys died, their forgot their oaths. No… you shall all swear allegiance, and pay homage, to my grandson not as my heir, but as king, an oath you shall not easily forswear, upon pain of attainder and corruption of blood – if you ever so much as express the notion a different man should seat upon the Iron Throne after my death.”
The lord swore and kissed the toddler’s hand and accepted him as king. And after them followed the rest, some angry, some glad.
Last of all was summoned Prince Aegon, and he swore his oath too. But his father was not done with him.
“Tell me, Aegon, was I wrong to let you traipse around the realm as some hedge knight’s squire? Or it was your marriage to Bloodraven’s kin instead that woke in your breast such wretched ambition? Or did your hatred of your brother turn unto his son? Tell me, son, where did I go wrong? Or rather not, for I cannot suffer you to invent some excuse. Even now I see the truth is not eager to fall out of your mouth.”
“You are Prince of Summerhall, and nothing else. You will never held any higher title. You will never seat upon the king’s council, mine own, or my successors’. If I were to die before Maegor would be of age, his regents shall be his own mother, and my son Aemon, and the title of Lord Protector shall be held by Lord Jasper Arryn, his kin, and my loyal lord. Where the boy to die, if the gods will it so, the throne shall fall upon your son, never upon you.
“Bring me Ser Duncan,” said the king then.
“You are ever loyal to my son, aren’t you?” asked the king. “As you should, but you are a knight of the realm and owe true allegiance to his king. By my decree, my son Prince Aegon is to return to Summerhall and never leave his lands again, on pain of death. He shall be joined there by his son Jaehaerys, yet the rest of his children will remain under the custody of the Iron Throne. I need you, Ser Duncan, to swear to me that if ever your lord and prince shall leave his lands, your sword shall do my will and slay him! Swear this to me now, or I shall take you for a traitor, and your life shall be forsworn.”
The man threw a regretful glance at Aegon, and his knee bent, and he swore his oath. Upon the king’s face a smile of relief grew, and he summoned the Maester Aemon.
“Of all the sons I had, you were the only one dutiful, the only one who knew, even at the last hour, the meaning of filial piety,” Maekar said wistfully, affection evident in his voice. “And yet you were the son that my father took from me… oh, if I could turn back time… unto you Aemon I give all my blessings, as I bestowed all my curses upon your brothers… rule the realm wisely, guide Maegor, teach him such that the name Maegor will be redeemed by his life… and bring me a good accounting of your deeds in the next life…”
“I shall do so, Father,” said the maester between tears, his hands clasped in the king’s own. “Father?” Aemon screamed, as he sensed his father’s hands grow cold. He looked upon the king’s face, and his hands quickly turned to check his pulse. A long silence stretched over the hall.
Then Maekar’s thirdborn son and the best of them rose, and the regent Aemon proclaimed in a voice full of grief and a quiet strength:
“The king is dead! Long live Maegor, Second of his Name, King of the Andals, the First Men and the Rhoynar, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms!”
Upon the chair, Maekar Targaryen sat fallen in eternal slumber, his face content, for he had put the realm to right.