Chapter 6
MAEKAR TARGARYEN
Maekar was the fourth son. He was born at a time when Targaryen blood was more common than ever. Their grandfather had spread his seed everywhere, and the consequences of lechery had already reared their head once, and if the whispers and rumors were true, they were not quite done with them just yet.
With three brothers ahead of him, Maekar was set to inherit nothing. In the eyes of the throne, he was an inconsequential spare, whose life had less meaning than that of a petty lord.
In comparison to him, Baelor was the blessed child. He was the eldest of them all, and was set to inherit their father's throne. It would have been easy for him to envy him, for while Maekar had always been prickly and troubled, Baelor had always had a special charisma to him.
Loyalty and friendship came easily to him, and during the rebellion, his brother was able to unite the forces of the Dornish Marshes and the Stormlanders into one. A feat often believed to be impossible.
Yet for all his gifts, Maekar did not feel envy for him at all, for despite being the fourth son, he was blessed in his own ways. Their father, King Daeron II, had fulfilled the Conqueror's dream by bringing Dorne into the fold, yet there was a hundred years of history between the petty lords that shared the borders with Dorne.
So, to dissuade, the King made a decision to establish a presence at Summerhall, a small patch of land near where the Reach and the Stormlands blended into Dorne.
Baelor had Dragonstone, and Aerys and Rhaegel lacked the sense and the ability to put down such disputes, and so the castle fell to him, and the fourth son, who was set to inherit nothing, found himself with a castle of his own.
"It seems like we are well out of time," Maekar uttered as he folded the missive and threw it in the fire, and while the Blackfyre rebellion was long over, there were still many who believed that the Blackdragon was the true heir to their grandfather.
The Blackfyres themselves were still alive somewhere across the narrow sea, and so House Targaryen had to be careful, for sooner or later they would rear their head again, and they would need the support of lords and their levies to put them down once again.
"My brother wishes for us to ride to Ashford on our own," and Lord Ashford had arranged a tourney in celebration of his daughter, and as a staunch ally of the Crown, they would have to make an appearance.
"Finally," his son groaned, and while Maekar had never been envious of his brother because of his position and charm, he did envy him in one thing.
Children.
"We have waited for that idiot long enough," Aerion uttered as he played with his dagger.
"Do not call your cousin an idiot," Maekar admonished, and Aerion shrugged.
"Only a fool would go to the Dornish Marches for a glorified robber," and Maekar gritted his teeth.
"If it were upto me, I would have sent you there myself," and Aerion scoffed.
"I have no desire to debase myself like my dear cousin," and what he called debasement was glory, for while he had four sons of his own, none of them could match Baelor's children.
Valarr was his heir, and though he was said to be a simple and gentle child, it was his youngest who carried the blessings of the Gods above. Matarys, born with his mother's features, had been a strange child ever since his birth.
Bookish in his initial years, many had thought that he would be the second coming of Aerys, and yet in later years, he would prove himself to be just as competent with the blade as he was with a tome.
"That is not something to be proud of," Maekar was harsh.
"Look at him. He is your age, and yet he has built an empire for himself while becoming a hero in the marches for his campaign against the Vulture King," and the boy had been his squire once, and within days of his coming to Summerhall, a rivalry had bloomed between Aerion and Matarys, yet it was no rivalry at all.
Aerion was envious of Matarys's position, even though there was little to envy about it. Daeron was a drunkard fool, and few within the castle dared to stand against his son and his cruelties and Matarys was not one to back down.
"What hero?" Aerion countered, and he had slain the Vulture King in battle and now had set his mind on mapping out the entire Red Mountains while closing up as many of the caves as he could to make sure that no such man would trouble the lands ever again.
"All he did was slay a glorified robber. Nothing more, yet for some reason, you all worship him as if he is the second coming of the Conqueror himself," Aerion raged. Maekar raised a brow.
"And how many robbers have you killed?" he asked, in retort as Aeris ground his teeth.
"We leave for Ashford tomorrow," and they would meet with his brother on the road, and it had been some time since they had met.
"The tourney will gather lords and knights from all over the Kingdom. I will not have our House humiliated in front of all these guests," he ordered, and Aerion rose from the chair and adjusted his tunic.
"You should worry more about Daeron than me," and his eldest was the most troublesome of his children, with his afflictions.
"Given his disposition, he just might get lost on purpose to avoid participating in the tourney..." and Maekar would kill him before anything like that.
"I will deal with Daeron. You should mind yourself," he whispered as Aerion walked out of his solar, and it would have been good to have Matarys back with them. It had been two years since they had last seen the boy Prince, who had made the marches his new home.
He was supposed to join them for the tourney, and yet he had been delayed for some reason and now they were to ride on their own, while he finished up his promise in the Red Mountains.
.
.
.
In the Red Mountains, the army sat in its camp as it recovered after a recent battle, and though the Vulture King had been slain a few years ago, his followers still lay hidden in the caverns that littered the Red Mountains.
They had spent two years trying to map out the mountains and hunt them down, and just when they had thought their task complete, the last of the bandits had come together in one desperate attempt at exacting their revenge.
In the end the Royal forces had managed to subdue the group, and now the war of the Red Mountain was over in full, and with the entire land mapped in full, and more than half the caverns destroyed no Vulture King shall ever rise again from these wretched lands.
"You are leaving?" Ser Ulric Dayne asked in surprise, as he saw the Prince ready his horse hours after they had come out from the mountains. Ulric had served beside the young Prince for two years now, and the two had struck a friendship of sorts despite the difference in their age.
Ulric Dayne was the wielder of Dawn, and held the title of Sword of Morning and was considered by many to be the finest knight in the realm, but old age would rob him of that title soon, and then the realm would crown another man, the greatest knight.
"Aye," the Prince answered, and the aged knight wondered if he was looking at the young man who would inherit that title after him, if he had not already.
"But my lord, we have just come down from the mountains. Lord Martell wishes to arrange a feast for you," and for centuries the Red Mountains had been a place of peril for the lords around them, but no Vulture King would trouble them anymore.
And it was all because of the boy infront of him. He had come to them young and quiet. They had thought of him as nothing but another Prince hungering after glory, and yet he had led through this war in the later stages, proving himself to be anything but the glory-hungry Prince they had thought him to be.
"And I am much grateful to your lord, but I have a promise to keep my good ser," he answered with a forlorn smile as he turned his head towards the mountains to the East, which had been his home for some two years.
"My work here is done, and it is time I go back to my family," he whispered.
"You intend on riding to Ashford," he realised, as he was reminded of his plans from before.
"Aye, I made a promise, and now it is fulfilled," and the promise he spoke of was to a common whore who had died protecting her babe from the bandits. They had come to the village too late, and the entire place had been burnt down by those wretched robbers, except for a single babe.
It was sheer devastation, and the Prince had been the one to discover the babe, cradled in his mother's arms, who had shielded it using her own body.
"But now I must rush back to my family," he answered with his ever-present smile, and in the end, there was little he could do to stop him.
"You wish to take part in the tourney?" and the Prince shrugged, as he turned his head towards the road.
"Maybe," and he wondered if the Prince would even make it in time for the tournament.
"If I push myself, I just might make it in time," and he did not ask him why he was so insistent on taking part in it, for if there was one thing he had learnt during this campaign, then it was to never ever doubt their Prince.
"Then I wish you good fortune on the journey ahead," he said, as he offered the Prince a hand.
"Aye," and he shook it firmly.
"I will write to the lords ahead, and have them prepare rations and horses for you," and that could save him a few hours.
"That will be very helpful," and so the Prince mounted his horse.
"It was an honor serving with you, my Prince," and the young Prince nodded.
"The honor was all mine, Ser Ulric," and with that, he pulled on his reins and pushed his horse to trot forward, and he stood there and watched his fading back before he walked back to the tent.
"Bring me an acolyte!"
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