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A Dragon Awoken
Spreading One's Wings
The sounds of everyday life echoed all over Summerhall with the hollowness of lie, pretense, bleak hopelessness. Determined not to give way to her worry, Naeryn started making arrangements for her household as soon as she felt somewhat rested, on the second day after their arrival. Maekar gave her full leave to do whatever she wanted with the castle, so soon she started walking around the halls and making plans.
"What are you going to do?" she asked him one evening, two days after he had sent the marcher lords away.
"I'll do what I was sent here for," he said, an answer that told her nothing. She could see that he didn't sleep well. Behind his calm exterior, fury and offense raged.
It was clear that he wouldn't tell her, so she didn't insist. She only said, "Be merciful, Maekar. Please show mercy."
His first impulse was to take offense. How did she dare to think that he'd show needless cruelty? Who did she think she was? What did she take him for, a monster? But his carefully built habit to never let himself go in front of him stopped him from spatting the first thing that came to his mind. And a moment later, the answer came to him unbidden, making him stop, making him think. Naeryn was well aware of the situation, yet she did not seem to doubt that at the end, he would prevail. Maybe she just trusted him.
He reached for her hand and she smiled, pleased. He brought the slim fingers to his lips. Her smile widened.
"I will show mercy to those who deserve it and even to some who don't," he assured her. "You have me convinced, my lady."
She had no way of knowing that his unexpected pliancy had been brought on by a memory suddenly come alive to his mind, of another evening in this same chamber. A memory of a girl who resembled Naeryn so much that she could pass for her sister, standing near the window. Sometimes, mercy is a curse, she said, for it encourages people to behave as if nothing happened… and at the end, repeat the transgression. There was always a limit to Aelinor's mercy. She gave a second chance but never a third one. Naeryn, on the contrary, could never refuse her forgiveness to anyone.
Maekar would show mercy… but before that, he'd show his determination.
This night, just like the two nights before, he spent deeply in thought. In Summerhall, he only had about a thousand swords, the best ones that he had chosen personally but… a thousand. Out of the marcher lords, he could rely on seven or eight. But he did not yield to the temptation of asking for men from King's Landing. The unruly lords could raise their banners openly and then he'd have a fully- fledged rebellion on his hands. Naeryn and Daeron might get hurt in the chaos that would reign in the Dornish Marches. There was only one option that was worse than that.
In the morning, he was apprised that many of the lords had gathered in Blackhaven, the seat of House Dondarrion, and stayed late into the night and on the roads, people had been noticed who had avoided every encounter with Maekar's men. There could be no doubt, the men intended to take the matters into their own hands and force Maekar into submission before he had the chance to start consolidating for real the power he had been officially given.
Naeryn was quite stunned when she heard that Maekar had sent word to all heads of noble and knightly Houses and invited them to supper the next day.
"They need time to set their plans in motion," was all that Maekar said. "And I have a plan of my own. Don't be afraid."
Of course, those soothing words only served to scare her more.
"Am I to come with you, Your Grace?" Ser Galend asked when it was time to go down and meet the guests.
Maekar shook his head. "Stay with Naeryn and Daeron. And don't leave your sword out of reach," he added in a low voice. He had already ordered his wife not to venture out of her chambers and placed additional guards at her door. The man of the Kingsguard looked quite resentful that he was to stay here, as well, but did not raise an objection. Maekar hadn't expected such a thing.
For a moment, Naeryn clung to him. "May the Warrior keep you safe," she whispered. Maekar had rarely seen her praying to any deity other than the Mother. He ran a hand over her hair and held her close before slightly pushing her away and heading for the door.
As he had hoped, all of the men invited came. He could see their smirks, read the victory in their eyes. He might be Prince of Summerhall, vested in all the power his royal father wished to give him but at the end, he had no experience. That was one of the reasons the marcher lords resented his arrival – he had done nothing to prove himself, yet he had been elevated above all of them by being entrusted to represent the King in the entire region when his entire merit was having been born to Daeron and Myriah. None of them would miss the chance to see him humbling himself in front of them… Indeed, looking at some of them, Maekar wondered whether they expected that he'd serve them their meals with his own hands.
The hall where the supper took place was richly decorated. The old Targaryen banners had been repainted and looked new, the dragons breathing almost a real fire at the gathering of men. We're the blood of the dragon, Maekar thought. They say that once, we were dragons ourselves. And dragons bow to no one. Help me. All of you who had lived before me, help me keep my composure until my time comes… But composure looked ready to desert him when Steven Dondarrion and a few of the others entered the great hall in armour, however light, with swords in hand. They had clearly refused to leave them in the castle's armoury as per custom and traditions regarding royals. Still, Maekar got a grip over himself and welcomed them as politely as he did anyone else, despite feeling that their intentions could not be good.
There were twenty eight guests sitting at the long table. But the servants did not serve anything else than fresh bread and roasted meat. There were no entertainers and those who had hoped to see the Princess, having heard of her great beauty, were to be disappointed: the seat next to Maekar remained empty. There was no Dornish wine, no wine at all, and instead, the servitors carried around a few earthen jars of fresh water. The great hall was strangely silent – there were no merry conversations, no laughter, no drinking to anyone's health.
When finally most of the guests stopped reaching for the bread and meat, Maekar gestured at the cupbearer; immediately after, the servitors placed a silver goblet of Dornish wine and a sharp dagger in front of everyone. The guests starting trading looks, the faces of some of them quickly went white and Lord Dondarrion scowled darkly. Once again, Maekar gestured at the cupbearer who herded the servants in front of him, towards the main door. Alone with his guests, Maekar slowly rose. His impassive face betrayed nothing of the heavy thumping of his heart. Could he really do it? Could he severe their treason by the root? Would he be able to make them reveal themselves, show that they were committing treason? Would his trust in the precious few among them he thought he could rely on prove justified? Would it be enough? Would his desperate bid be winning? He had made preparations, just in case. Naeryn and Daeron would be safe, no matter what.
"I do hope you enjoyed the hospitality of Summerhall which is now my home," he started. "I apologize for the modest conditions but as you well know, there has been trouble keeping the crops in the smallfolk's own barns, so I had to think of my people first and unfortunately, that means that my guests won't receive the lavish hospitality they otherwise might have expected."
New trades of looks: everyone knew what Maekar was hinting at. Was it even a hint? Wasn't it an outright accusation, a mocking? The boy had teeth, it seemed. Or perhaps it was no teeth but a hint of his brother Rhaegel's madness.
"It is the King's wish that peace in the region be restored," Maekar went on. "And that's what I intend to do. I'd rather do it in a friendly way. I do understand that old grudges run deep and some hatreds are too great to govern on our own. But it cannot go on like this."
His voice was level, his eyes showing no more emotion than before. Again, the men started looking at each other. Grudges and hatred. What do you know of grudges and hatred, with your sheltered life, boy? Do you even realize that your father has just thrown you to the wolves? Do you really think you can come here and start pushing us around telling us what to do just because you're a Targaryen? You won't last half a year before running back to King's Landing in shame.
"I have no taste for words and promises that don't have anything substantial behind them. Words are wind. Promises are snakes. And I don't intend to utilize either. That's how we're going to start, my lords: with honesty and clear declaration of intentions, whatever they might be. I've already done my share: I placed in front of each of you a goblet of wine, meaning friendship, cooperation, and prosperity of the entire region we share; I also placed in front of each of you a dagger, meaning that you're welcome to try and finish what you've started, undermining the King's authority and harassing nobles and smallfolk alike. Show me what you're going to do. Choose," he went on and this time he actually smiled. "Choose, you can see I am here, before you, and I'll meet you with a goblet of wine or dagger."
He lapsed into silence and some of the guests immediately raised their goblets; but in this very moment, Lord Dondarion pushed his goblet aside and slapped a hand over the hilt of his sword.
"Brave words," he spat. "From the one claiming the highest authority in the region, despite being what, fifteen?"
Seventeen, Maekar thought and didn't say it. The man wouldn't care if he was seventy and seven – his very arrival would have still been taken as insult.
"He who speaks with the King's voice," Dondarrion went on, his voice becoming heated. "His Grace, a mere boy. Why should you be the overlord here? I will be, and I will be more worthier than you!"
The red blood that had been spilled on the table soaked in the tablecloth and dripped on the floor like blood from a gaping wound.
"I am the King's chosen," Maekar replied in an unfaltering voice amidst the profound distance that followed. "And you shameless man will never hold the highest authority here. Neither will someone else, for as long as I draw breath."
Dondarrion unsheathed his sword, as did everyone else who had come to enjoy Maekar's hospitality armed; in the blink of an eye, about ten people gathered around Dondarrion, bristled with anger. A few other guests drew back to the walls, scared; but everyone else grabbed the daggers left before them and closed ranks around the King's son, ready to defend him.
"Now," Maekar said, his voices rising for the very first time since the beginning of this feast.
Someone opened the main door, as well as the few side doors, and the spacious hall was filled with armed guards among those who had accompanied Maekar here from King's Landing.
"Take them away!" he ordered, inclining his head towards Lord Dondarion and his associates.
At his same moment, other of Maekar's peope were dealing with the retainers the lords had brought.
Early in the next morning, the men of the unruly lords were escorted to the boundaries of the grounds of Summerhall. No one had been harmed – they had just been relieved of their swords, maces, and whatever weapons they had carried at entering the castle. A few hours before, Maekar's people had ridden to the seats of the malcontents, suggesting remedy of the relationship.
"What are you going to do with them?" Naeryn asked as soon as she saw her husband for the first time this day.
"Stay put," Maekar said because she was pacing around anxiously, her lovely face shaded by the foreboding of the bloodshed that would come. "Take a seat. All this anxiety cannot be good for you. They aren't worth it. Calm down. No one will be harmed, except for those who committed downright treason."
But she could not abide sitting in her upholstered chair knowing what would happen. "They are human beings, Maekar," she said. "And they've been accustomed to this way of living for hundreds of years…"
Maekar forced his exasperation down. "Tell that to everyone who died in their petty fights for another goblet of silver," he said. "Tell that to the mothers with hungry babes to feed and no living husband to earn their living. It has been this way for hundreds of years, indeed. And it stops now."
His cold rage scared Naeryn more than his outbursts of fury because when furious, he wouldn't let anyone tell him their side but later, he would ask; when he was like this, all septons and septas in Westeros could gather to sing appeals of mercy and understanding and he'd let them but he wouldn't hear a thing, it would just glide straight past his ears. She fell silent.
Maekar reached out, stroked her cheek. In the bright sunlight, he looked invigorated, despite staying awake for the entire night and the day before. "They committed treason," he said. "They drew their swords against me as soon as I proclaimed my intention to restore peace in the region. That's double treason – they raised a hand against the blood of the dragon when I was here in my capacity as the King's representative. And they outright declared their intention to fight everyone who would dare try to stop their intention to keep drowning the land in blood. I cannot leave this unanswered."
"And you don't want to," she sniffled.
"And I don't want to," he confirmed.
All of a sudden, her own anger flared. "You tricked them into taking an open stance against you, so you can punish them according to the law, leaving them no room to wiggle out of it."
He didn't bother to deny it. "Or take a stance with me," he reminded her. "I gave them a choice."
Everything in Naeryn recoiled at being pushed against such a choice. It felt unfair to her, although she could see her husband's reasoning. It had been a clever move, indeed, forcing them into a choice they could not back off from, no matter what they chose. The heirs of the men who had drawn their swords against him would find little supports in a quest to avenge people who had committed such an act. And none of those who had stood with him last night could go back now, and the dispensing of justice and the executions that would follow would only cement it.
Maekar's face softened. "I am not doing this because I enjoy it, Naeryn," he said. "It simply needs to be done. The only ones that will suffer will be those who've been wreaking havoc here in years. I call it just."
Naeryn drew back, away from his palm. It was just, she knew it, but gods, how cold Maekar's justice was!
Before the sun reached its zenith, along the walls of Summerhall eight human heads appeared on the sharp end of long pikes. Faced with the choice to continue their pillaging which sooner or later would make them face Maekar on the battlefield and meet either defeat or the full weight of Daeron's anger if his son died here trying to restore the peace, or return to the King's peace at the time Maekar still needed their support, the malcontents had thrown their lot with the dragons.
