Author's Note: Hello again!
It's been a while, but I'm slowly chugging along with this story and the Golden Stag. Two Diamonds and a Stone is also worked on intermittently, but it is much less seldom. Whenever I have time to write (which isn't much) I tend to just go with whichever I feel at the time. This time it was this one!
I feel there should be a disclaimer for particularly dark violence on this one. Nothing like Ramsay and Theon or even near, but a bit darker than I normally go, even if it is very brief. Most of you won't bat an eyelash, but I feel I should leave a read at your own discretion warning anyway just in case.
As always, I hope you enjoy and review this update!
It didn't go perfectly. Things rarely did.
Lucaerys Targaryen, Lord of Duskendale, rode at the head of two hundred men in Tarly green. Baelon Blooddragon, white armored and cloaked, rode beside him, as did the short Ser Harrold Sloane. It was a quiet two days of riding, the men under his command unfamiliar to him and thusly distant. His uncle was no man's idea of pleasant conversation, saying a grand total of two words to him the entire ride, and Ser Sloane was little better. It left Luke with an absurd amount of time to think, and the recent events had left many things to think about, most of them unpleasant.
He tried to use the time to plan the coming confrontation. His memory, sharp and sure, recalled the layout of Summerhall well; he had visited it on multiple occasions with his wife when she came to see her sister. As it had been in the days of Aegon the Unlikely, the new Summerhall was a pleasure castle, not a fortress. Its palace walls were built of soft marble, meant for beauty rather than defense. Gardens and fountains surrounded it as opposed to defensive curtain walls, and its grand doors were decorative mahogany, not steel banded oak. The palace would never be sieged, for any army could storm it within an hour.
That was the exterior, anyway. The interior, while as beautiful and decadent as the outside, was rigged with failsafes for just such an occasion. While Luke's grandfather Aelor may have agreed to rebuild Summerhall in the image of its predecessor, images could be deceiving, and the Dragon of Duskendale had always been more warrior than lord. There were escape tunnels reminiscent to those of the Red Keep, as well as more halls and turns than were strictly necessary. An attacking force could find themselves storming a pantry rather than the Lord's chambers, and the occupants had many niches and hideaways from whence to spring ambushes. While the castle would never hold off an attack outright, it would inflict heavy casualties on its oppressors while also allowing its lord or lady and their family to escape.
Which is why I'm avoiding an outright attack. My role for the King is as a diplomat, not as a general. There is a reason he sent me instead of Sers Melwys or Arthur Dayne.
But the concept of diplomacy was nearly abandoned the second he crested the last foothill of the Westmarch to gaze down upon the beauty of Summerhall—and the golden rose on green field of Tyrell, flying over a small conglomeration of tents outside its fair walls.
Luke cursed, first internally and then verbally as the Blooddragon reigned to a halt beside him. "Alester is here."
The Blooddragon said nothing, but Ser Harrold cursed as well, much more colorfully than had Lord Luke. "If he is here, so is his retinue. Our numerical advantage is gone."
Luke's mind was racing, though he kept his voice steady and calm. "We weren't intending to use that in any case, Ser Harrold, as you know. This just makes things interesting in case we are forced to." He eyed the number of tents and picket lines of horses, trying to garner an idea of what they were facing. "I imagine there are around one-hundred and fifty men with him, judging by the tents. Perhaps more inside. Uncle?"
The Blooddragon stared for a moment before grunting. "Two."
Damn. "Two hundred then."
Ser Harrold didn't seem to be panicking, but he wasn't calm. "Add that to the permanent guard of Summerhall and the advantage is theirs."
"Summerhall has only fifty or so permanent guards. They possess no advantage, even if that number was a thousand; we have dragons, they do not. And let me reiterate, Ser Harrold; we want no violence."
"Aye, but the entire intent of my men was the threat of violence to give Daena more reason to surrender her daughter. We no longer have that. That changes things, Lord Luke."
Lucaerys was silent a long moment, before he shook his head. When he spoke he tried to make his voice as confident and commanding as possible. "This changes nothing, save for timing." He looked to the goodbrother of Samwell Tarly. "Send one of your men to Lord Aemon and Princess Daenerys. Have them circle over Summerhall, but nothing more unless they see signs of bloodshed."
The Reachman knight stared for a moment, but he followed the order, gesturing one of his men forward and relaying the command before the rider turned and galloped to carry it out. Luke nodded at him in thanks. "Pick your three best knights, Ser Harrold. Place one in charge of your men and have them at the ready near the Tyrell camp, though they are to remain peaceful. The other two are coming with us."
Sloane narrowed his eyes slightly. "To where?"
Luke looked back to Summerhall. "To the heart of the problem."
Daena was a bitch of a woman, as Baelon had ineloquently called her at Winterfell, but none could deny she was beautiful one. Lucaerys imagined it was amplified for him, as he was married to her twin.
The regent of Summerhall greeted the envoy of five men outside the mahogany gates of Summerhall, Alester Tyrell on one side and her husband Ser Alman Meadows on the other, with other retainers and servants spread out behind. His goodsister wore a dress of gold and her hair in a mane of silver, accentuating both her cheekbones and her curves. Alester was dressed in a green and gold tunic and breeches, his hair shorn short to better fit under a helm while his beard was full and Dornish black. Alman Meadows was tall and well built, with a twice broken nose but otherwise fair featured face. He was dressed to match his royal wife, in gold and silver.
They also, Luke noted, wore carefully blank expressions.
"Cousin Luke," Daena called as he dismounted his borrowed palfrey, Sers Baelon, Harrold and the two Tarly knights doing the same. "We were not expecting you. In truth, we thought you were at Winterfell enjoying Lord Stark's feast."
Luke smiled, practiced and careful and much more convincing than theirs. "Indeed I was, and I must say you have missed quite the event. As it is, the King sent me back with a fair bit of news to discuss with you."
She cocked her brow, and Luke was ambushed by thoughts of Daenella that he had to forcefully fight off. "News?"
Luke waved his hand dismissively. "Family business. Not major, but pressing enough for me to be sent."
Alester Tyrell—who was also a cousin of Luke's, though a bit more distant than Daena—nodded either to or at Ser Baelon. "Pressing enough for the Blooddragon to be sent as well, I see. Am I to be privy of this information?" His eyes shifted to Luke, and in them the Lord of Duskendale saw that the heir to Highgarden wasn't fooled in the slightest. "Any family matter that is carried by one of the King's chosen and his best Kingsguard should include the son of Princess Rhaenys, should it not?
Luke grinned disarmingly, though his insides were ice. Alester may be stupid in thinking he can be king, but he is by no means a lackwit. And he's awfully good with a blade. "I leave that to your father and mother, cousin. They have discussed the matter with the King himself, and I'm sure they will fill you in once they have returned to Highgarden." He should have stopped there, but Lucaerys plowed on. It's not like I'm fooling anyone as it is. "I must point out, I was under the impression that that is where you were supposed to be. Lord Willas and Princess Rhaenys seemed to think the same."
Alester's face twitched. Luke didn't bother looking at Daena or Alman—of the three of them, Alester was the most dangerous at the moment, what with his temper and reputation for rash action—but he imagined the twitch was in their faces as well. "I had a bit of business with Ser Alman and Lady Daena, concerning a taxes dispute with Lord Peake. It has been resolved; I was only leaving, if you'll excuse me." He glanced once more at Baelon Blooddragon before focusing on Daena; Luke let a bit of the tension in his shoulders melt at the action. "It will take a bit for my men to pack and be off of your land, Lay Daena. Please forgive the intrusion."
Lucaerys' goodsister smiled a sickeningly sweet smile. "Take your time, Lord Tyrell." She waited for Alester to stride towards his men—slow and steady, clearly in no rush—before she spoke again to Luke. "Now, dear brother, the hospitality of Summerhall is yours." She turned, gesturing towards the open mahogany doors and guards within. "Please."
Luke walked forward into the vipers nest, a grin on his face and fear in his heart.
There were no words exchanged between groups as Daena led them through the beauty of Summerhall, barking orders for refreshment and to otherwise be left in peace. At first Luke thought that it would be only Daena and her husband with his party, which set him at ease, but as he entered a private chamber—likely a meeting solar, judging by the table and chairs and thick walls—he noticed that four other armed and armored men had joined them along the way, spreading out behind Daena and Ser Alman as they neared the head of the table farthest from the door.
An even setting. I imagined Daena would signal for the odds to be in her favor.
The door was closed behind them by a big knight with flaming red hair and half as many teeth as he was supposed to have. He started to remain behind Luke and his group—no one was sitting down on either side of the chamber by mutual accord—but Baelon turned to face him, staring with his Lefford eyes wide and ready. The knight tried to return it, but anyone with any moral character found it hard to meet Baelon Bloodragon's eyes for long. Daena broke the stalemate by calling the knight to her side, where he seemed more than willing to go.
And the silence descended.
Daena stared at him and Luke stared back, both knowing what was about to come. Luke pondered for a moment if he should try to play it off for appearances sake of the men in the room, but everyone with Daena seemed to know what was truly going on, and everyone with Luke either did or were rapidly figuring it out.
The silence stretched, quiet and peaceful and loud and deafening and ripe with a tension that had built slowly since Luke had stepped foot in Summerhall.
Luke was the one to break it, for his own sanity's sake. "What the hell were you thinking?" Daena's jaw clenched subtly, but she said nothing, merely cocking a brow at him. Luke waited, expecting something, but when she maintained her silence he carried on. "King Aegon was good to you, Daena. He didn't hold your father's transgressions against you, married you to someone he considered a brother, let your daughter maintain Summerhall—"
"Let?" Her voice was sharp and cold, indigo eyes angry. "It is Viserra's birthright, as the Iron Throne is mine."
Luke scoffed. "I don't even want to know how deranged your mind has to be to think that."
"My mind is my own. Yours is and always has been whatever Aegon deems it to be."
Luke shook his head, though he knew the statement held a fair bit of truth. "Whatever your politics, it's done now. Where is Viserra?"
Daena straightened at her daughter's name. "You will not take her."
"I'm trying to avoid having to take your life."
"You will not take her." In response to Daena's tone her men began to step into a wider pattern, hands drifting to their swords. In response Luke reached for the handle of his own axe, though he was overshadowed when the tall form of Baelon shouldered his way to the front, head cocked down slightly. His own hand grabbed the sword on his hip, and Luke glanced at the Blooddragon only long enough to see his lean face sinking into an anticipatory grin.
Luke, however, felt no joy at what might be coming. He once again looked to Daena, who to her credit had never looked away from him. "Think of your other daughters, Daena. There is no way out of this, and the king will not punish Viserra for your sins. She is only to ensure you no longer plot treason. It is more than merciful, considering."
"No way out? If I recall, Alester Tyrell and two-hundred men reside outside my walls, and they are equal if not superior to the men you brought."
Not with the dragons. Of course, he didn't mention them quite yet. "Think this through, Daena. This plot may be foolish but you certainly aren't a fool; you can't rebel now. There is a reason your plan was meant to be years in the future." Daena's face twitched, and Luke spoke again, desperately trying to talk her out of drastic action. "I know it all, and so does the King, Daena. You're only mistake was telling too many loose-lipped conspirators so early; Varys caught wind, and Lorent Poddingfield gave the rest after my friendship and insistence he drink."
"I never told the Poddingfields."
"Well someone did, Daena. There is no need for this violence. Give Viserra over peacefully, convince the other conspiring houses to do the same, and no one outside the King and this room will ever even know."
For a moment, Luke thought she might give in. But as fate would have it, the door behind Luke swung open.
He and his party whirled, expecting an ambush. Instead, a small, silver-haired girl stepped through, in a small dress of gold and black.
"Uncle Luke!" Viserra Targaryen cried, pumping her five-year-old legs excitedly towards him. "I thought it was you!"
"Viserra," Daena barked. Luke heard her shuffle forward towards their undefended backs, but Baelon had swung back around in an instant, stopping her advance. "Leave this chamber at once!"
The young Lady of Summerhall started to slow, face flickering with innocent confusion, but Luke closed the distance between them and scooped her into his arms, thanking the Seven profusely for her arrival as she giggled again and threw her arms around his neck. "Viserra! Excellent news, sweetheart; your mother and I were just discussing how you will be joining me and your cousins in Duskendale!"
Daena took another step forward, snarling impressively ignoring the vicious Kingsguard in her path. "Put her down at once, Luke. Viserra, come here now."
Luke felt as ruthless as his grandfather had been when he saw the confused fear on his niece's face, her little arms releasing his neck though she didn't try to squirm from his arms. Luke moved towards the door. "Come along, dear. Your mother will miss you very much, but your aunt is beyond excited."
He shouldn't have begun to open the door, Luke would think later. He would think a great many things about the next few moments in the years to come.
"She's mine!" Daena roared, diving forward. Her husband and knights did the same with the sound of unsheathing swords. Luke watched numbly, Viserra screaming in fear in his ear, as Baelon, Ser Harrold and the others did the same, the Blooddragon snarling as he darted towards Ser Alman Meadows. Luke turned to shield Viserra as the small room became a flurry of blades and blood, too shocked to think clearly as Baelon disemboweled Ser Alman with a throaty roar just as the red-haired knight of Daena's slit one of the Tarly men's throats. Viserra clawed at his face, not in an attempt to get away but as if she was trying to crawl into him to hide from the violence.
He would be thankful for that in the years to come. With her face buried in his neck, she didn't see her mother die.
Luke never remembered where Daena got the dagger that she charged at him with. He never remembered when he had unsheathed his axe with his right hand, even as he clutched Daena's daughter to his chest with his left. He never remembered whipping the axe back as he had trained to do for years, or bringing it down with all the strength in his broad form towards the screaming face that looked so like his wife's.
He did remember—he'd never forget—the sharpened blade in his hand splitting his cousin's skull like a melon, sinking deep into her forehead. He remembered indigo eyes that he saw every time he looked at his children glassing over in death as they stared into him from either side of his axe blade. He remembered the shout in Daena's throat turning into a dying sigh, the feel of her dagger deflecting off the armor of his right ribs as the strength driving it fled.
Those things he remembered until the day he died.
Luke stared at the corpse with his axe in its head dumbly, feeling Viserra lean back, see her mother's dead body and go limp, poor little mind overwhelmed as she fell unconscious against his shoulder. Luke noted it numbly, too shocked at his own action to show the crushing concern he otherwise would have felt. All he could do was stare at his wife's face dead on the marble floor, red blood streaking silver hair as it poured from a red canyon in a pale forehead.
"Lord Luke," a shocked voice said, not quite shaking the Lord of Duskendale out of his stupor but making him look up into the face of Ser Harrold Sloane. It dawned on Luke that he, Harrold and Blooddragon were the only men standing, the ground littered in corpses. Alman Meadows sprawled on the table, guts hanging out, face contorted in pain around the finishing slice to the throat. The Blooddragon stood behind Ser Harrold, face once again emotionless now that the killing was done.
Harrold Sloane, sword red with blood shed for the Targaryen cause, stared into Luke's wide eyes. "Your…cousin. Kinslaying is against—"
Ser Harrold Sloane never said another word, the point of a sword appearing out his open mouth. Baelon Bloodragon withdrew the blade cleanly, dropping the instantly dead goodbrother of Samwell Tarly to the ground. Luke, body already rocked by his own actions, was again floored by the actions of his uncle.
"Baelon," Luke said, trying to process. "You just—"
A bloody, gauntleted hand slapped Luke hard across the face, the Blooddragon's face suddenly in his own. "Get ahold of yourself." Hands gripped Luke's shoulders, shaking him and by default the small child in his arms. "Wake up, boy, use your fucking head!"
Luke regained most of his senses, even the ones Baelon had just knocked out of him. "Why?"
Baelon kept his firm grip on Luke's shoulders. "The man saw too much. A Targaryen could not be seen as a kinslayer so soon after the wars that tried to wipe us out for madness, particularly not one who is nearly a son to the king. It would cripple opinion of the King and of you, and the Crown can afford neither."
"But he just helped—"
"That's why I gave him a quick death." Baelon shook him again. "This is what keeps the Seven Kingdoms together, Lucaerys. It's not politics or trade or justice or spying at a feast, it is fire and it is blood. Death. Death is what it means to be a Targaryen, Lucaerys. Death is all that keeps us alive." Baelon rose back to his full height, towering over his nephew. "Death is what we are."
The Blooddragon turned, picking his sword up from where he had dropped it. "Check on the child. I will control the situation outside." He snorted before opening the door and stepping out into the audible chaos of Summerhall. "Fire and blood, nephew. Now you know it's true meaning."
