The Lord of the Seven Kingdoms

Ever since he was a child, there were very few people Aegon had truly loved with all of his heart. His mother and his brother were those he had loved first. But he loved his wife no less. And perhaps more importantly, he loved his children, even if he found himself unable to show that love as well as he would have liked.

Wild Daena, sweet Rhaena and even little baby Elaena would hold a special place in his heart. He had vowed to himself on the day of their birth to have them married off to a noble family, to a kind lord, a strong knight who would ensure that they would be cared for and be happy till the end of their days. And there was also Daeron, his firstborn, his heir, the Prince of Dargonstone and all that had entailed. He could not have asked for a better son to carry on his line and the Gods had truly blessed him.

Then there was Baelor. Sweet, kind Baelor who preferred to read books and pray in the sept rather than play at swords. Sweet Baelor who had once asked him if he could become a Septon. He would give anything to hold Baelor in his arms once more, to tell him that he could be a septon, that he could even become the High Septon or whatever else he wanted to be.

But he couldn't. He couldn't hold Baelor in his arms again because he was dead. Dead at eight, chest caved in, killed by his cousin and it was the love Aegon held for his brother that stayed his hand in this matter.

Aegon knew what ailed his brother's son. He had lost people that he loved too and he knew how he felt. And the issue was not so simple either. He could not punish his nephew for kinslaying because he had not known that he was fighting kin nor did he fight to kill. And then there was the matter of Aemon and Daeron.

Aemon had fallen at his feet as soon as the maester had locked himself in a room with Baelor, trying to work his medicine. Aemon had told him everything. Of how he had found Daeron and Baelor practising at swords and how he thought helping them would enure their safety in the tourney. Hindsight had given Aemon the clarity of realizing that he should not have allowed them to compete at all. Aemon had confessed to being the guilty party and asked to be punished in the place of his brother.

A finer display of brotherly affection could not be seen and it left a bitter taste in Aegon's mouth.

Just a few hours after his injury, Baelor had died and Aegon had retreated to chambers unable and unwilling to weep in front of his family. Daeron had followed and clung to him and told him weeping, that it was his own fault that Baelor had died. That he was the one who had convinced Baelor to fight in the tourney, tricked him into thinking that it would be for the Seven and in honour of the Warrior.

And now, Aegon sat at the head of the Small Council, with two members missing, Lord Arryn not yet replaced and his brother having excused himself, to weigh judgement upon his nephew.

His nephew stood before the Small Council, in the same clothes which he had worn below his armor on the day of the tourney three days prior. Baelor body had been burnt with only a small gathering, with only family attending and Aegon had last seen his nephew there off to a side, crying, while his sister held on to him.

Now, he looked the same, his eyes rimmed red and black bags underneath. His skin was pale and sallow with an unhealthy pallor and his clothes wrinkled and stained.

Aegon addressed the lords of the Small Council. "Let us begin my lords. You know the facts, there is no need to repeat them once more. I would hear your opinions before coming to a decision," he said.

"The Wall, your Grace. Kinslaying is kinslaying, in spite of what might have been the reason. Let his serve at the Wall and regain his lost honour," the Master of Laws said.

"Methinks the Lord Blackwood is showing his Northern roots. There is no need for such drastic measures, your Grace. They are but children. It is natural that accidents happen. While the death of your son, may the Seven bless his soul, was tragic, we cannot condemn your nephew to a lifetime of punishment for what is, in the end, a mistake," Alyn Velaryon countered.

Benjicit Blackwood looked to retort at this slight on his heritage, but a look from his king silenced him. Aegon motioned for the Master of Ships to continue.

"What he did was wrong, of course, I agree with that. But he is a child too. That must be in our minds while we pass judgement on the boy," the Velaryon said. Aegon saw that his nephew was a little relieved upon hearing that he did not lack for friends on the Small Council.

Alyn Velaryon continued. "Let him pay penance by sending him away from the capital, an exile as it were. Send him off to the Dornish Marches. The Wyls and Blackmonts have been launching raids since the Dance and they have shown no signs of stopping. They only kill, not steal or kidnap and this has caused huge losses to the lands of the Dondarrions, the Tudburys and the Carons. Send the young prince off to either of those lands as a sign of your Grace's regard to their suffering."

The Master of Whispers spoke up, "The lords of the Marches are itching for vengeance, your Grace. If you do send the prince down south, send him with a force of at least a hundred to two hundred men. The lords will want to launch their own raids into Dornish territory and having our own men around the prince will help keep him safe against any Dornish plots."

"And what of you, Lord Commander? What say you?" Aegon addressed Ser Raynard.

"Your Grace, whatever has happened, the fact still remains that on the day of the tragedy, the young prince was not supposed to have drunk before the tourney. Even if we put aside the fact of his accident, what he has done, and that too on Warrior's Day remains blasphemous. It shows an utter lack of piety and regard for the Gods and the Faith."

"Sending the prince off to a septry, to learn the ways of the Faith is the best, I believe," Ser Raynard concluded.

"Yes, and if need be, we can always have him installed as the High Septon, if we so wish for it," Ser Robert, ever the pragmatist, said.

"Grand Maester, do you have anything to add?" Aegon questioned.

"No, your Grace. I defer to your judgement, I see no need to add anything which hasn't already been said before," the Grand Maester, Alford said. Old Munkun had died only a few weeks prior. Perhaps, he could have saved Baelor. Aegon did not wish to dwell on such things.

"Aegon took a while to collect his thoughts, opting to examine his nephew. Through the course of the meeting, he had gone from resigned to angry to hopeful, to angry and back to resigned. Now, he had a sort of anticipatory expression on his face, and Aegon thought that he hoped maybe his uncle would show mercy upon him.

"Aegon Targaryen. You have heard what the Small Council had to say. Now, I shall cast my judgement. As Lord Blackwood said, kinslaying is kinslaying and the person whom you have killed is no distant kin either, but your own cousin and my son. And yet, condemning you to the Wall, to serve out your life, is not the punishment I wish to levy, if only for the love I bear your father," Aegon said.

"Neither is sending you to a septry. In this case, the punishment would not fit the crime."

"Then we are left with the Dornish option. Frankly, there would be no better way to start a war than this. We are not so recovered from the Dance that I would want to push for a conflict with Dorne and then attempt to win without dragons, where we have failed with them."

"And yet, this should not mean that you are being let off, unpunished. The idea of exile does have it's benefits. Sending you away from this place, which has made you into what you are, should fit the crime."

"Yes, I have come to a decision. Your punishment shall be exile, not from King's Landing, not from the Crownlands, but from Westeros. And if you take refuge in Dorne, then that shall be taken a sign of your collusion with our enemies."

"But, I am not so cruel as to exile you for life. For the sake of my brother and my son, and the love that they bear for you, you are exiled from Westeros, on the pain of death, for seven years or until my death, whichever comes later. You will be given a week to leave. Begone," Aegon pronounced.

Pale-faced, his nephew ran away from the Small Council chamber and Aegon too left, not caring for the members whispering among themselves.

Entering his chambers, Aegon was surprised to find his queen sitting on his bed, face downcast. She looked up at him as he entered and approached him a queer look on her face. As he raised an eyebrow in enquiry, she blushed a little but closed the distance and a firm kiss on his lips.

Oh. Oh.