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Chapter Two

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Lord Godfrey left them both in a state of mess. His mother's sobs were started anew at his harsh words of blame and Macon was fuming, wanting nothing more than to march after the bitter old man and beat him bloody for blaming his mother, for blaming himfor things he could not control. But Macon swallowed his rage for another day, and turned to his mother.

"Mother," as he approached the side of her bed, he pulled a nearby chair with him.

"Ma-Macon?" she whimpered out. Dahlia sniffled, trying to stop her weeping.

"I'm here mother." He sat by her bed, not knowing what to say, or do. He wanted to tell her Godfrey's words were false, that she was not to blame and that the loss of all her children was just the terrible hand of fate. But somehow he knew his words would fall dead on the floor between them. Mother would not listen; she'd continue to believe her husband's lies.

Lady Dahlia sniffled and looked up at her son, eyes puffy and red from crying nearly all day, but she managed the tiniest shadow of a smile. Her boy, her sweet, strong, clever son. He was all she had, all she would ever have for herself, it seemed. His heart, although quick to anger, was good, true...pure. Few people saw it, the good in him, few people saw past his birth and into the man behind the anger. Many times she had wept for that, how no matter what he became in life the word 'bastard' would still be sneered behind him. He deserved better, and with all her breath, she would help him to see it.

"Oh, my son," she whispered. Her trembling hand reached up, and quickly, Macon grasped it. "Macon...listen to me." She began gently. All her children were gone, apart from one, and now he had to excel for all of them. "Now you must try harder than ever to prove yourself to your father." Macon worried his lower lip between his blunt teeth.

"Mother," he started. He didn't want to upset her in such a tenuous state, but he couldn't have her believing he could amount to anything either. That would hurt worse in the end. "I'm...I'll never be good enough to be a knight. I'm barely holding on to being a squire." His mother had that gentle, sincere look in her eye.

"Being a knight is but a small thing compared to what you can be. I've always told you, you are the king's first born son, the first he's ever acknowledged as his. Even with that vile boy, that Joffrey, he's never cared for him as he does for you. You have so much potential, my son. Use it."

What did she mean? At most, his status would permit him to be knight, if he were lucky. He would never hold lands, never hold a large title, never be lord of a keep, never marry a woman with a famous name...those honours were meant for his mother's true-born children, not him.

"How?" he asked. "How? I-I'm nothing, I'll never be anything. How can a bastard amount to anything, mother?"

"That is something you must learn for yourself, dear." She replied.

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It had been three days since his mother had lost another child, and three days since the Starks had come into the Red Keep. The halls that had once been quiet were now again thrumming with activity. Macon had wanted nothing more than to stay by his mother's side, to protect his mother from Godfrey's rage, but Ser Loras had need of him with the Hand's tourney fast approaching.

Just thinking of his mother's husband could make Macon's blood heat, make his fists ache for a fight. Calm yourself, his mother would say, calm yourself my sweet boy. Macon closed his eyes for but a second as he traveled along through the Red Keep in search of Ser Loras. With the Tourney of the Hand so near, Macon knew that his knight would need his service, no matter how terrible a squire he was.

He turned a corner and opened his eyes, the golden sunshine beaming beautifully into the hall from the open courtyard. Macon expected the hall to only be brimming with squires and servants and lesser nobles on a pleasant stroll, but of all the hallways in the Red Keep, there Prince Joffrey was, his loyal dog only a few paces behind. Macon's fists clenched. He and Joffrey had never got on, not for a single moment. That golden haired twat had a poisonous tongue and more than once, Macon had to fight the urge to cut it from his younger brother's head.

To his displeasure, the prince turned in his direction, eyes narrowing in distaste, but his lips tweaking into a superior grin. How could they share the same father? Macon would often ask himself. Joffrey walked towards him, followed by the Hound that was never far away. Macon tried to make a quick, quiet, exit to avoid any dealing with Joffrey, just as he always had, but it seemed that this day would be one were Joffrey chose to speak to Macon. He preferred the days when Joffrey would pass him by, turning his nose up, finding the bastard boy to be beneath him. The Prince came to stand just before Macon. He was shorter than Macon, but the young boy always thought himself to be untouchable.

"Look, Dog, seems this one still lives here." Joffrey shifted his weight to one leg, cocking the other and placing his hands on his sword, a sword that Macon knew had never seen battle nor would it ever. Macon stopped before the prince as he spoke, even though it made his stomach roll to do so. The last time the bastard had ignored the prince when he spoke to him, Macon's mother was berated for raising a 'disrespectful little animal' as the queen said. So Macon stood, and tried to block out Joffrey's words, but to no avail.

"I would have thought your mother would have thrown you out. With a new baby to care for, you'd just get in her way." Macon remained silent, knowing that Joffrey would have already heard the whispers through the Keep of Lady Dahlia's recent still-born. If he spoke against the boy in front of him, it would only encourage Joffrey to stay and say more to provoke him. When Macon did not respond, Joffrey looked as if he was about to leave but paused, a feigned look of thoughtfulness on his face. "Unless...your whore of a mother lost another bastard? Maybe it wasn't born still at all." Macon continued to stare forward, to think of anything but the words that Joffrey was speaking, to ignore the cruel words that fell from the boy's lips with a joyous tone. "Such a shame. I pity her husband, really. He's the man who had to marry a spoiled woman and raise her bastard son." Joffrey saw the way that Macon was struggling to hold back his anger, and was surprised that he had been able to for so long. The Prince moved closer to Macon, dropping his voice to a whisper. "I can't believe Father would ever lay with filth like your mother, and keep a gutter rat like you aroun—."

As soon as his fist had made contact with the Prince's cheek, Macon was already sprinting away as fast as his legs would carry him. He had never struck Joffrey before, never. Not even when father had put them together in sparring practice had Macon ever dared hit the prince. He had wanted to, so many times over the years he'd lost count, but never had Macon been stupid enough to actually do it. He heard the younger boy's shouts echoing through the halls as he ran, the threat of the Hound or worse spurring him on, pushing through the fire burning in his lungs and the aching in his legs. He had the advantage of speed but if the Hound were to catch him, Macon would surely lose his life. And so he ran, not caring where his legs took him, not daring to glance behind to see if he was still being chased.

He did not notice where he was running to until he rounded a corner and saw her once more, her auburn red hair so distinctive he knew her at once.

Sansa Stark.

Macon slowed his pace, coming to a halt beside the Lady and her Septa. The pair looked upon him without a word as he gasped and struggled to slow his breathing enough to speak. Seeing her had struck him with an idea. He did not know much of the new Hand, but if the tales of Eddard Stark's just nature were true, maybe he would help him survive whatever death Joffrey and his mother would plan for him now.

"My-my la-ady." He panted eyes on Sansa's bewildered face. "Lo-ord. Sta-ark?"

Sansa paused, frowning delicately at the boy in front of her. She remembered him; he had been speaking with her father in their chambers when they first arrived three days before. She hadn't heard his name, but knew his face.

"My Father is with the small council, planning for his Tourney." She finally answered. Macon felt his heart stop. Gods he was in for it now.

"Thank you, my lady," he managed. Macon averted his eyes from the pretty girl before him. He'd better leave quickly, lest the Hound find him and get Lady Sansa caught in his path.

"Excuse me, Ser?" her sweet voice addressed. Macon turned his blue eyes to Sansa Stark's face, surprised she was addressing him. Didn't she know he was a bastard? For one small moment, he believed she didn't. She was talking to him in spite of his birth, she was looking at him, giving him her time, all knowing what he was—"What's your name? I did not hear you introduce yourself before." And just like that, Macon's hopes died.

"I..." what should he tell her? Tell her he was a squire? Maybe she'd like him as Loras Tyrell's squire, because all the girls loved Loras Tyrell and his pretty face. Maybe he...no, he realized. He didn't want to see the look of distaste he saw on all noble girls' faces when they learned he was King Robert's bastard. But he couldn't lie to her either, her innocent eyes blinked widely at him, and he could not take advantage of her easy trust. So he decided to just be Macon, bastard of the king, what he was in all his entirety. He'd be honest in what he was, unlike so many others. "My name is Macon, my lady…I'm the king's bastard son." He answered shyly, his blue eyes drifting to her feet, not wanting to see her distaste.

Sansa's eyes widened and her mouth fell open into a very unladylike gape. She didn't know King Robert had a...a natural born son in the Red Keep that was not born from the Queen, let alone one dressed so fine. He must be noble born; stewards never wore such fine clothes. A flash of Jon Snow came to Sansa's mind, thinking of the bastard her father had kept so close to their family, even when her mother had not wanted it...wanted him. Could it be that Robert had done the same to Cersei as Ned had done to Catelyn? Sansa couldn't imagine a King to behave in that way towards his Queen. Weren't Kings meant to withhold honor and gallantry above all else? Even though her father had only been thinking of honor, bringing a bastard into your home would only bring trouble. And watching as the Hound approached, Sansa could only guess that the bastard boy before her had brought some sort of trouble. The Hound walked closer, his heavy steps sounding like death approaching.

"Come with me, boy. I won't be chasing you like a—"

"Dog?" Macon seemed to have changed in an instant before Sansa's eyes. Not a second ago Macon had been shy, docile, and now as he faced the Hound, a man that Sansa would admit to fearing, the boy became fearless, brave. Joffrey, her beloved prince, hadn't been brave that day on the Kingsroad when Arya hit him and Nymeria attacked him. He wasn't expecting Arya to attack him, she thought quickly to defend her prince, Macon probably gets into fights all the time.

Sansa locked eyes with Macon for a moment, seeing the slight flush to his cheeks and thinking it from the running he had clearly just been doing. In truth, when Macon caught Sansa's gaze, it brought a longing to the boy that made his blood heat and his body react. It was not lust, for he knew very well what that felt like, but this was more of a longing for the innocence that Sansa represented...the innocence that the King's acknowledged bastard was never able to possess. Macon quickly looked to the Hound before speaking once more. "Someone will want an audience with me, I suppose?"

The Hound remained silent, but Macon was not really expecting an answer from Joffrey's personal guard. Macon looked back to Sansa once more, not knowing if he was being taken to his death or worse. If it was the Queen that he would be taken to, it would mean his end. It would mean his mother's end. Macon hurt to think of his mother, to think of what she would do without him by her side, and so he settled on Sansa's sweet face before him. Macon extended his hand towards Sansa, his palm up in a silent invitation for her hand.

"We should be going now, Sansa." The sharp voice of the Septa cut through the halls but Macon paid no mind. Sansa hesitated for only a moment before gingerly offering Macon her hand. He brought her hand to his lips, placing a gentle kiss upon her knuckles in the way a Lord would have bid farewell to his Lady. He released her hand just as the Hound took hold of his tunic, already being drug away to whatever fate the Gods, or the Queen, had chosen.

"Good day, Lady Sansa." His voice trailed behind him, and Macon could not turn to see if she had even heard his words at all.

"What a strange boy." Sansa spoke aloud, not really expecting Septa Mordane to listen to her musings. She felt the Septa's grip on her arm, steering her back towards their destination.

"A strange 'bastard' boy indeed, Sansa. Best forget about that boy and his games." Sansa stopped walking, turning her head sharply to look at the older woman.

"Games?" Septa Mordane pulled her along once again, even as Sansa did not turn her head forward in favor of keeping her questioning gaze firmly on her Septa's face. The older woman lowered her voice as they continued to walk through the halls of the Red Keep.

"Of course, Sansa. Oh, you are too young to know the way a boy thinks." Sansa stopped her Septa once more, firmly planting her feet into the stone below her.

"Stop speaking in riddles and just tell me. What games is that boy playing?" Mordaine sighed before pulling Sansa towards a stone bench, seating the girl down before sitting herself. Sansa was losing patience with the old woman who continued to treat her like a child.

"The entire realm knows that you are betrothed to Joffrey, his younger, true born brother and heir to a kingdom that he thinks to be his." Sansa wore a look of disbelief on her face at what her Septa was implying. The old woman continued, trying to be delicate with her words as her charge was a good little lady and knew nothing about these kinds of affairs. "That bastard boy only wants to toy with you to spite his brother, the Prince. Do you think he would take such an interest in you otherwise?" Sansa narrowed her eyes slightly at her Septa. As innocent as she was, she still knew an insult when she heard one.

"Did any boys ever take interest in you, Septa? Could it possibly be that he isn't playing a game and was just being nice? He doesn't have to...he was just being nice." Sansa stood, and without another word to her Septa set off down the hall in the direction that she had just come. In the same direction that a nice bastard boy had just been taken.

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It was a surprise for Macon to find himself being led—rather yanked along— to where he knew were the King's private quarters. He caught the eyes of Jaime Lannister as he passed through the door, the man looking no less haughty than normal. The Hound released Macon's arm, and the boy continued to make his way before the King who was seated at his desk. The Queen stood to Robert's right, and Joffrey stood to his mother's right, rather than beside his father as any self-respecting man would have done. Macon held his gaze forward, refusing to back down in what he thought were his final moments of freedom.

"You've been getting into fights again, boy?"

"Yes, Your Grace." Robert bit back a bark of laughter, taking a deep drink of wine as he took in the sight of his bastard son. He was just like that, at Macon's age. Black haired, blue eyed, built like an ox, it was easy to see who the boy's father truly was. But it was Macon's temper and his strength that made Robert proud that he had fathered the boy. Whereas Joffrey was most like his mother, Macon favored his father. Robert pushed himself forward in his chair before he spoke.

"I told you the last time, to pick your fights wisely. Stable boys, squires, stewards. Not the fucking heir to the throne." Robert settled back into his chair, Cersei's smile growing wider with each word the King spoke. Macon could see the victory on her face, could just imagine what she would say to his mother once he was in chains or put to death. Robert picked up his cup and stared over the rim at Macon, watching him standing calmly as if he was not there facing charges of treason. Macon's eyes remained locked on the King as he spoke, brave, unblinking.

"And your fight, your rebellion was that chosen wisely?" Robert put his cup down, his face darkening in an instant. Macon continued on, his voice never wavering. "Or was that fight chosen to defend the one you loved? Did Prince Joffrey mention why I struck him, and oh, yes I did." His eyes flashed to the queen, almost challenging, before he quickly looked back to his father. "Would you care to hear the words that he spoke?" Macon did not give Robert or Cersei or Joffrey time to respond. "'Your whore of a mother lose another bastard? I can't believe Father ever would lie with filth like your mother. I pity her husband—'"

"ENOUGH!" Robert's face colored purple. He did not love Dahlia, but the son she gave him softened his heart to her. He would not abide his own son to taunt her name, her pain. He turned slightly to face where Joffrey stood. "Did you say those things? Answer me, boy!" Joffrey's eyes were wide and fearful, shocked his father was taking the bastard's side. Sometimes the boy forgot the bastard was his father's bastard.

"I'm sure Joffrey meant no harm." Cersei wrapped her arm around Joffrey's shoulders. "Boys are not very careful with their words. Just as bastards are not careful with their fists."

"Quiet, woman! Seven Hells, if it weren't for your father's sudden change of heart, that bastard," Robert thrust a finger in Macon's direction, "would be my heir. I have half a mind to make it so. He acted like a true King would by defending his family's honor. While that fucking boy," Robert now pointed at Joffrey, who had backed away slightly from his angered father, "spat out taunts. Tell me which one seems more like a fucking Baratheon heir, and which one seems like a Lannister so of full of himself, he thinks he shits gold?" The tension grew thick in the air after Robert had spoken. Macon was grateful that no others were in the room to hear Robert speak like this. He knew that it would lead to more trouble, but he couldn't help the feeling of pride welling inside him upon hearing Robert's words. Macon tried to remember every word spoken so that he could tell his mother, so that she would know how Robert truly felt. The King stood from his chair, ignoring Cersei and Joffrey in favor of turning his attention fully on to Macon. Robert's voice had lowered again as he spoke, calm, but threatening all the same.

"Strike the Prince again, and I won't be so lenient. Go tend to your mother, boy."

Macon did not dare look towards the Queen as he gave a bow of his head towards his father. He felt numb and relived and invincible all at once as he made his way to the door, noticing that it was left slightly ajar. He pushed it open and exited, only to find Ser Jaime standing in his way. The Kingslayer stood before him in his full armor, his hand on the pommel of his sword in an attempt to intimidate. The effect was lost on Macon, who in that moment felt as if he had faced and conquered death itself.

"Ser Jaime." Macon nodded his head in the knight's direction before moving around the larger man, never noticing the way Jaime's grip tightened on his sword. The Kingslayer turned his head to the side, catching Macon's retreating form from the corner of his eye.

It wasn't that he hated the boy...but Jaime was willing to go to whatever extreme was needed to protect the ones he loved, from pain, from death, all of it. A haunting memory came back to him. He remembered with perfect clarity the sound of that boy's body hitting the ground. I had to do it, was the mantra he thought every time something like guilt crept up on him. He would have gotten Cersei killed, would have gotten their children killed. He had to do it. Jaime shook his head to get the image from his mind of Bran Stark falling helplessly through the air, the image haunting his sleepless nights. He tried to replace the images with ones of Cersei, of their time spent alone together, but even those memories could not block out the fear that he had seen showing through Bran's eyes. The sound of his name brought the Kingslayer from his torturous musings.

"Have you gone deaf? I said, move Kingslayer!" Jaime moved away on instinct hearing Robert's words, fully intending on following his King. Robert put his hand out to halt Jaime, turning so that the two men nearly stood toe to toe. "Don't follow me. I've had enough of seeing your smug face for one day." Jaime offered Robert a smile and a nod of his head.

"Of course, Your Grace." Robert stared hard at Jaime, the two remaining in silence for only a moment before the King uttered a curse and stormed off. Another moment passed and Joffrey slowly made his way out of the room, the bruise already forming on the Prince's pale face. Joffrey saw the way that Jaime was looking at him, looking straight at the purple mark on his cheek, and hurried away. The Kingslayer wanted nothing more than to take Joffrey aside and teach him how a man would have handled being struck, wanted to play the role that a father should. He heard the distinct walk of Cersei approaching from behind but Jaime did not turn to face her, instead choosing to stare after the form of his retreating son.

"You heard everything, didn't you?" Although she phrased it as a question Jaime knew it to be a simple observation and did not respond, waiting for his love to continue to speak as he knew she would. Her voice lowered, barely above a whisper, as she came to stand beside Jaime. "There are still threats to us living in these walls. Jon Arryn was an old fool and he was able to figure it out. What will happen when Lord Eddard Stark starts asking the same questions?"

"I know, Cersei. Do you think I've just been walking these halls waiting for that moment?" Jaime's voice was as low as hers. "There are certain precautions that we will just have to take to make sure that Lord Stark doesn't get...curious. That bastard is trouble for us, Cersei. Now more than ever."

"Don't you think I've tried to be rid of him? That black-haired, foul boy has taunted me every day he shows his face in these halls." Cersei tried not to think of her own black-haired son that she could not even give a name. It was because Macon had lived while her babe had not that Cersei would always be reminded of the one thing she failed at, the one moment where she had brought shame and disappointment to her family. Even after all the years had passed, Cersei still carried the blame inside her for not being able to make her first-born son live. Cersei stood closer to her twin, wanting to feel his presence near her in her moment of weakness. Their eyes locked and the both of them wanted nothing more than to hold each other close. Knowing it was too much of a risk to be seen so close to Jaime, Cersei focused her thoughts once more on the newest problem they would be facing. "It will be nearly impossible to ever be rid of him while Robert is alive. He's more attached to his bastard son than his true born children."

"But they aren't really his true born children." Jaime couldn't help pointing out.

"I want them to be his only known children in the Keep. It is just too dangerous for Joffrey to have that bastard so close to the throne. He wants it Jaime, that bastard. He wants the throne for himself, I can see it."

"What do you suggest we do?" Cersei brought her hand up to softly cup Jaime's face in her palm, running her thumb across his cheek with affection.

"We are lions, they are stags. We rule the beasts. I'm sure we can think of something."

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