"Are you mad?" Margaery shrieked at him, her voice ringing in the council chamber behind the throne hall. "This is ludicrous, sheer stupidity. Make an end of them, take their golden heads. Tywin, Joffrey, Cersei, the dwarf, all of the foul kin, spare them not for they would spare none of us." She clutched both of his shoulders, the fair face of the Tyrell flushed red with fury. A small throng gathered around, no face bore goodwill to his choice, so no one chided Margaery for raising her tone.
"And be the second Maegor," Aegon said softly, loath to quarrel with her or anyone else for that matter. "I deem, I can best him."
"And if you don't? If a Lannister beast cracks your helm, what then?" You can marry him; Tywin would not mind, nor would your lord father.
"There will be no 'then'," Aegon replied, lacking any of the ire she had. Tricked and deceived, the king felt hollow, as if the battle plan had fallen apart, and now he beheld the slain and gutted corpses of his comrades. Things of such a sort happened to him, shrouding him in silence, as if he speaks, the sorrow would be greater.
Sansa entered with others too.
"Her grace is right; it is foolish to heed Joffrey in any circumstance. He punishes people not out of law, but because he likes to see them hopeless," Taking Margaery's side brought no pride to the queen's face. Quite the opposite, she ignored Sansa's remark.
Measuring into her deep blue eyes, Aegon smiled, more out of anguish than joy. "I vowed to you, Joffrey will die by my hand." Everyone treats me as a tool to an end, just to forsake my honor.
"Back then, you were whole," she breathed, giving his soul a hard slap. Is the whole you crave? He could not bear to look her in the eyes. "My wish is for you to live on."
"The matter is now past dispute," Aegon declared, growing irritated by their complaints. It's foolish to retreat after accepting before everyone at court. And it's cowardly. "Tomorrow morning we fight."
"And what if you perish?" Varys probed.
"Well, honor and Gods demand that Joffrey be restored to his crown, does it not?" The answer did not gladden anyone, but Aegon went on, still giving them a dry smile. "But I advise that all of you flee from the city before seven thousand Lannister captives get their arms back."
"We hold the city and them," Rykker faltered, not relishing the prospect of explaining to Tywin Lannisters why he changed the cloak. In despair, every man beseeches the gods for salvation; when in power; he shuns them. The men glanced at Pease and Black Balaq, commanders of four thousand Golden Company men in the city. Aegon now saw that if he dies, they'll turn on each other like ants without a queen.
"Use that 'hold' well, then," Aegon narrowed his eyes.
"This Joffrey, if a brave man; his blade would fight our in battle, not hide behind the grandsire," Black Balaq mused, easing strain by pouring wine to Lymond Pease, Lord Dagos, Obara, and Lord Rykker. The ebony marksman didn't favor Garth Tyrell, so he passed him by, though both the seneschal and he looked like part of some mummer's show.
"Coward in spirit and flesh," chimed in freckle-faced Horas Redwyne.
At the table, Varys didn't share their comfort. "A trained craven, thought by the master-at-arms as any young lord would be. Armed not only with good Lannister steel but with the confidence that he can take on a weaker adversary. Lady Sansa is right; he preys upon the weak."
"Aegon is not weak," Jon cut the Spider's talk. "No training can match years of experience, which the boy doesn't have. The King is a veteran of a dozen battles, and Blackfyre shall slice through any Lannister armor."
"Your Grace, you need to choose six knights to fight with," Lord Rykker said, but also asked; longing to know who will fight by the king's side.
Ser Barristan stepped forth, "The duty of the Kingsguard is to stand by the King; all five of us will fight. Yet a seventh is still needed."
"I'll be the seventh," said Jon. Aegon bowed his head in pride and dread. No man wishes me more good than Jon, and there's no one I want to lose less than him.
Withdrawing to his solar, Aegon passed the early night in solitude, for Margaery was wroth with him and chose to abide in the queen's apartments, forsaking their nightly bedding for the first time since they had wed. As ever before a battle, Aegon found no rest, and slowly, dread wormed its way under his skin, the shadow of death looming over him. Battle wounds oft tend to hurt only after the body grows cold from the fury and the fervor. The same holds true for fear; long after the peril ends, the fear remains, souring the mind with dark thoughts. Each foe's blow could have been his bane, and every blunder he made seemed like a curse.
Here and now was the worst. The bed offered him no comfort, the sleep refused to come. Potential missteps wearied his spirit, stumbling tomorrow would mean all had been for naught, and Tywin Lannister would escape his justice, leaving the realm in the clutches of the evil. The full moon lent its light upon the city, exposing catapults and ballistae on stout walls.
A knook on the door freed him of his wakeful nightmares. Ser Barristan unlatched the door, and Jon Connington gingerly entered, settling on the bed beside Aegon.
"I knew you would not sleep," Jon whispered softly, gazing at him kindly. Nor could you, not with such grave stakes burdening your mind.
"No. I am afraid", he confessed, baring a fear to the only man he could. "Not for myself... tomorrow, so much hangs on me. So many souls."
"Stoney Sept still haunts me after so many years. From King's Landing to there, the thought of fighting thrilled me to the skies. Slaying Robert... and then, naught. He slew my friends, nigh slew me."
"If you mean to aid me with a tale, you're not quite there," Aegon laughed, and Jon joined in. Many suns had gone since the last time they japed together, unbound by aught. A potent memory flared inside him at that instant, hurling him back to the days when they were but two. Warmth pooled around his eyes as tears yearned to break free. Years past, Jon was his shield, his guide... his sire.
"Well, the lesson is to drive that steel of yours into that blond skull tomorrow," Jon exhorted. "Excitement is a delusion, and fear is a reminder. We will grant you freedom while holding others at bay. That's why I came hither."
"Joffrey's six champions are known," Aegon guessed, and Jon bobbed his head. The Lannister was swift; Aegon gave him favor by bringing thousands of captives to the city, each keen to fight for glory, for coin, for their vows. It mattered not.
"Three of his own Kingsguard shall contend, three who still may, which tells of their prowess. Oakheart, Moore, and Swann." This was not what Aegon hoped for, especially from ser Mandon Moore, a Valeman, and Balon Swann, of whom Varys says is a pragmatic man, with his sire serving Stannis. Arys Oakheart seemed noble enough to fight for his oath rather than for the king, but the first two did not. Tywin Lannister's coin spoke through the walls. Obara slew two Kingsguard, Meryn Trant and Boros Blount, in the course of seizing Cersei and her whelps, while the Mountain's brother, Sandor, cut down five men, fleeing to the city and was not seen after.
"And Addam Marbrand, Lancel Lannister, and Alyn Stackspear," Jon named the rest of the lot. "Most of them able knights, some perilous, but it is certain, Joffrey is the frail link. If he breaks, the chain is sundered." All three men spent captivity in Maidenvault, being fed well, yet could not train, which may have dulled their skill.
"Tywin knows that. Joffrey shall be shielded by at least two of them, Marbrand and Swann, if I may deem. Those two seem the most apt to ward and slash attackers. The rest are going to assail me." It sounds as a tactic Aegon oft used when playing Cyvasse. Yield pieces but put a dire threat on the foe's king while easing pressure on your own. Tywin cares not if all six of Joffrey's champions perish, as long as they drag me to the grave, too. Even Joffrey, if I fall first. The boy Tommen could replace his vile brother.
"Duckfield and the Bastard of the Godsgrace press for something akin, a more belligerent approach. Three of you to focus on Joffrey, four of us to bind as many of them for ourselves," concern carved on Jon's face, and Aegon knew why. He mistrusts some of them. Custom is for the Kingsguard to stand for royalty in a trial by combat. Dragonknight upheld the honor of Queen Nerys; three Kingsguard fought beside King Maekar, then prince, and his two sons.
"Which one," the king queried, albeit knowing likely names. Jon loathed Rolly's anointment among the white brothers.
"Young Rykker had never fought in a fray; mayhaps it would be wise to replace him. Duckfield doesn't reassure me either."
"Both are of the Kingsguard. I've seen Rolly fight many times; the man is dauntless. Rykker has finer instincts than most knights. If you seek for a weak point, it's before you. None of them has a throbbing chest or joints," Aegon grinned, but this time Jon didn't chime in. But the truth has been spoken. Aegon has trained much, but his old form is far away still.
"Naught but endure. Just bite your tongue and head forth. For many a week now, you've trained; that crossbow bolt didn't rob you of your skill. I saw it." Grimly, Jon seized his hand. No, but it sapped my strength. No archer can loose an arrow from a broken bow, nor a warrior fight with feeble legs or arms. Prolonged training tends to make armor heavy for Aegon. Stamina is akin to skill. Battles are oft decided by which warrior can keep himself on his feet the longest.
"If I fall tomorr..."
"Such talk isn't allowed. Not before me," Jon scolded him, a nervous twitch taking over his hand. Fear, even he cannot mask the fear. Tomorrow is the scale, ghastly and almost even, where the tip can go in any way. The fate of the realm is fixed by the weight of the feather.
"Jon, please... it's important." A clear mind eluded Aegon, but priorities must be set, regardless of the outcome. "Others are not trustworthy, so the last duty is yours. Sansa, Margaery, Lemore, Haldon must be escorted safely out of the city. Assemble good men and send them home. Burn my body." Tongues of funeral flames licked Jon Connington, and he shifted uncomfortably on a plush bed.
"Mace Tyrell is shameless; he may offer the Queen to the Lannisters," the griffin said, trying to avoid the topic of death with Aegon. And Tywin Lannister might be weak enough to agree upon it. How many of them will hasten to arm the Lannisters, Aegon know not. Some allies are like the Dothraki, loyal to strength, unforgiving to weakness.
"Nonetheless, the cloak of my protection is on Margaery's shoulders. Return her to her family. Sansa too, arm those few northern lords we held, give them fast mounts." And set her free, as she yearns for many moons
"Odd," Jon keened, "Years ago Rhaegar told us so before departing for the Stark girl. Just a caution, the prince said, and that caution became truth. I don't want to listen..." Jon Connington wept, his comely face taking on the red hue of his hair. Tears silenced Aegon. Jon never cries; Jon is as steady as a rock. Now he did.
"Loyalty you did not forswear. Look at me; I wouldn't be half a man without you. Cheesemonger's coin never lured me, nor spider's tales, nor Toyne's tutelage, but your words." Aegon embraced Jon, holding him firmly, feeling the warmth of the griffin's heart under a red woolen cloak, with one white griffin, lacking its red counterpart. Victory is the only path.
Calm expression returned to Jon Connington as he gracefully rose from the bed. "Take some sleep," he offered sincere counsel and left Aegon alone once more. Compelling himself, and tired of heart, the king did so, returning to his old childhood dream, riding an indistinct shape he deemed was a dragon, gliding through cloudy skies. Deftly steering between green hills, feeling free. Now, as never before, two shadows flanked him, on the left, a silver-haired woman rode a dark shape. The crowing of the rooster cut off the dream, disclosing nothing more than dawn. Half-light draped his room, lending it a gloomy and dismal feeling.
A servant came in with breakfast: smoked beef, olives, and cheese. Settling for only a few bites, Aegon walked to Margaery's chamber.
"My sister is not feeling well, Your Grace," Loras Tyrell hailed him. Strip him of armor, put him in a gown, coiffed his hair in Margaery's curly bun, and the two of them would have been one and the same.
"And how do you feel, Ser Loras? In mere hours, death may claim both of us," Aegon arched an eyebrow. The handsome man composed his face. If there was fear, he was masking it better than Aegon.
"A life I have already lost; death doesn't daunt me," Loras said absently.
"So did I once, yet the heart does not ask if it should beat" Aegon didn't think he would ever share aught with Ser Loras, let alone talk a thing about Eira.
Ser Loras met eyes with Aegon, "I know. Margaery told me". Secrets cannot be concealed from a sibling, not when she trusts you more than me.
"Open the door," Aegon ordered, and the Kingsguard complied with displeasure.
Margaery sat by the table, penning a letter, wearing only a simple silk nightgown. She looked quite unlike her usual self, weary and messy, lacking the usual charm. Dark circles around her eyes blemished her fair face, and tangled hair spoke of sleepless night.
"I am not in the mood," she expected bedding.
"Men prefer bedding after combat, not before," he exclaimed in a hollow jest. Dornish at least did, both before and after, to ready for a fight or to rejoice in victory.
"Japes of yours are not welcome, not when you did your 'best' yesterday. But you may prevail, after all, the noble Aegon is fighting to avenge Sansa's tears." She didn't have to gaze at him; scorn oozed in the room.
Though longing to depart, Aegon stuck to his original intent, "I came for a token of your honor, a meet thing for a husband to have from his wife." The part she liked the most, when someone seeks her favor.
"Handkerchiefs are in the second drawer; choose whichever you fancy," she pointed a finger at a piece of furniture, taking no more interest. Aegon swallowed irritation and picked a silken cloth; a dragon and a rose shared the same pale green field, solitary among other needlework, roses of every sort.
The larger, manly shade of his covered the small, womanly body as he neared her desk. His presence and kiss on the brow unsettled her, so she averted her head, shunning any further intimacy. She felt betrayed by me, tricked into a state where her future was in the hands of others. Twice wed, twice a widow, commoners would say. Not a maiden anymore. The treasuries of Highgarden are vast; they can buy her a third husband, yet not a king. Never again a king.
The good will forsook her, and a dark doom hung on the horizon. What if she was the one who brought death to Renly and Aegon, the tales shall go. Aegon had no power to lift the cloak of despair, so he just left, not wishing to see if she would be on the trial ground, to hearten him as a wife.
Piece by piece, Myles Mooton and Daemon Sand clad him in armor, strengthening rondels, fastening pauldrons with gaping dragon heads, checking all buckles on the charcoal breastplate. A familiar heft was on him now when the surcoat finally slipped over the dark armor. Snugly black cloth, with a three-headed dragon, red as blood.
Knotting Margaery's favor to a belt, he was ready, as were his champions. Five knights of the Kingsguard, showing neither dread nor remorse, with five white oaken shields, blank, unwritten fealty to him.
"Bite him well, Your Grace," Ser Daemon beamed, holding a spear, its smooth wood ending in a clenched red hand from which the sharp, thin blade sprang.
"No poison?" Aegon wavered. The fight should be fair; those seven men on the other side should only face what they behold.
Daemon caressed his spear, handling it as a woman. Dornish blood seethed even north of the mountains, and many evenings, Ser Daemon spent wandering the Street of silk, finding company and taking pleasure on both sides, as rumors say. "A pleasure is to see fruit go blue, ripe. But not today, as you bid me, Your Grace."
"Your fruit is bitter, good ser," Duck snickered. "I saw it after the battle under the sept, many blue Lannister heads."
"Rolly, you've kept me alive for many moons; don't fail me today," Aegon teased the bearded knight. He was donning wholly new armor, as did Ser Barristan and Ser Rymen Rykker, courtesy of blacksmiths at the Street of Steel. The plate was gilded with the same dragon trappings, though not as much as the rose full armor of Ser Loras, nor as light as Ser Daemon's armor. Dornishmen favored mobility over protection.
"Your Grace, my mother always said it is only proper for men to die by their age. If so, you shall go many a moon after me," the Duck grinned, giving him flawed teeth yet full of warmth and years of loyalty.
"Then, Ser Rymen, is the last to go," Aegon laid a hand on the junior knight. The boy looked eased, almost merry, like many green boys do before the battle, before their first terror.
Striking the boy lightly on the arm, ser Daemon smiled, "and since last night, a true man. Savoring his first woman or whatever he fancied."
"A woman... sorry, Your Grace," Ser Rymen flushed, admitting a thing some kings would have chastised him for. Aegon was almost pleased Ser Daemon took the boy on his nightly escapades.
"No offense taken, ser", he reassured the boy.
"Such activities shall remain unspoken," Ser Barristan chided the men as the Lord Commander, "if His Grace granted you leave to act upon your lusts, that doesn't give you license to stain your cloak by speaking of it."
The Bastard of Godsgrace was tickled by the chiding. "Our good Ser Rymen made them scream so much, they come now just by glimpsing white." Everyone laughed, even Ser Loras in his mourning sorrow graced everyone with a chuckle.
When Jon joined them, they rode down Aegon's Hill through almost barren streets, then breaching the Street of Looms, left the city at the Iron Gate. The day was young, cold, with sea mist giving dampness to the air. Yet a large crowd had assembled at the Tourney grounds, just outside the city walls, by the Rosby road. When Aegon beheld the muddy ground before the Dragon Gate, he realized the Alchemists were done unearthing wildfire pots. The cold night had hardened the mud.
Grass reclaimed a tourney field, which hadn't seen a proper competition in a year, not since Robert Baratheon staged a costly tourney in honor of Sansa's father, Lord Eddard. Thousands came to see the trial, and every spot by the tourney ground was packed with people who wanted to witness the battle. On a wooden platform, noble and wealthy guests waited.
Sansa was there, Margaery wasn't. So were the Lannisters, all of them, Tywin Lannister, his dwarf son, and the queen daughter; brother Kevan was there to witness his own son fighting. Curiously, Aegon weighed Tyrion Lannister, did he wish me for a victor. My victory grants him Casterly Rock, but does he love his family so much that he'd spurn his own gain? Rarely do men do that.
Young Rymen found his father and lookalike brother and exchanged a few words. The brother, who would only watch, showed plain concern, none of which was on their father's face.
Seven men stood on the other side: three in white cloaks with gold antler ornaments, not black and red like Targaryen as Aegon's Kingsguard; the two in Lannister armor with lions on gorgets, lion heads on pauldrons, full lions on breastplate, and lion-shaped helm. Gleaming armor, yet still sturdy. Joffrey looked like a mirror image of his cousin Lancel, if not for the black stag on his breastplate, turned to a Lannister Lion. Baratheon in name, lion in blood and mind. In contrast, the plain armor and checkered surcoat of Ser Alyn Stackspear stood out with its common look, while Ser Addam wore an armor befitting a man of a hundred battles, with tree burning on his chest adding to the imagery.
The trial would consist of only melee and end when Joffrey or Aegon perished; no other way. If I slay him fast, there will be less hurt to men fighting for me. The High Septon uttered prayers as the two sides walked toward each other, stopping fifteen yards apart. The last word of holy men was followed by drums. Aegon lowered his visor; the great helm muffled every sound, drums and cheers. Duck to the left, Ser Daemon to the right, three of them as a blade, and four other men as a shield. Doom. Doom. Doom. The drums persisted, then, in an instant, went mute. A war horn summoned the battle. Seven to fight seven. To kill one for the crown.
Blackfyre in hand, Aegon found Joffrey's stag through narrow slit of his helm. Stag and lion gazing at each, one beast to devour another. "Casterly Rock", Joffrey cried surprising many. Lion devours a stag. Aegon was wrong, his advisors were wrong, Joffrey didn't retreat in protective cocoon of better men, but charged directly at Aegon. All of them charged, clash of sword ringing through helm. Blackfyre bit weaker Hearteater, Joffrey's steel, surely leaving mark. No blade can match valyrian steel.
Almost equal, two kings parried each other's swings. Shrewdly, Joffrey used shield more, playing defense, tiring Aegon, letting wounds Aegon had take in. More and more, Hearteater left defense to shield, a lion on quality oak almost lost its gold shape. He is afraid I will dull his steel, or even break it with Blackfyre. Persisting, Aegon desperately sought for opening, but Joffrey gave him none.
Pain came back, his chest throbbing; burning pain mingling with sweat, creating an uneasy feeling under the armor. He made a mistake then, swinging too widely to the right side, and Joffrey punished him hard. The blow to the helm rang bells in every sept in the realm as he tumbled to the green ground, heavy armor dragging him down. The crowd reacted with thunderous gasps.
With the upper hand, Joffrey fiercely began attacking Aegon from above. Instinctively, Aegon raised his shield up, absorbing every strike. Get up, get up, his mind urged, but his body refused to listen, only having the strength to fend off, not to strike back.
Suddenly, Joffrey himself was on the ground as Duck tackled him, granting Aegon time to rise. And he did, slowly but surely. For the deed, Duck paid the toll, as Addam Marbrand slashed his joint and then thrust a sword between armor gaps. A deep breath resounded beneath Aegon's helm as, for the first time, he surveyed the battle ground.
With blood on his legs, Ser Barristan lay motionless as young Ser Rymen took a sword from his Lord Commander and boldly fended off Arys Oakheart and Alyn Stackspear, wielding a sword in each hand. The boy was swift and precise, handling two men as if they were one. At some distance, Balon Swann and Jon engaged in a quick and fierce duel, trading mighty blows to each other. Close to Aegon, Ser Daemon Sand delivered blow after blow to Mandon Moore, who was now sluggish and wounded. As Aegon wondered how Joffrey's Kingsguard would meet its doom, Ser Daemon dealt a mortal blow beneath Moore's helm.
The Knight of the Flowers was also on the ground, restlessly moving with a large dent on his helm. One man stood alone, keeping a long distance - Lancel Lannister, the only man on the field not engaging with anyone. Why, he had fought valiantly at the Lion's Gate, even taking a wound to the head. Did his first battle frighten him so much?
Before a thought could take root in his mind, Aegon saw a men charging at him. The man with bloody blade. Trough an eyeslit of the helm, his eyes could only fix on the burning tree, the surcoat, and the shield. Marbrand, fury covered Aegon's pain, as he fiercely gripped Blackfyre. He had slain Duck. Yet a Dornish spear thwarted the heir to the Ashmark, and Westermen and Dornish bastard clashed.
"Lion lost his legs, end him, my king," yelled Ser Daemon, taking a few paces back to give his spear more space, as Ser Addam tirelessly tried to bridge the gap, taking advantage of the long shaft. Joffrey was still on the ground, reaching for Hearteater, which had fallen several feet away, along with his damaged shield. Duck must have caused greater harm than just knocked him off the feet.
The strap on Joffrey's helm was snapped, causing the helm to reveal a third of the face. Then Aegon saw it, a scar on the right side. It was bloody, but not a new one. Duck hadn't given him that wound; he had only reopened an old one. Joffrey had no scar. Lancel. A damn craven. Every Lannister roar is a falsehood.
With no time to waste, Aegon left Lancel Lannister behind, striding past the immobilized Ser Loras towards Joffrey. The Lannister whelp realized Aegon saw through the ruse and retreated a few steps back. Joffrey lifted his sword then, flaunting the well-forged Lannister steel.
"The Sword of my grandfather," he said, and Aegon recognized the voice from yesterday. "Nameless, but from today, Dragonslayer." Fresh and ready, the Lannister rushed at Aegon, like a lion pouncing at a wounded pray.
Kill Joffrey for me, echoed in Aegon's ears. A pale face and deep blue eyes flooded within his helm, along with the sunlight. A surge of energy blazed through his body, a blend of anger and love fused in the Targaryen flame. Blackfyre clashed with Dragonslayer, once, twice, thrice. Driven by wrath, Aegon's steel strokes were fiercer, steadily besting Joffrey's own blade. The false king lacked the battle instinct of cousin Lancel and exposed his sword too much. With each swing, Blackfyre took another bite. As Joffrey turned back to the rest of the trial, Aegon beheld Rymen Rykker, slashing his sword through Alyn Stackspear. No longer a boy, taken his first life.
The steel song of two blades grew faint, and soon a harsh grating filled the air, followed by the shriek of a dying sword. Aegon felt a surge of fury, and hammered Dragonslayer with Blackfyre, heedless of Joffrey's feeble parries, until at last the Valyrian steel bit inch deep, wrenching Dragonslayer from Joffrey's lion-clawed hand like a fishhook. Terror shone in the plain lion helm as Aegon struck the first blow to the shield of the disarmed foe. Wood splintered under the force of dragonsteel, and the stout oak rimmed with iron burst asunder, falling in pieces.
Aegon raised his sword for the killing stroke, but his eyes were drawn elsewhere. On a patch of dry ground among the verdant field, Ser Balon Swann stood with a bloody blade over the still form of Lord Jon Connington. The sight hit Aegon harder than any blade that day. A heavy hush fell over him, and he ceased his attack on Joffrey.
Leaping on him, Joffrey swept Aegon off his legs. Blackfyre flew far from his grasp, and the two knights rolled together in a tangle of steel. Caught between the weight of heavy armor and his own oaken shield pinning his left arm to the grass, Aegon was trapped. Joffrey's gauntlet closed around his throat, and the Lannister's left knee bore down on his right arm, holding him fast.
"Have no fear, bastard. I will give her your blackened head for a kiss. Every day, until naught but bones remain," Joffrey hissed, trembling as he fumbled for the poniard on his lion belt. "The throne is mine," the quavering and parched voice said from behind the lion helm. "A Lannister always pays his debts."
A dragon is a mightier beast than a stag, than a direwolf, greater than a lion, Jon had told young Aegon long ago, on the rolling hills of Andalos, when they shared the warmth of a nightly flame and the bitter flesh of a wild rabbit. Now, in the claws of the lion, Aegon gazed into the true monster behind the iron of the lion-shaped helm. Aegon's own helm bore no likeness of a dragon, nor did it seem regal. Only two long feathered crests spoke of his house, black and red - fire and blood. The fire of life. The fire of vengeance.
Aegon shifted his left, shield-bound arm, and Joffrey intuitively moved his gauntlet from Aegon's neck to catch the moving hand. A blunder. The dragon is a fiercer beast than a lion. Summoning strength, fighting through the pain, Aegon lifted himself slightly, ramming his helm into Joffrey's lion head. A loud clang echoed new agony as blood gushed from his nostrils, filled his mouth. Some of his teeth might be loose, but Aegon did not care, as his ploy worked, and the lion Joffrey lost his sense, rolling to the left, freeing Aegon from its jaw. The King followed, and now the two knights were reversed, with Aegon on top.
Finding the lion poniard, the one Joffrey had failed to use, Aegon pressed the keen little blade to the helm's eyeslit and pounded furiously on the lion-shaped golden pommel, striking a five or more times until the blade breached the helmet's weakest spot.
When the sharp point touched his eye, Joffrey screamed. "A Lannister always pays his debts," Aegon said through his blood-filled mouth, giving the final thrust, driving the blade into the monster's skull. Black blood spilled from the other lion's eye. Joffrey was dead.
A roar of cheers and applause swept the crowd. On his knees, Aegon saw the fighting cease in other parts of the field. He took off his helm, his face was smeared with blood. Cercei Lannister's wails were lost in the clamor of thousands.
Ser Arys Oakheart, Ser Balon Swann, and even Ser Addam Marbrand all bent the knee, plunging their swords into the earth. Rymen Rykker helped Ser Barristan to his feet, as did Ser Daemon for Ser Loras, taking off his ruined helm. On the ground without a helmet, Lancel Lannister stared at Joffrey's dead body.
Spitting out blood and bits of teeth, Aegon staggered to Jon with shaky legs. "Jon," Aegon called to the man under the helm, but there was no answer. "Griff, please," Aegon wept again, his salty tears mingling with the salt of the blood. With clumsy fingers, Aegon took off Jon's helm. An iron fist clenched his heart as Jon's pale face lay still as a stone, with open yet sightless eyes. Aegon pulled off his gauntlet and closed Jon's eyes, collapsing on the dead body.
Cheers turned to shrieks as dark shapes surrounded him, speaking in a tongue he could not understand. The world around him blurred and dimmed, and the noise faded to silence. He slept, then woke on a cart, bouncing on the rough road, and then slept again. When he opened his eyes for the second time, he saw the looming shadow of the Red Keep before him. The blurry world claimed him once more, and the weight of his armor vanished, replaced by the softness of a feather bed. Voices grew sharper, but Aegon was burning again, caught in a fevered dream, unable to answer the voices he knew were Haldon, Lemore and Varys.
A gentle touch on his face became Margaery, and quiet weeping encircled the bed. Between the two wooden pillars of the canopy bed, Aegon glimpsed a blurry female shape with a chestnut crown.
"Get out," Margaery screamed. "You have no right to be here."
"Your Grace, please," Varys tried to soothe the queen as Margaery's fury turned to nausea. The last thing Aegon felt was the wetness on his bed as Margaery spewed for the second time on his bed. A long sleep then claimed him.