"What is a greater sin? To take life by accident or with intent?"
The training yard was a familiar refuge. Hard-packed dirt floor, training dummies all along the outer wall, weapon racks on the interior, it was where I had spent hours beyond counting. It was here that I had trained, here that I had first forged close friendships with those beyond the bonds of family.
Here where I had shamed myself the greatest.
Here where I would show the realm that Father's truest heir had died chained to Vhagar's saddle defending the realm.
"Crouch a bit more," Braxton grunted as he fitted my gorget. I did not have a squire, so my friend was helping me with my armor. The same brilliant white plate with my personal sigil on its breast. Opposite me stood Aemon, aided by a knight of the Kingsguard. One of his appointees.
A white knight aided by someone unarmored, and a black knight aided by another white knight. If this was an attempt at intimidation, it was woefully inadequate. But as symbolism? Dancing black and blue compared to three-headed red? Much more effective.
Unfortunately for him, that symbolism was rather weakened by the weapon at Aemon's waist. With a narrow blade and hilt, it was clear what blade he had brought with him. His own blade, Dark Sister.
Not Blackfyre.
Not Father's sword.
Either he had not taken council with our parents, or he had been refused by one of two people. Either Mother, bless her soul, or Lord Commander Pate of the Kingsguard.
Partial symbolism was worse than none at all, only drawing the eye to what was absent. But it did little to assuage my doubts if this course of action was righteous.
Soon, the last latch of my armor was fastened and secured. Each fitting was checked twice over and deemed acceptable. Braxton set a helm on my head, the visor still up, and set about one final strap beneath my chin. Across from me, Aemon was also in the final stages of preparation.
"Done," Braxton announced, giving me a reassuring clap on the shoulder. "You can do this, Vaegon."
"Your faith in me is appreciated," I said softly, before rising to my full height and waiting a few moments for Aemon to finalize his preparations. As Braxton moved to rejoin Corlys and the other members of the Small Council, my brother finally finished. "I do wish at least one of us had learned our lesson here," I observed.
"This madness is your doing, Vaegon," Aemon answered coldly. "Do not think you can avoid the consequences of your own actions."
A septon began a prayer, to publicly pronounce this combat a sacred event, beseeching the Seven to move through us to bring about a just outcome. Part of me wanted him to be true in the most literal way. If the Seven influenced this, if they guided me without subtlety, then I could be reassured that this path was right.
That this was how it was supposed to be.
Before long, the Invocation of the Seven came to an end and my trial by combat began.
Aemon approached. In his left hand, he held up his shield, covering his chest and gut, while the smoke-grey blade in his right hand was held up to block any blows to his right arm. Between them and the black steel plate that covered him from head to toe, it was hard to be better armed or armored.
Despite that, I saw an opportunity from the first.
I approached, feinting high with the superior range of my stolen greatsword. The tip of the milky blade flicked towards my opponent's helm, coming within a hand's span from the view slit, and Aemon reacted as any sane being would: he flinched. The shield that had covered so much of his torso came up to protect his face and keep my blade away.
But my sword had already moved.
After all, it had been a feint, and the true blow came low. The tip of my stolen sword slashed across Aemon's legs, landing just above the knee, accompanied by the screaming of tearing steel. Sparks and fragments flew in equal measure as I withdrew, the point of my blade pointed towards him. The milky white tip of the blade was already stained red with blood as my brother staggered, giving a muffled grunt of pain.
"I suggest you yield," I told Aemon, willing to give him yet another opportunity to put an end to this madness, but he seemed intent on wasting my breath and his life. He surged forwards, desperately trying to close the distance so he could use that fancy sword of his.
His charge was met by another swing of my own, coming from my right to slam into his shield. My sword bit into his shield just above his arm, carving through the iron rim and most of the way through the wooden center. Already on wounded legs, Aemon staggered back, forced to abort whatever attack he had planned just to remain standing.
And then I heaved.
Twisting my sword and yanking it back, a chunk of solid wood was torn from my brother's shield as my weapon came free. Aemon, already deprived of any semblance of solid footing, nearly collapsed to his feet as I retreated.
"I suggest you yield," I repeated, but he refused to listen. He began to fuss with the straps on his shield, wasting valuable seconds before the slightly mangled shield fell to the ground. And yet, I waited as Aemon's stance shifted and became narrower. Now, his sword was the core of his offense and defense.
Much like me, incidentally. But I had the advantage in strength. And reach. And number of uninjured legs.
We neared each other once again, Dark Sister meeting my stolen sword, and screams filled the air.
It was rare for Valyrian Steel to meet Valyrian Steel, which made the singers waste an exhaustive amount of breath retelling it, which inevitably convinced the maesters of the Citadel to write about it. And in every occurrence, one detail was clear: when two blades of Valyrian Steel met, they sang, the metal producing a sound of otherworldly beauty.
But my stolen sword was not Valyrian Steel.
When it kissed Dark Sister, both blades screamed, dissonant tones hanging in the air. Like two bells of different sizes striking one another, the screams tried to find harmony, only for that to be fundamentally incompatible with the core of their being, and the dissonance intensified. It was as if the very swords in our hands were trying to tell us that this struggle was unnatural.
The sound set my teeth on edge as I gave ground momentarily.
But only momentarily.
I pressed the attack once more, double feinting high then low, baiting my brother. His movements wavered, following my weapon and getting caught between both extremes as I carved through the nasal guard on his helmet with the squeal of protesting steel.
My efforts were rewarded with another flinch, his weapon brought up to guard his face half a heartbeat too late as I returned to my guard.
"You cannot win," I told my brother. "I suggest you yield."
"The chances of success do not matter," Aemon said, returning to his guard. "The laws must be enforced equally, lest they lose all meaning."
"Is that why Mother and Father gave you Blackfyre for the occasion?" I asked mockingly. "Oh, right, they did no such thing. Because they do not support this madness. Yield, Aemon."
He did not respond. Instead, he charged. Sloppily, but a charge remained a charge.
Dark Sister came for me, angled to thrust through my heart, but it never made it anywhere close. I knocked it aside with my blade, eliciting yet more of that accursed screaming, before slamming my shoulder into my brother's chest. His weakened and injured legs gave out, and he tumbled to the ground, accompanied by the clatter of steel plate and ringing mail.
"I suggest you yield, brother," I repeated. "Before you condemn one of us the fate of a kinslayer."
"One Hell for breaking my oath, another for killing you," Aemon muttered, drawing himself up to all fours. "If the punishment in the next life is equal, then I must focus on this life."
"Aemon, the punishment is most certainly not equal," I said, keeping my blade level with his head. "Yield, brother. Please. Put an end to this madness. I have given you every opportunity, for sake of both our parents. Do not force them to lose yet another son this year."
My brother did not respond as he forced himself onto his knees. The movement clearly pained him as he paused before bringing himself back up to a standing position. All the while, my blade followed him, rising to meet the incoming threat, pointed unwaveringly at the minute gap between the gorget and the helmet.
But my brother's wounds would not be denied. Almost as soon as he regained his footing, he lost it, pitching forward. With my sword still leveled at him.
There was a screech of protesting steel, a sprinkling of sparks as metal was torn and sundered, and then Aemon lay on the hardpacked dirt. Dirt that was quickly turning dark as my brother's lifeblood pumped out of him.
I was already moving, even knowing that it was almost certainly an empty gesture, already moving to roll my brother onto his back. Part of thought- hoped, really- if I could put pressure on the wound, this did not need to end in tragedy. But it was a foolish hope. I could see the light of life rapidly fading from my brother's eyes as he feebly reached up toward me for a moment.
More importantly, I could see the thin gash in my brother's throat rapidly emptying my brother's body of blood.
...
If you want to read ahead of the public release, or just want to support me.
you can join my p atreon :
[email protected]/Nolma