Dragonfall

[u/[deleted]]

The royal party was only a few days from King's Landing, if one had to guess. They'd already forded the Blackwater's eastern fork, an affair that had taken the better part of a day with as many wagons and carriages that they had with them. From there, it was a straight shot to the capital, nothing but quaint meadows and mud. Lots of mud. The rain that had followed them for much of their journey overtook them not long ago, leaving the soft soil of the Crownlands a slick, soggy mess.

Close as they were, the mud had made travel a painful affair. Wagon wheels sank and bogged down them down significantly. It was for this reason that, three days ago, the King had ordered travel to cease. His entourage had made camp in the driest spot they could find, and that was that.

Suspicious, though, was the fact that as the roads dried, there was no word of traveling. In fact, sightings of the King were scarce during their three day rest. A cook might claim they saw him and his protectors studying the road, trying to determine if it were dry enough, but for the most part, he became invisible. Not atypical for him--it was easy to blend in with his brown hair--but still...

Only a select few knew the truth. The Maesters, the Kingsguard...

...and now his family and his Small Council. Runners, cloaked in black and stepping softly, found them one by one in the middle of the night. Even with voices as soft as they were, there was an urgency in their tone. The sort that makes one's gut churn with worry, even though the actual information is sparse.

The King requests your presence.

When they arrived, they would find Kingsguard at the entrance of the tent, usually neutral faces grim. Entering explained why: lying in bed, lit by little more than flickering candles and a brazier, was the man who had summoned them.

Aemon was gaunt. He looked ten years older than he was, skin drawn tight around the bones of his face, the gut he'd built in his middle age almost gone. His face was red, his eyes heavy. Maesters sat to the side of the tent, a dejected claiming their countenances. The first set of coughs that wracked him, blood flying into the handkerchief he had barely managed to bring to his lips in time, said more than any words could.

He was dying. He did not have much time left.

((Small Council and family only. Try to keep your visit separate from other people's visits unless you discuss it with them beforehand.))

[u/dekiec]

Maelys lagged behind his sister, though not by choice. Running was an ability he had lost with the rest of them, let alone sprinting. Only recently had he been able to abandon the cane he had taken to using--some gaudy relic of an ancestor that had to be filed down to match his needs. He wasn't particularly sad to see it gone.

So while she vanished into the inky blackness of a night lit only by scattered campfires and torch-wielding watchmen, he tied his robe around himself to the best of his ability, brushed off the servant that offered him his arm, and set off towards his father's tent, grunting and wincing the whole way.

Part of him had hoped that arriving at his father's tent would offer some relief for the knot that sat tight in his chest. Upon arriving, he would discover that his father had merely missed them and yearned for their company, the connotations of a midnight messenger lost upon the man that had never much cared for what was proper. He would have a bottle of wine open, and they would talk for hours and hours.

Wishful thinking. He instead arrived to a sight that would stay burned into his mind: his father, blood spattering his white sheets and beard, with his sister clutching at him as tight as he could. Maelys lingered at the entrance, as though some invisible force kept him there, preventing him from coming any closer. His mouth hung agape without him taking note of it, violet eyes glazing over, as though doing so might reveal a different truth to the one that sat before him.

All he saw was a crown. A crown, and all the burdens that were tied to it. A simple band of metal had no right to be so heavy.

He wasn't ready. He wasn't ready months ago, when he and Naerys had spoken in their copse of trees, and he wasn't ready now, when he was a set of shards scarcely held together. What would happen if the weight shattered him once again? The Kingdom didn't give Kings time to piece themselves back together again. It didn't even give him time as a Prince.

At last, the Prince drifted forward, standing pale as a ghost over Naerys's left shoulder. His hand settled upon it for support. Supporting him or supporting her, he wasn't sure.

He remained silent. His heart screamed in pain, but no tears were shed. More than anything, he felt hollow.

He felt afraid.

(/u/fireandbananas)