Chapter 46 - Echoes Of Turmoil

124 AC

The eleventh day of the fourth moon

Jacaerys Pov

"Remember to keep your sword close and keep moving," my stepfather, The Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen, reminded me.

I nodded my head, taking in his words.

"Why does he have to fight in the damn squires melee?" my mother exclaimed, frustration evident in her tone.

"You could easily command that bloody peasant to take Jace as his squire," she continued, causing both Daemon and me to grimace.

"He is not a peasant anymore, Muna," I said softly, thinking about how upset Baela would be if she ever heard what Muna said about her favorite knight.

"That dragonseed should be grateful to you, Daemon. After all, he owes everything to you. And just look at what he did yesterday with that bloody thief, wanting to make her into a protector. What a joke. As if these peasants can rise up."

"He is one of the most renowned knights in the realm, Mother, and he is honorable. I would not want Ser Ulf to take me in just because you told him to. I wish to be his squire based on my skills and virtue, not because you asked him to," I explained.

"I know, my sweet child, but I worry for you a lot," she said, gently caressing my face.

"I don't want you to get hurt," she continued.

"I have made sure that no squire above the age of ten joins the squires melee, and added to the fact that young Jace here has trained with the most skilled knights back at Dragonstone," Daemon interjected.

"It will not be that difficult for him to win," he continued confidently.

"After all, he is a strong boy," he whispered with a smirk on his face. But Mother didn't hear him; instead, she focused on drinking a glass of wine.

"Once I ascend to the throne, I'll take the tongues of anyone who wishes to question your parentage," Mother had declared when I confided in her about the relentless rumors I had heard.

Her words were meant to reassure me, to offer protection against those who sought to undermine our legitimacy. But deep down, I couldn't shake the feeling that her response was fueled by more than just a mother's love. It was as if she saw any doubt in our lineage as a personal insult, an affront to her royal bloodline.

Rhaenyra, my mother, had always been fiercely proud of our Targaryen heritage. She held herself with an air of superiority, an unspoken belief that our blood made us better than others. And while I understood her desire to safeguard our family's honor, her approach sometimes bordered on fanaticism.

The whispers of my illegitimacy, of my siblings' questionable parentage, plagued my thoughts. People dared to suggest that our brown hair was evidence of an affair, a betrayal of our Targaryen lineage. It was a constant source of frustration, fueling my determination to prove them wrong.

But Mother's reaction went beyond mere defense. It was a proclamation of power, a warning to all who dared to question the legitimacy of her children. She believed that her reign would bring an end to such slanderous talk, and she would go to any lengths to silence the dissenters.

In her mind, taking the tongues of the doubters seemed like justice, a way to strike fear into the hearts of those who dared to challenge the truth. Yet, it also revealed a darker side of her character, one that thrived on control and retribution.

I loved my mother, but I couldn't help but feel a pang of unease whenever she spoke of punishing others for questioning our heritage. It was as if she harbored a deep-seated fear that the doubts would undermine her claim to the throne, and in turn, her own worth as a Targaryen.

As I prepared for the squires melee, I couldn't help but wonder if our family's obsession with bloodlines and legitimacy would ever truly subside. Would I forever be judged by the color of my hair rather than the strength of my character? Only time would tell.

"You will do well, brother," Lucerys said with a smile on his face.

"Just think about how amazing it will be with you becoming a squire for the White Knight," Joffrey added, excitement evident in his voice.

"Thanks, my brothers," I replied, feeling a surge of energy as I hoped to impress them and become their idol.

"Don't get hurt," Baela said, her cheeks turning rosy as she gave me a kiss on the cheek. I blushed in response, while my brothers chuckled.

As I entered the tournament grounds, I could see Mother seated above in the stands, her face etched with worry. I adjusted the armor I had donned, preparing myself for the upcoming challenge. The atmosphere was electric, with cheers and anticipation filling the air.

I scanned the area and saw boys of my age, all vying for the opportunity to prove themselves. Among them, I noticed a short boy with silver hair, who had chosen not to wear any armor at all. I couldn't help but think of him as a fool, underestimating the dangers that awaited him.

As I surveyed the field, it became evident that I was among the tallest of the squires present. The thought of my imposing stature bolstered my confidence, reminding me that I possessed the physical advantage to match my determination and skill.

However, amidst the anticipation, a voice seemed to whisper in my ear, echoing through the corridors of my mind. "Because your father was Lord Strong," it murmured. I furrowed my brow, dismissing the voice as a figment of my imagination. Now was not the time for distractions or doubts—I had to maintain focus and channel my energy into the task at hand.

The horn sounded, marking the commencement of the melee, and the chaos erupted with a thunderous roar. The clash of steel against steel filled the air, intermingled with the shouts and cheers of the crowd. Adrenaline coursed through my veins as I maneuvered through the flurry of combatants, my sword held firmly in my grip.

With every opponent I faced, I relied not only on my physical stature but also on the countless hours of training bestowed upon me by the skilled knights of Dragonstone. My movements became an intricate dance, a symphony of calculated strikes, agile dodges, and strategic parries. I could sense the fear in my adversaries' eyes as I met their assaults with unwavering resolve.

The melee raged on, and the field grew littered with fallen squires, their dreams of victory dashed against the merciless tide of competition. Yet, I remained steadfast, fueled by the unwavering support of my brothers and the burning desire to leave an indelible mark upon this grand stage.

As I advanced through the rounds, my gaze caught sight of the short boy with silver hair once again. To my surprise, he had defied expectations, maneuvering nimbly amidst the chaos, his lack of armor a testament to his confidence and agility. Perhaps there was more to him than I had initially assumed.

As I fought my way through the remaining squires, it became clear that it was down to just the silver-haired boy and me. He stood as the final obstacle between me and becoming the squire of the White Knight.

My breath grew heavy within the confines of my armor, the weight pressing down on me. I could see the signs of exhaustion on the boy facing me; his breaths were labored, just as mine were. Yet, his determination burned in his purple eyes. There was no room for words, only the clash of our swords.

Gripping my weapon tighter, I squared my shoulders and prepared for the decisive battle. Mud splattered on his form, evidence of his nimble movements and relentless dodging. I raised my sword, poised to strike, and he mirrored my action.

"What is your name?" I called out, hoping to break through the intensity of the moment.

But he ignored my question, his focus solely fixed on our impending clash. His gaze locked with mine, determination radiating from him. He, too, sought victory with unwavering resolve.

Donning my helm, I charged forward, adrenaline surging through my veins. Our swords clashed in a symphony of steel, each strike accompanied by the echoes of our heavy breathing. I marveled at his agility, his ability to evade most of my attacks with lightning speed.

But then, in a momentary lapse, I found myself unable to dodge one of his swift strikes. His sword arced upward, connecting with my helm. The impact rattled me, causing the helmet to fly off, blood trickling down my nose. He wore a triumphant smile, believing he had won the bout.

However, I refused to yield. While his defense was exceptional due to his agility, his attacks lacked the power I possessed. He, too, showed signs of exhaustion. I needed to seize this opportunity.

Gathering my focus, I assessed the situation with quick precision. I couldn't afford to be reckless. I had to play it safe, to outmaneuver him strategically. With a surge of determination, I readied myself for the final exchange.

Our swords clashed once more, a testament to our unwavering wills. I executed a calculated series of strikes, forcing him on the defensive. Blow after blow, I pushed him back, relentless in my pursuit of victory.

As the fight escalated, the exhilaration coursed through my veins. Every parry, every dodge, every strike was fueled by adrenaline and the desire to emerge triumphant. The crowd's cheers melded into a deafening symphony, further igniting the fire within me.

With a swift movement, I capitalized on an opening, launching a precise strike that found its mark. His defense faltered, and he stumbled backward, his strength waning. I pressed my advantage, raining down blows upon him, each strike landing with calculated precision.

He fell to the ground, defeated, and I raised my arms in triumph. However, the thunderous applause I expected did not come. Confused, I turned to look at the audience, only to find a hushed silence that hung heavily in the air. Something was amiss.

As I glanced back at the fallen squire, I was taken aback to see him rising once again, despite his injuries. Determination etched across his face, he mustered his remaining strength and attempted to rush me, but his movements were sluggish and labored. I swiftly retaliated, striking him again, causing him to collapse.

Yet, to my disbelief, he rose once more. Blood seeped from his mouth, his body showing the toll of the brutal fight, but his spirit remained unbroken. There was a resilience in him that both surprised and frustrated me.

"You fought valiantly against the blood of the dragon," I said, attempting to emulate Mother's regal composure.

His face broke into a smile, but his next words struck a nerve deep within me. "You don't look like a Valyrian," he taunted.

That was the breaking point. Exhaustion washed over me, mingling with the deep-rooted anger and frustration that had simmered throughout the fight. I threw my sword to the ground, my control slipping away as I rushed towards him, delivering a forceful punch to his face. He crashed to the ground once again.

But I didn't stop there. Overwhelmed by a surge of pent-up emotions, memories of the jeers and insults hurled by nobles and servants echoed in my mind. The facade of composure shattered, and I unleashed my fury, raining blow after blow upon the fallen squire, the weight of my tired body behind each strike.

The cheers and gasps from the crowd turned into horrified silence as they witnessed my descent into a berserker rage. The ferocity of my assault was fueled by a combination of physical exhaustion and the emotional wounds that had festered within me for far too long.

As the haze of my anger slowly lifted, I felt strong arms wrap around me, lifting me away from the fallen squire. It was Ser Ulf, his presence a grounding force amidst the chaos. The weight of my actions finally crashed down upon me, and I stumbled back, consumed by overwhelming remorse and regret.

Breathing heavily, I gazed at the squire, his body now a canvas of blood and bruises, evidence of the havoc I had wrought. A profound sense of shame engulfed me, eclipsing any remnants of victory that had once burned within me. The cheers and applause had long faded into the distance, replaced by a deafening silence that amplified the gravity of my transgressions.

The realization of what I had become, a vessel of unchecked rage, pierced through the fog of my exhaustion.

Night had fallen, and the entire family gathered around the dining table, each member lost in their own thoughts. The usual lively conversation was replaced with a heavy silence that hung in the air, casting a somber mood over the hall.

As the dishes were served, I found myself unable to partake in the meal. My appetite was gone, my thoughts consumed by the events that had unfolded earlier—the relentless fight with the boy with silver hair. His image lingered in my mind, his battered form a constant reminder of the darkness that had taken hold of me.

At the head of the table, Grandfather's absence loomed large. A sense of emptiness pervaded the space, his booming presence sorely missed. His early retreat to his bed added to the weight of my actions, intensifying the guilt that gnawed at my conscience.

My mother, ever perceptive, noticed my lack of appetite and the distant expression on my face. Concern etched lines on her face as she asked, "Why are you not eating, Jace?"

I struggled to find the words, my voice caught in my throat. How could I explain the turmoil that churned within me? How could I express the remorse that twisted my gut?

"I…" I began, my voice barely a whisper before trailing off into silence.

In an attempt to comfort me, my mother said, "You should be happy, Jace. You won the squires melee."

The words rang hollow in my ears. Yes, I had emerged victorious, but at what cost? The victory tasted bitter, stained by the knowledge that I had lost control, unleashing a fury that had left a fellow squire broken and battered.

"But I hurt him," I managed to utter, my voice heavy with regret.

Rhaena, chimed in, her tone filled with a mix of admiration and mischief. "You beat the living shit out of him, Jace. I must say, I'm impressed. I didn't think you had it in you."

Her words hung in the air, heavy with their unintended implications. The room fell into an uneasy silence, the weight of my actions casting a pall over the once-familiar atmosphere.

Guilt gnawed at my core, intensifying with each passing moment. The image of the fallen squire, broken and bloodied, haunted my thoughts. I couldn't shake the feeling of utter remorse that threatened to consume me.

The silence stretched, the air heavy with unspoken emotions. I felt the weight of disappointment from my family, their unvoiced concern echoing in the stillness. The walls of the hall seemed to close in around me, suffocating me with the knowledge of the harm I had caused.

"It was not your fault for what happened, Jace," Lucerys reassured me, his voice filled with empathy as he continued to eat the pork on the table. His words offered a glimmer of solace, a reminder that the responsibility for the outcome did not solely rest on my shoulders.

I kept my gaze fixed on my plate, lost in my thoughts until I felt Baela's hand gently wrap around mine. Her touch conveyed a comforting warmth, a silent understanding that reached beyond words. As she smiled at me, my spirits lifted, buoyed by the reassurance and support she offered.

After the meal had concluded, Mother summoned Ser Ulf, but he was nowhere to be found. Frustration etched deep lines on her face as she inquired about his whereabouts. It was then that Mushroom, the court fool, scurried into the hall with news of Ser Ulf's absence.

"He is with the maester," Mushroom squeaked, his voice barely audible over the commotion of the hall. Mother demanded an explanation, and Mushroom hesitated before revealing that Ser Ulf had chosen to keep a vigil by the side of the injured squire, Addam. He was offering support not only to the wounded boy but also to Addam's mother and younger sibling.

Infuriated by this revelation, Mother's voice carried a sharp edge as she commanded, "Summon him here. I wish to speak to him immediately."

But just as Mushroom turned to comply with her orders, Vaemond Velaryon, with a smug expression on his face, interjected, "He stated that he does not wish to be disturbed, Princess." The satisfaction in his voice was evident, as if relishing the opportunity to fuel Mother's anger.

Mother's eyes blazed with an intensity that matched the fiery Targaryen blood coursing through her veins. She clenched her fists, her voice laced with a seething fury. "Does he truly believe he can defy my command? No one disregards the wishes of the Crown Princess!"

Nobody said a word as everyone was tense and Mushroom went to bring Ser Ulf along with Ser Hugh and Ser Harlon.

There was deathly silence and then Ser Ulf came in his white shirt flowing down his head and his tunic had traces of blood.

The tension in the hall was palpable, the air thick with anticipation as Mother's command hung in the air. The silence remained unbroken, each person acutely aware of the brewing storm that awaited Ser Ulf upon his arrival. Mushroom scurried away with haste, accompanied by the imposing figures of Ser Hugh and Ser Harlon, their presence adding to the weight of the impending confrontation.

Minutes stretched into an eternity as the hall held its breath. Then, like a figure emerging from a haunting nightmare, Ser Ulf appeared. His white shirt billowed around him, a stark contrast against the dark backdrop of the hall. Bloodstains marred his tunic, a visible testament to the trials he had faced. His weary form stood tall, a stoic defiance etched upon his face.

The hall fell into a deathly silence, all eyes fixated on the man. Mother's gaze bore into Ser Ulf, her regal demeanor radiating with anger.

The silence continued, the silence of a battlefield before the first strike. The anticipation was palpable, each heartbeat echoing in the stillness. The very essence of the hall seemed to hold its breath, caught in the grip of this high-stakes confrontation.

No one dared to speak, for fear of igniting the dormant flames that danced within Mother's eyes. The tension was suffocating, an invisible web spun tightly around the hearts of all those present.

"Who do you think you are to defy my command?" Mother's voice sliced through the silence, sharp as a dagger.

Confusion flashed across Ser Ulf's face as he attempted to comprehend the accusation. "What do you mean by that, Princess?" he asked, his voice tinged with genuine bewilderment.

Mother's anger blazed like wildfire, transforming her features into a mask of fury. "Just look at him, acting so glib," she seethed. "Just because you were my husband's squire does not grant you the audacity to defy royal authority."

Her words hung in the air like venomous daggers, each syllable carrying the weight of her disdain. A collective unease settled upon the room as the implications of Mother's words sank in. The depth of her fury was chilling, a reminder of the volatile power she wielded as a Targaryen princess.

But it was her next words that sent shockwaves through the gathered onlookers. "Bloody peasant, who thinks he is a knight," she spat out with venomous contempt. The hall grew uncomfortably still, as if the very walls recoiled at the vitriol dripping from her words.

Gasps of disbelief and disapproval filled the air, as the full weight of Mother's derogatory remark settled upon the hearts of those present. Her scathing insult struck at the core of Ser Ulf's identity, cutting deep into his pride and honor. The room bristled with tension, as if the air itself crackled with an electric charge, fueling the building storm.

But then, in a defiant roar that shattered the suffocating silence, Rhaena's voice rang out. "Shut your mouth, you bitch! You have no right to call him that!" The words echoed through the hall, a declaration of unwavering loyalty and a vehement defense against the injustice of Mother's attack.

​

The room fell into stunned silence, the weight of Rhaena's outburst echoing in the hearts of all those present. Her impassioned words reverberated with a righteous anger, challenging the foundation of Mother's authority. The air grew heavy with the truth that had been spoken, exposing the ugliness of Mother's words and the vulnerability of her unchecked rage.

But before the tension could escalate any further, Daemon's hand struck out, delivering a resounding slap across Rhaena's face. The sound reverberated through the hall, an echo of shock and disbelief.

"Do not call her that, do you understand?" Daemon's voice, cold and commanding, cut through the charged atmosphere. His words hung heavy with authority, a stern admonition that brooked no defiance.

Rhaena, stunned by the unexpected blow, stood frozen in disbelief. Her eyes welled with tears, mirroring the shock and hurt that radiated from within her. The room, once filled with anticipation, was now swallowed by a stifling silence.

"You see what he has done, Daemon? He has turned your own daughter against me!" Mother's voice seethed with anger, her gaze fixed on Ulf with a fiery intensity.

She turned her attention towards Ulf, her words laced with disdain. "You should be grateful that you are getting the chance to take the future king of the Seven Kingdoms as your squire—a honor that you are not worthy of," she spat out, her words dripping with venom. Suddenly, all eyes were on me, the weight of their expectations heavy upon my shoulders.

"You are mistaken, Princess," Ulf responded, his voice calm and measured. "I am not taking Prince Jacaerys as my squire."

The air in the room grew thick with tension as my heart sank, a sense of unease settling within me. The words hung in the air, a bitter revelation that shattered my hopes and aspirations in an instant.

"What?" Mother roared, her fury escalating to new heights. "Who are you to reject my son?" she demanded, her voice laced with indignation.

"He won the squires melee," she insisted, her voice brimming with wounded pride.

Ulf's gaze remained steady, his resolve unyielding. "I never said that I would take in the winner of the melee, Princess," he explained. "The one who showed the qualities of a true knight would be selected as my squire."

The room seemed to hold its breath, caught in the tense standoff between Mother and Ulf. Each word uttered escalated the confrontation, threatening to shatter the fragile peace that had been carefully balanced upon the edge of a knife.

"And who do you think is worthy of that? Are you saying my son is unworthy?" Mother's voice quivered with a mix of fury and wounded pride.

Ulf's tone remained steady, his words cutting through the air like a chilling wind. "A knight is meant to protect the weak and innocent. A true knight shows mercy to a fallen opponent, and does not beat them senseless," he stated, his words laden with the weight of moral conviction.

"That is why I have decided to take in young Addam as my squire," Ulf concluded, his voice resonating with a quiet resolve that left no room for debate.

The room erupted in gasps and whispers, the air alive with shock and disbelief. The confrontation had taken an unexpected turn, leaving Mother momentarily stunned, her authority challenged in a way she had not anticipated.

"Who the hell is this Addam that you speak of?" Mother's voice sliced through the tense atmosphere, demanding an answer.

"He is a bastard from Hull, Your Grace," one of the lickspittles from Mother's court spoke up, his voice dripping with a mix of condescension and disdain.

Mother's eyes blazed with fury as she processed the revelation. "You chose a bastard over my son, who is a prince?" Her words reverberated through the hall, each syllable punctuated by wounded pride and indignation.

Ulf's gaze remained steady, his composure unwavering in the face of Mother's outrage. "It was not an insult, Princess," he responded, his tone respectful yet resolute. "There are many great knights in your service who can take young Jacaerys and guide him on the path to improvement. But there is no one there for young Addam, and truth be told, I see a reflection of myself in him."

The room fell into a stunned silence, the weight of Ulf's words echoing in the air.

"Rhaenyra, calm down," Daemon interjected, his voice a soothing balm amidst the turmoil. He reached out and took Mother's hand in his, a gesture of reassurance and understanding. "Jacaerys made a mistake, and it's not Ulf's fault for wanting to choose that bastard as his squire. Jacaerys lost his temper. They are just boys."

Mother's expression softened as Daemon's words began to permeate her anger. She seemed to consider his perspective, her grip on her own fury slowly loosening. Yet, her gaze shifted towards me, and a heavy silence settled upon the room.

"Jaec, my boy," she began, her voice filled with a mixture of concern and a hint of disappointment. "I have known you since you were a babe, and not once have I seen you lose control. What could have possibly driven you to such an extreme?"

Her question hung in the air, a weighty inquiry that I had feared since the moment my anger had consumed me. Nervously, I shifted in my seat, contemplating how to articulate the words that had ignited my rage.

"Mother," I stammered, my voice trembling with the weight of my confession. "The reason I lost control... it was because Addam said... he said that I had no Valyrian blood in me."

The revelation landed like a thunderclap, reverberating through the room. Mother's expression transformed from curiosity to utter fury in an instant. The air grew heavy with a charged silence, pregnant with the implications of my words.

Mother's voice, laced with venom and seething with rage, shattered the silence like a glass shattering on marble. "The tongue of that insolent bastard," she hissed, her demand a chilling decree that sent a shiver down my spine.

"Ser Erryk, go and bring me the tongue of that insolent bastard," she commanded, her tone dripping with vengeful fury. The weight of her words hung heavily in the air, a foreboding cloud that cast a shadow over the room. As soon as the order left her lips, a horrified gasp escaped my own, my mind reeling at the gravity of her command. Even Ser Ulf's typically composed expression twisted into a mask of concern, while Ser Erryk himself appeared torn, his loyalties divided.

However, in the midst of the tension, a figure emerged from the periphery, a woman with flowing black hair, her eyes ablaze with a fierce determination. She positioned herself between Ser Erryk and the path to his intended destination, her voice rising to a defiant crescendo.

"You will not touch a single hair of my son!" she screamed, her words piercing through the air like an arrow finding its mark. Her outburst reverberated through the room, the tension growing thicker with each passing moment.

The atmosphere crackled with nervous energy, each breath held in anticipation of what would come next. It was a battle of wills, a clash between Mother's unwavering authority and the fierce protectiveness of a mother defending her child.

"My son suffered due to your child," she proclaimed, her voice trembling with a raw mixture of anguish and fury. "Do you know how bruised and battered his body and face are? And now you wish to take his tongue? What kind of person are you?"

The words hung heavy in the air, weighted with the pain and suffering inflicted upon her child. Each syllable carried the weight of a mother's heartbreak and the indomitable strength of her love. Her voice cracked with emotion, a symphony of anger and despair, reverberating through the room and piercing the hardened hearts that had witnessed the unfolding turmoil.

The room stood suspended in a tense stillness, the confrontation reaching a crescendo of emotional intensity. All eyes were fixed on the woman with black hair, her gaze unwavering as she confronted Mother with a blazing determination. In her impassioned plea, she stripped away the veil of power and titles, exposing the humanity beneath, and challenging the very core of Mother's being.

"Don't you have children of your own?" she continued, her voice quivering with a mixture of desperation and disbelief. "What kind of mother are you?" Her words, charged with an unyielding truth, struck at the heart of Mother's actions, peeling away the layers of authority to reveal the fragility of her choices.

Tears welled in the woman's eyes, shimmering with unshed sorrow and unbridled love for her child. Each tear was a testament to the agony she had witnessed, the pain that had etched deep into her soul. It was a mother's plea, a cry for empathy and understanding amidst the clash of power and privilege.

"Mother," I pleaded, desperation lacing my voice, but my words fell upon deaf ears. The resolve in her eyes remained unyielding, her determination to punish Addam unshaken.

"Your son questioned the legitimacy of mine, implying that the blood of Old Valyria does not flow through him," she stated, her voice laden with indignation and fury. In her mind, there was no room for mercy, no space for forgiveness. She was determined to exact her retribution.

"He is just a child, princess. He doesn't know better. I beg of you, please forgive him," the woman pleaded, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and heartfelt desperation. She sank to her knees, her plea an act of both submission and unyielding love.

But Mother's gaze remained cold, unyielding to the woman's entreaties. "Ser Erryk, did I tell you to stop?" she demanded, her tone dripping with authority and expectation.

Ser Erryk hesitated, torn between his loyalty and the weight of the moment. He cast a glance backward, searching for an escape from this ethically compromised situation. Yet, Mother's command echoed in his ears, the weight of her authority leaving him with little choice.

As he began to walk towards the exit, the woman, driven by a mother's undying love, threw herself before him, attempting to halt his progress. The courtiers, their hearts devoid of empathy, sneered and chuckled at the spectacle unfolding before them.

The cries of the woman were abruptly silenced as Ser Erryk pushed her away, her body crashing against the ground with a sickening thud. Blood trickled from her head, staining the floor with a stark reminder of the brutality and callousness of those who stood idly by.

"Marilda!" Ser Ulf's anguished cry pierced through the mocking laughter of the courtiers. He rushed to her side, his eyes filled with a mixture of despair and fury. As he held her, his gaze met the apathetic gazes of those who had witnessed the tragedy unfold. In that moment, his faith in the knightly virtues of empathy and justice wavered, replaced by a seething disdain for the lack of compassion he witnessed.

Slowly, he rose to his feet, his voice filled with a solemn resolve. "A knight is meant to be a protector. In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women."

His words reverberated through the hall, challenging the very foundations upon which the courtiers stood. The silence that followed was deafening, their complacency and inaction laid bare before them.

"I cannot let this go," he declared, his voice unwavering in the face of adversity. "Ser Erryk, stop right there. I know you have a good heart, and I know you are following orders, but in no good conscience can I let you do this."

Ser Erryk, conflicted and burdened by the weight of his duty, hesitated for a moment. He unsheathed his sword, its gleaming blade reflecting his inner turmoil. "I do not want to do this to you, Ulf," he confessed, his voice tinged with regret and sorrow. "You are a good man. Please, move aside."

But Ulf stood resolute, his unwavering dedication to his principles shining through. As the standoff reached its climax, Mother's voice cut through the heavy silence, commanding Ser Erryk to strike down anyone who stood in his way.

Yet, in a moment of startling defiance, Ser Erryk remained rooted to the spot, his sword poised mid-air. "I cannot do this, Princess," he said, his voice heavy with sorrow and regret. His disobedience was an act of quiet rebellion, a reflection of the deep conflict within him.

"No more mercy for that bastard, I have been patient enough. I do not want his tongue; I want his head" Mother declared, her voice carrying an air of finality and malevolence.

But before anyone could react, before the darkness could descend further, the resounding voice of Grandfather broke through the tumultuous atmosphere. The doors burst open, and in came the Sea Snake, a figure of strength and wisdom, poised to reclaim control of the situation.

"There will be no such thing," he thundered, his voice resolute and commanding. The Sea Snake, the legendary figure whose wisdom and authority demanded respect, stood tall and unwavering. His words echoed through the hall, penetrating the atmosphere thick with tension. The weight of his presence silenced the room, compelling all eyes to turn toward him.

"You are on my island, Princess," he continued, his voice laced with an unyielding authority. "And you have no right to demand the head of anyone. Remember, you are not yet the queen."

His declaration reverberated through the air, challenging the very foundations of Mother's assumed power.

Mother, visibly taken aback by the Sea Snake's assertion, clenched her fists, her expression a mixture of disbelief and simmering rage. The room, once engulfed in chaos and uncertainty, now stood on the precipice of a battle of wills between two formidable figures.

"You dare question my authority?" Mother hissed, her voice dripping with venom. The words hung in the air, pregnant with the weight of the power struggle that now unfolded.

The Sea Snake remained unflinching, his gaze steady and unwavering. "I question the abuse of power, Princess," he replied, his tone infused with both respect and defiance. "As Lord of this island, I am bound to protect its people, to ensure justice prevails."

The tension in the room mounted, the clash of egos reverberating like a gathering storm. The courtiers watched, their breath held, as the standoff between these two forces of authority unfolded before them.

Mother's face twisted with a mixture of fury and frustration, the realization of her limited dominion dawning upon her. Her desire for retribution clashed with the limits imposed by the island's jurisdiction.

The Sea Snake, unyielding in his resolve, extended his hand towards Marilda, the fallen woman who had become a symbol of the injustices inflicted upon the weak. "Come, my lady," he said, his voice gentler now, offering solace and protection. "You and your sons will find safety and sanctuary under my care."

Marilda, her face streaked with tears, looked up at the Sea Snake, gratitude mingling with the lingering pain of her ordeal. She took his outstretched hand, a glimmer of hope shining in her eyes.

"Ulf, could you please escort her back to her son?" Grandfather's voice broke the heavy silence, filled with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the recent turmoil. He extended his hand towards Ulf, a gesture of compassion and understanding. Ulf, with a soft smile and a nod of his head, stepped forward to take Marilda's hand. With a newfound sense of purpose, he guided her away from the chaos and towards the solace that awaited her.

As the room remained captivated by the unfolding events, a weighty proclamation filled the air. "And now, anyone who is not a Targaryen or Velaryon shall leave," Grandfather declared.

​While I just wished for this terrible day to end already.