63

Chapter 63: Interlude: Aftermath (Redux)Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

"But it was due to his dishonourable and disgraceful actions immediately after his Trial of Seven that saw Borros Baratheon go down in history as the single worst traitor that ever lived. Vilified and denounced by both the Crown and the Faith." 

-Excerpt from The Crowned Stags, by Maester Cressen

111 AC, Red Keep Training Yard

It was over.

"Yield!" Ser Criston commanded, morningstar raised.

Lord Boremund Baratheon let out a long defeated sigh at the sight. The five surviving champions of the Crown were brutally beating his son down, attempting to bend his neck and force him into surrender.

"Yield!" Ser Jessamyn shouted, mace coming down.

Boremund supposed that he should hate the Prince for her brutal beating of his son, and in some way, he still did. But more than that, overwhelmingly more, Boremund was relieved.

"Yield!" Ser Alys ordered, whacking with spear.

Relieved that even now, after all his disrespect, insults and the deaths of two veteran Kingsguard at the hands of his wayward son, Rhaenyra still offered mercy. The Prince had every right, and in fact was practically encouraged, to have Borros summarily executed where he stood, but here she was going out of the way to spare his heir. Her mercy truly had no bounds.

"Yield!" Ser Steffon yelled, halberd striking out.

Borros would break, be it in heartbeats or hours. The five of them would strike him again and again for as long as it took. And eventually, he would crumble.

"Yield!" Rhaenyra Targaryen demanded, battleaxe hitting hard.

Already Lord Boremund was planning arrangements for Borros' future life in Essos. Once he finished his years of hard labour in the Stepstones quarries. Pentos wasn't a bad place to settle down. It had plenty of good silt and clay for bricks and tiles, but had to import proper stone from the mountains of Andalos, and Braavos and Norvos always gouged them on prices.

Exporting stone from the quarries of the Stormlands to the city would turn over a tidy profit. Good enough that his son could live out the rest of his life in comfortable exile, as middleman between Boremund and the Pentoshi.

"Louder!" Ser Alys ordered.

Lord Boremund looked up. Had it been done?

"Say it louder! Your prince commands it!" Rhaenyra Targaryen commanded.

Oh, it had.

"I yield!" Ser Borros shouted through gritted teeth.

The Prince had forced Borros to yield.

"And so ends the Trial by Seven." Archsepton Eustace proclaimed, looking as though he had a toothache. "As Ser Borros has yielded, he withdraws his accusations against Prince Rhaenyra's divine right to rule and will surrender to his rightful punishment at her hands."

As one, the Kingsguard left, taking the time to cover the bodies of their fallen, but otherwise limping off to the Master of Health. Borros was left behind, sprawled in the dirt. They didn't bother restrain him. There was no point, with how badly injured he was.

Boremund himself rose to his feet, summoning his own maester. Borros was badly hurt, and would need immediate medical attention. The Kingsguard had beaten him half to death, and Dark Sister had cut his tendons. His son wouldn't be able to stand, much less walk.

Or so Boremund thought, when Borros suddenly broke into a run.

———

111 AC, Gates of the Moon

Rhaenyra had won.

Jeyne smiled, allowing herself to relax as her bannermen loudly celebrated.

Privately, the young Arryn let out a sigh of relief.

Her best friend and older sister figure, Jessamyn Redfort, not only also survived the Trial by Seven, but slayed two of the mutineer champions. A magnificent showing.

While Jeyne was somewhat offended that her best friend had left her for the white cloak, she couldn't help but feel proud for her. Jessamyn was never meant to be caged. She was meant to soar free. Free to pursue her passion for the sword. Free to avoid any marriage she did not wish. And if by Rhae's side was where the tall Redfort felt she belonged, then Jeyne would let her go with her every blessing.

Just then, she saw General Jaime, her stalwart and loyal cousin, discreetly beckon to her, from the corner of her eye.

Ah, duty called.

The Warden of the East would have to brief the Fourth Legion on the outcome of the Trial by Seven. Spread the news of the Crown Prince's victory. The mutineers would be peacefully returned into the fold, satisfied that it was the will of the Seven that they obey the Prince of Dragonstone and by extension, her appointed Legion commanders.

Just as she left her seat and prepared to leave, a gasp rippled through the crowd.

———

111 AC, Storm's End

The mood in the room was conflicted. The Stormlords were saddened at the defeat of their liege's son, their pride as the single most martial kingdom wounded by their countrymen's loss. But they were simultaneously gladdened that Borros had gotten his comeuppance. Borros was quite frankly, a particularly horrid piece of shit. To anyone and everyone. He deserved every moment of pain he had and would receive at Rhae's hands.

Not that any of that mattered to King Viserys though. The King of the Seven Kingdoms was the picture of celebration. He was loudly cheering at his daughter, wineglass of hippocras raised in a celebratory toast. The first he'd drink since the beginning of the trial over a week ago.

That had to be some sort of world record, Queen Alicent had privately japed with Shaeterys. Her husband loved his drink, and that he'd not indulged in even the smallest sip of any spirits for over an entire week was concerning.

There was a sudden gasp, and Shaeterys turned to the glass candle image, just in time to see Ser Borros Baratheon bring his hammer down onto Rhaenyra Targaryen's blade-crowned helmet, shattering it and pulping the head beneath in a single mighty blow.

The wineglass in King Viserys' hand fell out of his hands, wine like blood spilling on the floor.

———

111 AC, Casterly Rock

Gasps of outrage rippled through the great hall, mixed with shouts of anger. Fat Lord Tymund clutched his chest in utter shock, keeling out of his chair and collapsing to the ground. Convulsing even as Rhaegar screamed in rage and grief, glass shattering and metal warping throughout the hall.

But Lady Mayin Blacktyde heard none of that, falling to her knees in shock and despair as Rhaenyra's corpse hit the ground in a puddle of blood and brain matter.

———

111 AC, Highgarden

The assembled Reachlords were practically frothing at the mouth at Ser Borros' actions. Never before had any of them seen such dishonour and disgrace.

What the knight had done was heresy of the worse possible order. Striking down the rightful victor of a sacred Trial by Combat was unholy enough, but striking down someone whom had won a sanctified Trial by Seven?

Words failed to describe the sheer magnitude of his sacrilege.

Shaera practically choked under the sheer amount of rage that suffused the air around them. Already she could hear the sounds of war. The marching of soldiers. The hoofbeats of horses. The screams of terror and the cries of battle. For how could anyone bear to look upon such evil? The only thing left to do, the righteous thing to do, was to raise their swords and cut out the rot. Rip it out root and stem.

Unlike the lot in Oldtown, the lords and ladies here in Highgarden were Rhaenyra's loyalists, and it showed. They were angry and irrational. Eager to lash out at those that wronged them.

Unless something happened quickly, the Crown might have another war on their hands.

———

111 AC, Harrenhal

All thirty-five of the hearths in the Hall of Hundred Hearts exploded with flames, consuming dozens of unlucky highborn immediately. Even as screams of utter rose through the room, none were heard as Daena roared in anger, her dragon roaring with her. The sounds echoed through Black Harren's Folly. Dust rained from every ceiling and every bat in the castle and bird in the surrounding lands took to the sky in utter terror from the sheer magnitude of rage that burned through the Blood Wyrm's veins.

Not at Borros, for he was but a dead man walking, but at the Kingsguard.

For when the revenge-crazed knight had charged them, the white knights had stepped aside, throwing Ser Alys behind them and leaving Rhae out to dry.

Even as the fire consumed the room, highborn trampling one another in a mad, desperate rush for the door, Daena stood still like a statue, utterly transfixed at the sight before her.

———

111 AC, Winterfell

The First Men were known to be boisterous and loud, openly expressing their emotions without any of the southron complexities. When they grew angry or outraged, they made no secret of it, expressing it loudly and furiously. But those rages passed, once the loud shouts and curses had worked out the anger and winter cold cooled their blood once more.

It was only when the First Men were silent that men should be scared. For that was when they were furious beyond furious, and spoke not, for they knew that no amount of shouting or raging would ever abate the rage.

The entire Great Hall of Winterfell was silent as the grave when blades burst out of Ser Borros Baratheon's chest, Ser Jessamyn ramming Blackfyre through the front as Ser Criston rammed Seafoam through the back.

There were no cheers at the avenging of the Prince. No tears of grief or wails of despair.

They simply watched, faces statues of ice as crimson blood splattered the pristine armour and cloaks of the white knights.

———

111 AC, Sunspear

Cheers rose up in Sunspear as the two knights walked back, letting Ser Borros fall to his knees, the blades still inside him. The Dornish celebrating the death of the former heir to the Stormlands.

Vicious snakes one and all. Daenys furiously thought. While they were smart enough not to celebrate the death of the black knight, she could sense the repressed joy and triumph blossom in the room like incense. No doubt that tonight, many glasses of Dornish red would be raised, toasts to both killers, be they dragons or stags.

Well bred ladies were above feeding nobles that displeased them to her dragon. However, they weren't above abusing their sorcery and covertly hexing the communal flagons of wine.

Daenys closed her eyes, retreating into herself. Letting the physical world fall to the wayside as she dedicated her entire mind into crafting the spell formula, tapping Dreamfyre for power. It had to be precise, swift, and undetectable. All tall order, but Daenys was tutored personally in both science and magic by Rhaenyra herself. She could do it.

The alchemical formula of ethanol was C2H5OH. Daenys sent out a sensory pulse that identified the locations of significant concentrations of ethanol in the room, from the wine in goblets to those in the flagons.

Diarrhoea was caused when the body did not absorb enough water from the food consumed, causing watery stool and an accelerated digestion. Daenys cursed the water in every drink with a sufficient concentration of ethanol to be particularly resistant to absorption by the large intestine.

To cover her tracks, the Dragonseed tied off the power she provided the curses, giving them a short lifespan. They'd fade within the hour, but not before causing sufficient embarrassment to the Dornish.

Satisfied with the petty retaliation, Daenys opened her eyes just in time to see Ser Criston and Ser Jessamyn step aside, letting the lady in rune-inscribed armour approach. The white knight reached down to the corpse of the black knight, retrieving the sword of Queen Visenya from the belt and unsheathing Dark Sister with a hiss.

———

111 AC, Citadel

It took all of Lord Otto's self control not to burst into cheers and dance in celebration.

Rhaenyra was dead.

At long fucking last.

He'd been afraid that even with his aid in scrounging up sufficiently talented warriors, Ser Borros would be unable to do the deed in the Trial by Seven, but the lad hadn't let him down.

It was almost a pity he was dead now. Almost.

Ser Alys was the one finishing off the young Baratheon, it seemed.

The white knight in rune-inscribed armour stalked forward, Dark Sister in hand. She reached up and undid the clasps of her helmet, revealing…

…

…

…

No.

It couldn't be.

"NO!" Lord Otto Hightower roared in utter horror and denial, his triumph now ash, slipping away from his hands.

———

111 AC, Red Keep Training Yard

With a single swing of Dark Sister, Prince Rhaenyra Targaryen took the head of Ser Borros Baratheon.

Notes:

Yup. As some of you guessed previously in the comments section, Rhae and Ser Alys swapped armours and weapons for the battle. The black knight was Ser Alys. While the white knight that killed Ser Perkin and Ser Rickard was Rhae in disguise.

Ser Steffon knew about the swap, so his POV in the last chapter is the only truly accurate one.

Also, can I get some feedback on how well (or poorly) I did the foreshadowing? It was my first time doing something like this and I'd like to know how to improve.