62

Chapter 62: Interlude: ExecutionerNotes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

"The Eldest Sister was tall and robust, her beauty harsh and austere. Her hair was spun dragonglass, her flesh carved from marble. Her wings and halo were cold iron, jagged and barbed, with feathers of bone, covered in blood, red and dark. Her raiments were a suit of steel plate, battleworn and without lustre. A helmet of unyielding steel crowned her head. She held in her hands a sword and shield.

'Young Prince, I shall counsel you Justice.' The Angel declared. 'The stag has broken the laws of gods and men, laws he swore to obey before a holy septon of the Faith. There can only be one fate for oathbreakers. That of the Stranger's blade.'

'There can be no compromise with evil. A single drop of poison is enough to kill the entire flock. Do not let the taint spread. Execute the stag, and he shall be unable to corrupt any of the true and loyal.'

'You shall weep, you shall plead, but there is no recourse. Justice burns both the accuser and the accused. The exorcism of evil is like the lancing of a boil. Painful and hard, a path few dare embark on. But it is your duty as Prince to swing the sword yourself, when everyone else balks. Because you must. Then, and only then, can recovery begin.'"

-The Dilemma of Judgement

111 AC, Red Keep Training Yard

Rhaenys cast an imperious glare over the seven knights. They were quite the sorry lot. Oh it wasn't that they were poor fighters. Far from it. In another life, mayhaps some of these men could have worn a white cloak and served on the Kingsguard. But alas, barring any emergencies, they'd be hard-pressed to become a White Knight, for men of their ill-repute were often more trouble than they were worth in peacetime.

It saddened her, that House Baratheon had fallen so far as to be forced to rely on such unsavoury knights. Little more than killers for hire. But then again, only the unsavoury would line up beneath the banner of the former Heir to the Stormlands. Borros' tarnishing had caused the mutineer cause to flounder, and Rhaenyra had hammered in the last nails of that coffin over the past week since the trial.

The Crown Prince had approached the most influential among the mutineers, and had successfully convinced them to return to the fold. And with the desertion of three of the most powerful highborn after Borros himself, the rest couldn't leave any faster, abandoning the cause like rats fleeing a sinking ship.

Still, Borros had managed to scrounge up another six knights for his team.

Ser Gyles Greycloak. A mutineer and one of the last loyalists in that cause. His unsavoury deeds saw him with a list of crimes harsh enough that after Borros, it'd be his head next on the chopping board. But he was skilled with his mace and shield, with a streak of victories in the melee, and that was all that mattered.

Ser Mervyn Flowers. Bastard half-brother of Lord Unwin Peake. A young man, but already known as a dutiful and respectable knight. Not to mention skilled with his longsword. His career wasn't exactly pristine, but hardly anything that would warrant more than a tongue-lashing. There were hundreds of knights like him among the mutineers, mutinying solely for better treatment or in support of their fellow highborn and not because they believed they were above consequence. So then why was he not doing as they did and retreating back into the fold? He didn't strike Rhaenys as the loyal type.

Ser Orwiel the Open-Handed. Another mutineer. He had cowardice and desertion on his record, not to mention quite a few corruption cases. But he was rich, due to his many tourney victories. Of the seven, he wore the best arms and bore the best weapons, with thick and ornate steel plate and armed with a sharp bastard sword. And it was likely his coin that helped buy the next members of the team…

Ser Perkin the Flea. A knighted sellsword from Flea Bottom whom had never renounced his mercenary ways. Dressed in oiled chainmail and boiled leather, bearing shortswords and daggers. Still, for all his disrepute, he had some low cunning and charisma, and was a very skilled killer.

Ser Marston Waters. Another mercenary knight, this time from Dragonstone. Another man, bought by coin. He wore a battered brigantine and bore a longsword. Like Ser Perkin, he had a mercenary's talent for murder, and Borros seemed quite pleased by his addition.

Ser Rickard Thorne. It was strange to see someone with his honour and skill fighting alongside such disreputable members of society. Unlike the rest, he was neither a mutineer nor a sellsword. His repute was flawless, and his skill undoubted. So then why was he with Borros, sharpening his battleaxe and preparing his plate for a fight?

Then there was Borros himself, clad in a thick and heavy suit of plate, hefting in a single hand a warhammer so big and heavy it would take a strong man two hands to carry, while holding a thick oaken shield in the other.

"Alright, listen up you lousy louts." Rhaenys snapped, commanding all of their attention. "I don't like you. I don't like any of you, and quite frankly, I'm hoping that my niece and the Kingsguard slaughter you all."

She turned to face Borros, her eyes boring into her wayward cousin.

"But I owe your father a lot, and he has asked me to brief you all on your opponents, so listen up, because I'm only going to do it once." Rhaenys commanded. While Borros looked leery, the rest nodded and gave her their full attention.

"Your opponents today are, apart from Rhaenyra herself, six members of the Kingsguard." The Queen Who Never Was began. "Lord Commander Criston Cole, Ser Steffon Darklyn, Ser Jessamyn Redfort, Ser Alys Royce and the Cargyll Twins."

"Not Ser Willas Fell?" Ser Marston asked. "I was told that he was a better fighter than Ser Alys Royce."

"He is." Rhaenys confirmed. "But no, Rhaenyra has passed over him for some reason."

Rhaenys privately suspected it was because the man was a good friend of Ser Rickard Thorne, and a staunch Hightower supporter. The Crown Prince was afraid that he'd yield without a fight, which was why the less skilled but significantly more loyal Ser Alys got chosen. But Rhaenys didn't mention that.

"Now, Ser Alys Royce. Uses a longsword and light armour. She hits fast and prefers to dodge, much like Rhaenyra herself. My husband Corlys has lent Rhaenyra Seafoam for the battle, and I expect Ser Alys to be the one wielding it." Rhaenys continued. "Rhaenyra and Alys are the two weakest members of the team, but that doesn't mean they're pushovers. Underestimate them at your peril.

"The same goes for Ser Steffon Darklyn." She warned. "Now he isn't exactly a heavy hitter, but that doesn't mean he can't and won't kill you if you're careless. He's a very good defender with his halberd and tower shield.

"Then there are the Cargyll Twins. Arryk and Erryk. One uses a spear, the other a battleaxe. Don't ask me which is which because I don't know." Those two were notoriously hard to distinguish. The Dragonseeds had made a game of guessing whom was whom, but so far none had achieved consistent results. "They fight as a pair, and when together, are more deadly than any other two Kingsguard."

"Even Criston Cole and Jessamyn Redfort?" Ser Rickard asked.

"Yes. Even them." Rhaenys nodded. "Do not underestimate their teamwork. They fight like they have one mind, and can communicate without talking. To fight one is to fight both.

"And speaking of Cole and Redfort, they're the two most skilled of the Kingsguard, and for good reason." The Lady of the Tides continued. "They both fought in the melee at King Viserys' coronation, and were among the four champions out of near a thousand knights.

"Ser Jessamyn wields a bastard sword, and is the single best swordsman among the Kingsguard. And as the Prince prefers Dark Sister, I highly suspect Rhaenyra will loan Ser Jessamyn Blackfyre for this fight." It was honestly either her or Cole, but Ser Criston preferred a morningstar in battle.

"Then there's Lord Commander Criston Cole. Morningstar and shield. Solid in both offence and defence and the best fighter of the Kingsguard." Rhaenys finished. "Do not underestimate any one of them. Every single one of them is a deadly warrior and can and will cut you down where you stand."

The sound of boots on stone drew them out of their focus.

The Kingsguard had arrived.

Six white knights trailed behind a solitary black knight. Their helms hid their faces, but Rhaenys could see the hatred and fury burning in their eyes.

Their weapons glinted in the morning sun. Dark Sister, Blackfyre, Seaform, morningstar, halberd, spear and battleaxe. The steel all thirsting for the blood of the mutineers.

They stood at their side of the training yard in a V-formation—Rhaenyra in front and three on either side of her— patiently awaiting their opponents.

It was like a crow leading a flock of doves.

Rhaenyra's armour was black as the night, and polished till it shone, with red highlights on the rims of the plate. Her cloak was thick red wool, clasped by dragonbone. This wasn't her usual set of unadorned plate, matte and practical. No. This was the ceremonial set of ornate plate she wore for formal occasions, such as the Surrender of Dorne.

Though there had been some changes to the armour over the past year. The gauntlets of the armour were still black steel, but the hands had been painted gold, as befitting the Lady Hand. But more noticeably, was the helmet. A ring of jagged blades now rose from the rim of the black steel helm.

A crown of woe. Rhaenys thought. For the Dragonqueen.

The black armour of the Crown Prince was imposing, but the Kingsguard were no less impressive, in their flawless suits of white plate. An honour guard of stars, surrounding a black sun.

The black knight brandished Dark Sister, baring the ancient blade at her foes, and the six white knights followed suit, challenging the mutineers for the Heir to the Iron Throne.

"I'd wish you luck." Rhaenys said, turning to leave. "But I actually hope that the Kingsguard slay you all, so I shall not.

"Go." She bid her cousin. "Go and die, you fools."

Rhaenys limped up the stairs to the stands, and sat beside her husband in the top box. The fourteen combatants all lined up on either side of the training yard, weapons at the ready.

Archsepton Eustace stepped forwards. As the highest ranked septon in the city, he was the man officiating the event.

"We are gathered here today before the Seven-who-are-One to determine the truth of accusations of Ser Borros Baratheon, pertaining to Prince Rhaenyra's divine right to rule." The man droned. He wasn't happy with the phrasing, but he had no choice in the matter.

Rhaenyra had successfully convicted Borros, beyond any measure of doubt, so this couldn't be about Ser Borros' crimes, as a man found irrefutably guilty could not call a Trial by Combat. However, unlike a Trial by Combat, which required charges in order to be called, a Trial by Seven could be called on near any matter under the sun.

In this case, it was regarding Rhaenyra's divine mandate of rule. The one she had claimed the Seven had blessed her with the day she slew Oscar Tully in this very yard, nearly seven years ago. She'd phrased it that Ser Borros was calling it into question, and would prove it, beyond all doubt, here and now, that her divine mandate was real.

A Trial by Seven would solidify her worthiness to the throne, beyond all doubt.

Even Maegor, loathsome as he was, had managed to placate more than half the realm when he won his own Trial by Seven. Only the Reach and Westerlands continued their defiance against him, with even the bastions of Faith that were the Riverlands and Vale bending the knee and acknowledging his divine mandate to rule.

Of course, he became a tyrant later, and those two regions also rose up against him, but the general consensus was that the Seven had chosen Maegor for a reason.

The reason being that without his cruelty, the greatest king in Westerosi history would never have come into being. Young Jaehaerys needed to have seen Maegor's cruelty, his tyranny and sin, so as to learn how not to be a king. The Wise King had spent a lifetime mending bridges and healing the realm. He ruled just and wisely, desperate to purify the reputation of House Targaryen and restore trust in the crown. Thus bringing over half a century of peace and prosperity to the realm.

For every winter the people had to endure, the gods would send a summer as a reward. The suffering made men remain humble and good. It tested their Faith, purging the weak, and allowing those with strong hearts and unwavering piety to rise again, stronger than ever.

The same was said about Maegor. To rise, one first had to fall.

"May the gods shine their light and bless he whom is the most just and righteous." The Septon finished, Rhaenys frowning at the subtle insult. She knew that the man disliked Rhaenyra and would rather see Aegon as King, but openly voicing such disdain? Mayhaps he'd be due an encounter with a sharp piece of metal through the eye.

"I hereby begin the Trial by Seven!" He ordered, the heralds blowing the horns and signalling the start of the fight.

As one, the Kingsguard immediately arrayed themselves between their opponents and Rhaenyra, the Crown Prince retreating to the rear as the rest started forwards, striding towards the seven approaching warriors.

Rhaenys took in their formation. Rhaenyra at the back, protected by Ser Steffon Darklyn and Ser Criston Cole. The Cargyll Twins on the right and the two female Kingsguard on the left.

Borros immediately hefted his warhammer and charged in with a loud battlecry. The two pairs of knights let him pass, Ser Steffon immediately taking point, tower shield raised. Down the massive hammer went, but instead of blocking, Ser Steffon took a single step back, letting the warhammer just barely scrape his shield, immediately swinging his halberd in an attack, aiming for Borros' head. The heir to the Stormlands blocked the strike with his shield, only to take a shield bash to the face as Ser Steffon immediately dashed into his guard.

The Kingsguard had somehow manoeuvred his halberd into position, despite the size of the weapon, and immediately thrust forwards, Borros barely managing to dodge. The spear tip skimmed Borros' helmet, just to the side of his left eye, trailing sparks. Borros struck the halberd with the side of his shield, knocking the polearm down, only for Ser Steffon to dextrously twirl it around with a single hand, turning the knock down into a spin and bringing the axe head down on Borros' left shoulder.

But the blow didn't have enough strength behind it. It didn't pierce the steel paudron.

With a yell of rage, Ser Borros swung his warhammer, Ser Steffon immediately bracing behind his shield and taking the blow. Chips of wood flew into the air from the strike. As soon as the warhammer was blocked, Rhaenyra and Ser Criston moved to attack, both flowing around Ser Steffon's shield like water around a rock, pincering Borros.

Borros immediately reversed his strike, the warhammer backswing forcing Rhaenyra back before Dark Sister could lop off his right hand. Borros spun with the strike, turning completely around and bringing the hammer to bear on Ser Criston Cole.

The Lord Commander managed to get his shield in place to block the strike, but the blow splintered the wood and knocked him backwards, off his feet. Ser Steffon's struck out with his halberd when Borros overextended from the great swing, but his weapon merely glanced off the man's gorget. Rhaenyra cut in, moving in with liquid smoothness and slicing the back of Borros' right knee with Dark Sister.

Baratheon blood dropped onto the ground.

———

Ser Jessamyn's blade came for his head, Blackfyre thirsting for blood. Ser Gyles barely managed to block the strike with his shield, wincing as another sliver of wood was lopped off it. Still, he lunged in, mace aiming for Ser Jessamyn's head. The girl turned the blow, pushing it to the side with the flat of her sword before transitioning straight into a riposte that only just narrowly missed his right eye, Valyrians steel carving a gash in his helmet.

She stepped back fluidly, avoiding his shield bash by a hair and counterattacking in the same strike, carving another gash into an already gash-covered shield. Her sword immediately reversed it's swing, slashing yet another gash into his shield while parrying his mace strike in the same movement.

Ser Jessamyn was good. Far better than any woman had the right to be.

She kept her hands near her body, allowing her to defend quickly, while her attack pattern was flawless. Heavy two-handed strikes, swung with enough skill to parry even as she struck. Were he a lesser knight, his corpse would be littering the sandy ground.

As another chunk of his shield was taken from him by Blackfyre, Ser Gyles decided that it was time for reckless moves. Playing it safe was what Ser Jessamyn wanted, her strikes slowly cutting his shield apart, after which, it would be his armour and flesh she'd be cutting into.

Abandoning all caution, he blocked yet another blow with his shield before throwing his mace at her.

The move stunned the Kingsguard, her eyes instinctively following the weapon even as she dodged. For one brief instant, she didn't watch Ser Gyles. That was all he needed.

With a scream of fury he charged straight into Ser Jessamyn, smashing his battered shield into her. She crumpled and went down, Ser Gyles immediately kicking Blackfyre out of her grip. The Kingsguard hastily rolled to the side, dodging his kick to her face and swiftly lunging back up onto her feet, ramming her helmet into his chin and causing the Belgrave knight to bite his tongue.

As he reeled from the pain, spitting out blood, Ser Jessamyn's leg struck the back of Gyles' right knee, causing him to fall onto his back, legs swept from under him. By sheer dumb luck and instinct, he managed to bring his shield up to protect his face, stopping a dagger blow that would have taken his eye, only to feel a second knife slide into ribs and twist.

As he screamed incoherently in pain, choking on his own blood, he felt the knife in his side leave with a bloody squelch before his shield was forced aside by a gauntleted hand.

The last thing Ser Gyles 'Greycloak' Belgrave ever saw was the stiletto, bright red with his own blood, plunge through his eye.

The Trial by Seven had claimed its first casualty.

———

The Cargyll Twins fought four opponents at once, standing back-to-back, spear and axe covering each other perfectly. The polearm kept their opponents at bay, while the battleaxe blocked any blow that made it through the defense.

They weren't winning, but at the same time, neither were they losing.

Bell watched them in awe. Never before had she seen such great teamwork. It was like one brother could read the other's mind, speaking without words. Moving as one.

There was a sudden scream of pain, and all eyes turned to see Ser Jessamyn finish off the Greycloak.

Ser Orwiel stared, unable to tear his eyes from the sight, and was punished for that. The spear immediately struck out, viper-quick, whacking his weapon right out of his hand.

"I yiel—" The fat knight in ornate armour tried, only for him to be shoved forwards by Ser Marston Waters. The axeman instinctively struck out with his weapon, the blade chopping straight through the small gap between helm and gorget, blood spurting out of his wound.

Even as the axeman's eyes widened in horror at the way Ser Orwiel was used as a shield, Ser Mervyn immediately struck out with his longsword. He grasped his sword by the blade and smashed the pommel into the axeman's head. He took a spear in the gorget, getting knocked onto his rump, but his armour held.

The other two knights immediately took advantage of the spearman overreaching and the axeman's stun.

Ser Rickard's battleaxe came down on the spearman's hand, taking three fingers in a spurt of blood, the spear clattering to the ground. Meanwhile, Ser Marston's blade went through the visor of the axeman and buried itself deep in his head, killing the axe-wielding twin instantly.

With a great roar of pain and grief, the surviving twin's unhurt hand snatched up his brother's axe before it could drop. The Kingsguard swung it as hard as he could, the axe smashing straight into the side of Ser Maston's neck, severing the spine before the bastard could wrench the blade out of the axeman's corpse.

The spearman's skull was split by Ser Rickard's own battleaxe a bare heartbeat later, and with the last of his strength, the Kingsguard cradled his twin, holding him tight even as he fell to the ground and died.

The Kingsguard had just taken their first casualties.

———

Ser Perkin was fast, his strikes razor quick. He fought with a shortsword in either hand, parrying with one even as he struck with the other. Attacking from unexpected angles and directions. One shiny steel, while the other was dull iron. It threw knights off balance, he found, with them unable to focus on either. Get used to the shiny one, and they never see the dull one coming. And vice-versa.

Unfortunately, despite being a woman, his opponent was no slouch with her sword. She was quite clearly trained as a water dancer, light as a feather, quick as the wind and fluid as water, distance and footwork with every delicate step she took.

A tough matchup for Ser Perkin, given that he was also a fighter that prioritised speed, leveraging it to take down hulking warriors in plate and chainmail. He wasn't used to fighting someone whom was quite frankly, just as fast if not faster than he was.

It didn't help that his shiny sword trick wasn't working too well. Ser Alys had cottoned on and instead of watching his sword, was now watching his stance.

Annoyingly enough, the lady knight didn't let him close the distance, constantly using her longer sword to keep him at bay while riposting with light but quick strikes. A foot there, a finger there, a knee there. He dodged most of those strikes, but every so often he'd get gashed, Valyrian steel cutting through the mercenary knight's boiled leathers and ringmail like they were paper, though unable to score decisive hits.

Nevertheless, the pain was slowly mounting, and he felt his strength start to ebb.

She was even moving while they fought, circling such that Ser Perkin was between Gyles and herself, preventing his partner from catching her off guard. 

That was inconvenient. Still, this wasn't the first time Ser Perkin had defeated a water dancer and if the Flea had anything to say about it, it most certainly wasn't going to be his last.

A thump drew his attention, and to his horror, he saw Ser Gyles on his back, Ser Jessamyn atop him. The lady pulled a stiletto out of Gyles' ribs, the thin blade having slid through the rings of the chainmail covering the man's belly. As the Greycloak screamed in pain, Gyles' shield was forced aside, and Ser Jessamyn rammed her stiletto through his eye. Forever silencing the man.

Ser Perkin's distraction proved costly, as he saw the dark steel sword in the corner of his eye swinging for his head.

Still, his reflexes from many back-alley brawls in Flea Bottom saved his ass, allowing him to dance aside and sidestep the blow. Time to punish the knight for trying an ambush on him. It was a good move, but now she had overextended and was within his reach.

Only for Ser Alys to draw a second sword with her left hand, moving to strike him in the same movement. Ser Perkin immediately raised his swords and parried… air.

There was no second sword.

A feint? But it looked so real! He could have sworn he saw the second sword, another Valyrian steel blade, hissing out of the scabbard, ready to—

His thoughts were brought to an end when Seaform cut straight through his mail coif and split his skull in twain.

———

Ser Wingood whistled at the sight.

An impressive feint. He couldn't have done better himself.

When knights were in the heat of battle, they tended to grow overly focused in it, in that Cyvasse match of wits and steel, each striving to overcome the other through skills, technique and a hundred and one other things. Those countless little factors that divided defeat from victory.

Ser Perkin was a dual wielder, which was why the trick worked so well. The Flea knew exactly how deadly a second sword could be, which meant that his instincts kicked straight into overdrive when he saw Ser Alys pretend to draw a second sword. He parried the imaginary blow before he even realised what was happening, opening himself up to another attack from a completely different direction.

The mercenary had been hoisted by his own petard, his back-alley dual wielding tricks turned against him in a sudden twist. A mistake that had proved fatal. And one he would never learn from.

Now freed from their opponents, the two Kingsguard intercepted the Twinslayers.

Ser Mervyn and Ser Rickard were the best fighters on the mutineer team after Borros, and it showed.

Ser Mervyn was matching Ser Jessamyn blow for blow, the two best swordsmen on either team duking it out with precise and deadly movements. So fast that their swords seemed to blur, appearing as though from air at dozens of locations in mere heartbeats. The lady knight was the finer sword, but the bastard knight was both bigger and stronger. It evened out, the two of them stalemating, each unable to take out the other.

In the end, Blackfyre proved to be the deciding factor, for the Valyrian steel chipped piece after piece out of her opponent's longsword. How many more blows could it take, before the sword was cut clean through?

Meanwhile, Ser Rickard fought against Ser Alys, and the Thorne knight was proving himself the superior.

Mayhaps that was why Ser Rickard had joined the mutineer team, in order to take revenge against Ser Alys, for he'd been passed over in favour of the Royce knight when the Kingsguard were recruiting.

Ser Wingood reluctantly had to admit that if the selection was a meritocracy, it would have been Ser Rickard that got the late Ser Jonquil's white cloak. Ser Alys was being forced back, forced to give ground against the longer and more powerful battleaxe.

It was a bad matchup, for the one main weakness of a water dancer was their inability to generate enough power to pierce plate or to properly parry the bludgeoning of a polearm. The brute force strikes of the two-handed battleaxe couldn't be properly blocked by a mere one-handed sword, and the longer reach of the weapon meant that Ser Alys couldn't close the distance in time.

Still, the Kingsguard was skilled, parrying in such a manner that redirected the force of the blow instead of merely blocking it. The flat of her blade slapped against the side of the axe, nudging it out of the way such that she wouldn't be bisected.

Unfortunately, it was merely slowing down the rate of defeat, not a path to victory. Unless something changed, in a handful of minutes, Ser Alys would eventually lose.

The change came in the form of Ser Criston Cole, whom announced his entry into their fight by blocking a blow from Ser Mervyn with his shield, mace coming down to whack the longsword out of the Peake bastard's hands. Ser Mervyn barely managed to dodge the next swing of the mace, only for Ser Jessamyn to strike, flowing around her Lord Commander's shield like a river around a rock and with one swift strike of Blackfyre, decapitating the Peake knight.

Before the head of Ser Flowers had even hit the ground, the two of them were racing to reinforce Ser Alys. Ser Criston blocked a heavy axe blow with his shield, Ser Jessamyn's blade slashing down a bare heartbeat later.

Ser Rickard released his grip on the axe fast enough that he didn't lose his hands to Blackfyre, and backpedaled immediately, narrowly dodging the second swing of Aegon the Conqueror's famed blade.

Ser Alys charged in, both hands on her sword, swinging downwards from above her head with all her might. Simultaneously, Ser Rickard reached down and gripped his own backup sword, drawing it and striking in the same move. A diagonal upwards cut with all his strength.

The two swords clashed, and for a brief moment they seemed evenly matched.

The moment passed, and Seafoam ripped straight through the Thorne knight's sword, Valyrian steel shattering its lesser cousin into tiny pieces for the presumption of standing in its way.

Even as chips of steel rained onto the ground, the Royce knight got her feet under herself and lunged with explosive speed and power at the Thorne knight, the ancestral blade of House Velaryon punching straight through Ser Rickard's cuirasse like it was made of cheap tin and emerging from the other side, blood dripping off of it.

Even as Ser Rickard spat out blood and weakly tried to raise a mailed fist, Ser Alys planted her foot on Ser Rickard's chest and shoved him off, brutally ripping her sword out of him in a spurt of blood and gore, the lifeless corpse tumbling to the ground.

———

Ser Borros Baratheon was on his knees, bleeding from a dozen wounds. He couldn't stand any more. Not with how deeply Dark Sister had cut into the back of his knees.

Still, the former Heir to Storm's End tried to rise, using his warhammer as a cane, but Ser Steffon Darklyn hooked the handle of the weapon with his halberd and ripped it out of his hands. After which, the Lord Commander added a blow from his morningstar, striking the Baratheon in the back of the head, sending him tumbling back into the dirt.

Snarling, the Stag tried to rise once more, only for Ser Jessamyn to whack him with the Greycloak's mace, knocking him back down.

"Yield!" She ordered.

"Never!" Ser Borros yelled, only for Rhaenyra to jab him in the side with Ser Cargyll's spear. The Stag's plate was thick enough the blow didn't pierce, but it was still a hard hit.

"Yield!" The Crown Prince commanded.

"FUCK YOU!" The Baratheon yelled, Ser Alys whacking him with the flat of Ser Rickard's battleaxe.

"Yield!" Ser Steffon Darklyn's sworn sister barked.

The Trial by Seven was over. Borros Baratheon was beaten, his cause sunk and his accusations proven false. By all rights, the Heir to the Iron Throne had every right to have the Kingsguard finish him off right there and then.

But still, the young Prince still held out hope. Hope that the former Heir to the Stormlands would finally surrender, such that she may keep House Baratheon in the fold.

And that meant that they had to perform this beating. This lynching in all but name, striking him again and again with their weapons. Flogging him until he broke.

For over half an hour they kept going, four white knights and one black one circling the Stag like sharks. Striking him down every time he rose and knocking him back down to the dirt.

"Yield!" A white knight commanded, his shield painted scarlet with ten black pellets.

"Yield!" Another shouted, the clasp of her white cloak a fort of red garnet.

"Yield!" A third ordered, her breastplate incised with runes of the First Men.

"Yield!" The fourth knight of white yelled, one paudron engraved with shields. The other checkered diamonds.

"Yield!" The lone black knight demanded, a crown of steel blades rising from the brim of her helmet, gauntlets black save for hands painted gold.

Again and again, the five of them barked the word, hammering it in with their weapons.

"Yield!" Ser Criston commanded, morningstar raised.

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

"Yield!" Rhaenyra Targaryen ordered, whacking with spear.

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

"Yield!" Ser Alys demanded, battleaxe hitting hard.

"I… yield." Ser Borros finally said, after the blow of the black knight.

"Louder!" Rhaenyra ordered.

"Say it louder! Your prince commands it!" Ser Alys commanded.

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

———

It was over.

Two of the Kingsguard lay dead on the floor, but at the cost of six of the mutineers.

The remaining five champions of the crown had finally bent the unyielding neck of stubborn Borros Baratheon and forced him to yield. Brutally striking him down over and over again until he broke.

Ser Wingood disapproved of such a display of brutality, but he understood the necessity of the deed. Even after everything, the Crown Prince didn't want to kill Ser Borros.

And despite not slaying a single man today, she still proved her valour in battle. Willingly entering the field of battle against older and stronger knights.

"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."

There were cheers and clapping, the court celebrating the victory of the Crown, but the Kingsguard didn't seem eager to celebrate, covering the corpses of their fallen sworn brothers and limping off towards the Master of Health.

Ser Wingood was about to leave when he heard a sudden gasp ripple through the crowd. He turned around, just in time to see Ser Borros scoop up his discarded warhammer and charge at the retreating champions.

He barrelled through the surprised white knights, somehow still moving despite the wounds to his legs.

The black knight turned to face him, axe raised to defend herself, but it was too late.

Down the hammer went, smashing the blade-crowned helm of Rhaenyra Targaryen to itty bitty pieces and pulping the head beneath in a single blow.

———

"Such was the trap of the Path of Justice: If one did not bend, one would break."

—The Dilemma of Judgement

Notes:

Please go check out my new fanfic, titled: Instead of Secondary School, we went to Hogwarts.

It's another self insert fic. This time starring my old boarding school clique. Just a preview for now, but I'll start updating it after I've finished up this fanfic.