Chương 41: Brightflame!
Okay I'm asking one thing! Please, please please! While you read this, listen to \/
Dance of Dragons - Ramin Djawadi
It makes reading this like 100x better, please!!
—-
The two dogs had stopped fighting.
The crowd murmured in confusion, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. A man slammed his fist against one of the benches. "Fight!" he bellowed, his voice rising above the din. Others joined in, shouting angrily, demanding blood, their commands growing louder, more insistent.
Lorathor Vyne, the dark-haired man eyed the dogs, his confusion deepening. They'd never stopped like this before. Mid-fight, mid-rage—they always fought to the death. He had trained these beasts himself. They should have been tearing each other apart.
Beside him, Morys, his blonde co-owner, turned her sharp gaze on him. Her frustration was palpable, her voice a hiss. "What's going on?"
She handled the coin, the logistics, the business of it all. He was the trainer—the one who took the animals and children she acquired and forged them into the weapons they needed to be.
"I don't know," Lorathor muttered, his brow furrowed. The violence in the pit had drained away, evaporating like smoke. The blondes dog's leg was nearly torn off, hanging by shreds of muscle, while the brown dog's eye dangled from its socket, its jaw shattered. Yet they stood there, motionless, their rage spent.
Before he could process it further, the air exploded with a thunderous bang. One of the doors lining the pit burst open, slamming against the wooden fences. The crowd fell silent, gasps rippling through the arena as an armoured guard staggered backward, collapsing onto the blood-soaked ground.
A dagger was buried deep through his visor.
Lorathor shot to his feet, his hand flying to the dagger at his waist. Morys followed, her eyes darting around the arena, scanning for her guards. The murmurs of the crowd grew louder, some spectators already rising from their seats, uneasy, sensing the shift in the air.
Then, casually, steadily, Aerion Rivers stepped into the pit. He stood at its centre, calm yet commanding, the knight's presence sending a chill down Lorathor's spine. The infamous bastard, now standing before him.
'Skinstealer' even he'd heard the rumours.
Lorathor's eyes flicked to Morys. Her brows were furrowed in frustration. She had sent their guards away to hunt down the boy—only for him to appear here, in front of everyone. Anger flared in his chest, but confusion kept it in check.
His gaze snapped back to Aerion, the boy's purple eyes sweeping across the crowd. The arena was frozen in a mix of shock and dread. All eyes were on him.
"You're monsters," Aerion's voice rang out, cutting through the silence like a blade. His brow furrowed as he spoke again, louder, each word echoing against the stone walls. "Monsters who think themselves above the law, above justice"
His gaze locked onto Lorathor and Morys, a dangerous intensity in his eyes.
"But I am here now," Aerion continued, his voice shifting, low and sharp. As he raised his hands, a deep, guttural growl echoed from the staircases leading into the stands. The crowd stiffened, some gasping in fear.
"And so are they."
A wave of snarling, feral dogs surged up from the staircases, their bodies moving as one—hungry, vengeful, and relentless. Their eyes gleamed with savage fury as they launched into the panicked crowd.
The first screams tore through the air, but they were quickly drowned out by the sickening crunch of bones and the wet tearing of muscle.
Some spectators fumbled for daggers, hands trembling with fear, but the dogs were upon them before they could raise a weapon.
One man fell backward, his throat ripped open in a spray of blood before he could even draw breath to scream. Another had his leg torn from under him, his desperate cries lost in the sea of agony as the dogs shredded him piece by piece.
A single dog was a weapon, its instincts honed, its strength lethal. But forty of them? It was a bloodbath.
The beasts moved like a storm, ripping through flesh and bone with unrestrained savagery. Limbs were torn from bodies, entrails spilled onto the floor, and the stench of blood filled the air. The dogs' snarls blended with the chorus of dying screams, creating a symphony of terror.
Blood splattered the stone walls, painting them with the remnants of the crowd's futile resistance. Men and women stumbled over corpses, their feet slipping in the slick, pooling blood, only to be pulled down and devoured.
The once-roaring arena was now a slaughterhouse, the relentless gnashing of teeth and the wet gurgles of the dying the only sounds that remained.
Lorathor's eyes widened, shock overtaking him as fear coursed through his veins. Beneath that fear, fury boiled—those were his beasts, his creations. He snarled, ready to take a step forward, but before he could move, a rough hand seized his collar.
With a yelp, he was yanked into the pit, stumbling. Morys screamed as Aerion grabbed a fistful of her hair, dragging her down with them. Without pause, Aerion dragged them both into the room lined with dog cages, their shouts echoing in the enclosed space.
"Unhand me!" Morys hissed, desperately clawing at Aerion's fist tangled in her hair. The bastard knight responded with a snarl, releasing Lorathor only to slam Morys head into the stone floor with a sickening crack.
Lorathor staggered back, shock freezing him in place as Aerion's piercing purple eyes locked onto him. In an instant, the younger man lunged, his grip tightening around Lorathor's throat with iron strength. With terrifying ease, Aerion hurled him into an empty cage with a bone-rattling crash.
Pain shot through Lorathor's back as he scrambled to his feet, instinct driving him toward the exit. But before he could escape, a grip on his tunic's collar yanked him backwards, choking him as Aerion tossed him to the floor.
He hit the stone floor again, the impact sending sharp agony through his ribs as he gasped for breath, tears blurring his vision.
"You listen, or I kill you," Aerion growled, his voice cold and final. The snarls of dogs and the screams from the arena echoed in the room, a chilling reminder of the chaos unfolding beyond.
Lorathor nodded his face pale, Morys nodded shakily, her eyes blurry and teary as blood poured down her broken face in crimson rivulets. "Now walk" he commanded as he nodded towards the exit.
Lorathor stumbled back to his feet, each breath he took felt weak, and stunted as Morys shakily stood, her breaths heavy and panicked as they slowly walked towards the exit.
—-
"Your Grace," Otto called out quietly, his tone hushed as he looked up at the King atop his throne. Rhaenyra perked in interest, her gaze sharpening as it shifted to the Hand.
They were in court. Viserys had just settled a dispute between two feuding merchants, and another petitioner was expected any minute.
"My men have uncovered…a lead in regard to Ser Aerion Rivers' claim," Otto spoke carefully. Viserys' brow furrowed, confusion creeping into his expression.
"Tell me" Viserys said quietly, his tone threaded with impatience. Rhaenyra's attention remained locked on Otto.
"A witness, Raymund Kidwell," Otto said, lowering his voice. "He confessed to attending fighting pits, Your Grace…pits where missing children are made to fight." The horror that slowly dawned on Viserys' face was matched only by his rising anger.
"For children?" Viserys hissed, his voice laced with disgust. The venom in his words carried across the court, drawing the attention of the surrounding nobles. Otto's jaw clenched as the murmur spread, threatening to drown the gravity of the moment.
If this was true, it was a scandal that could shake the Red Keep to its foundations. The King, unable to protect his own people—his city's children, no less—it would taint his reign.
The murmurings grew louder until a sudden shift in the atmosphere brought them to an abrupt halt. Otto turned and froze, his blood turning to ice.
Through the throne room doors strode Aerion Rivers, dragging two bloodied figures across the polished stone floor. But that wasn't what sent shockwaves through the court.
Trailing behind him were nearly thirty children—skinny, dirty, and scarred. Their clothes were little more than rags, bare feet smeared with dirt and blood, the visible bruises and cuts telling of their mistreatment.
"Your Grace," Aerion's voice rang out, his eyes—purple and burning with cold fury—fixed on the King. There was something unsettling about the way he carried himself, something feral, barely restrained.
Otto's teeth clenched as he studied the boy. The resemblance to Baelon Targaryen was undeniable. If only he were Daemon's son, Otto thought bitterly. Then perhaps he could be useful.
"These two," Aerion spat, yanking the pair forward and tossing them like refuse before the King, "were running a children's fighting pit, kidnapping and mutilating children for blood and coin." His voice turned into a growl as the two figures scrambled to their knees on the cold stone floor, trembling before the royal presence.
A ripple of shock swept through the court. The murmurs that had once filled the room died instantly, as every noble and servant stared in stunned silence at the emaciated children. The weight of the accusation hung like a thick fog, suffocating the air, as all eyes locked on the small, scarred faces of the young victims.
"The children's teeth have been filed down to sharp points" Aerion continued, his voice colder than ice as he gestured to the huddled group. "They can barely speak without tearing their own tongues to shreds."
Gasps echoed throughout the hall. A lady to the side covered her mouth, eyes wide with horror. A guard at the entrance clenched his fists around his spear, jaw twitching in disgust.
"They were forced to fight one another," Aerion said, his jaw tightening as he glared down at the kneeling man and woman. "Often to the death."
Lords exchanged uneasy glances. The pitiless reality of what Aerion had revealed gripped them with a terror they hadn't expected to confront inside the King's court.
"They were stolen from their families," Aerion continued, his gaze never leaving the quivering criminals before him. "And the Goldcloaks took bribes to look the other way."
Viserys sat frozen in his throne, a clenched hand gripping the iron throne, his face drained of colour. For a moment, no one dared breathe, as the full weight of the betrayal within his city settled upon him.
Finally, the King spoke, his voice concealing the unease lurking beneath a calm façade.
"You've done a great service to this city, to the realm," he said slowly, his gaze drifting to the two criminals. "A service that I myself didn't even know we needed," he added regretfully, straightening his back with a newfound sense of authority.
Aerion nodded, his jaw clenched. In that moment, Viserys couldn't help but see Baelon reflected in him—the same fierce determination and sense of justice. He dropped his head slightly, his fingers tightening around the throne's arms, the metal cutting into his skin, yet he found no discomfort in the pain.
Viserys's guards rushed in, swiftly taking hold of the criminals and taking them to the side, searching them for any hidden weapons. A wave of anger coursed through him; how could such atrocities occur right under his nose?
"I would only ask to execute them myself, Your Grace," Aerion said, his voice low and fierce, his eyes fixed on the two wretches who had caused so much suffering. Viserys nodded, his gaze rising back to Aerion's face.
So much of his father shined through, Viserys clenched his jaw.
Their father.
The truth hung in the air like a thick fog, this was his bastard brother. He had known for a while, of course. But he'd only ever thought about the political controversies and implications.
This boy was his family.
His brother.
Viserys stood, slowly descending the throne, each footstep echoing ominously in the hall. His eyes flicked briefly to Otto, the man's previous concerns about Aerion resurfacing in his mind.
Then Viserys looked over at the children, all of them looking at Aerions back, awe, relief, worship in their eyes.
His resolve strengthened.
He continued down the steps, stopping just a few feet away from Aerion.
"Step forward," Viserys commanded, his voice resonating with authority yet tinged with something more. Aerion moved cautiously, his sharp gaze fixed on the King's face. The hall was a sea of watching eyes, and the air felt thick with anticipation.
Viserys's voice, calm yet strained, broke the silence.
"Kneel," he said, the word carrying with it the gravity of the moment. Aerion hesitated but obeyed, lowering himself slowly to one knee. His heart thundered in his chest, his confusion mounting, though he held his tongue.
The courtiers leaned forward, their curiosity piqued. Otto Hightower's usually stoic face tensed, his fingers curling subtly at his side. He knew something was coming, something he couldn't quite control.
Rhaenyra, standing to the side, felt a cold shiver run through her, though she didn't understand why. Aerion had been her friend—more than a friend in many ways. Yet, something in the air now made her feel as though she were about to lose him.
Viserys unsheathed Blackfyre with a deliberate slowness, the familiar hum of Valyrian steel filling the throne room, sending a ripple of awe through the court.
All eyes snapped to the blade, the legendary sword that had symbolised Targaryen kingship for generations. Aerion's gaze flicked to the sword, the weight of the moment sinking into his bones.
"You…" Viserys began, his voice softer now but laden with the weight of truth. "…may not know the full truth of your birth."
A stillness, thick and suffocating, swept over the hall. Aerion's heart stuttered, his eyes widening. He had known—of course, he had known. But to hear the words, to have them spoken aloud by the King himself, felt like stepping off the edge of a cliff.
"You are the baseborn son of my father," Viserys continued, the words deliberate, each one falling like a hammer. "Baelon Targaryen."
The court erupted, gasps and murmurs breaking out like wildfire, surging through the gathered nobility. The tension that had simmered beneath the surface finally boiled over. Rhaenyra stood frozen, her lips parting in disbelief. Her heart skipped a beat—Aerion, her companion, her friend, was her uncle by blood. How had she not known? How had no one told her?
Aerion's vision tunnelled, the sound of The King's words ringing in his ears. It was true. It was finally out in the open, no longer a whispered secret between him and his uncle.
"Aerion…" Rhaenyra whispered under her breath, her voice barely audible. An odd sense of pride welled in her chest, but it was tinged with fear—a fear of what this would mean for her.
Otto's jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening at his sides, though his face remained a carefully crafted mask of calm. His mind raced, calculating, assessing this new variable that could disrupt everything he had built.
Viserys, undeterred by the murmurs of the court, stepped closer, Blackfyre gleaming in the torchlight. "You are my brother," he declared, his voice steady but filled with a deep, buried emotion. The words seemed to echo through the hall, silencing the court once more. "And I will not let your lineage go unrecognised"
Aerion's breath hitched, the weight of his long-held fears and childhood dreams crashing over him all at once. He had thought this an impossibility, a mere dream, a fantasy.
The King raised Blackfyre, holding it high above Aerion's bowed form. "You will be given a name, a keep, and a house that you will found, that you will pass down"
The court watched in stunned silence, each word Viserys spoke adding to the magnitude of the moment. Otto's eyes flicked to Aerion, his mind whirring. Rhaenyra's heart pounded in her chest, unsure whether to feel joy or terror at what was happening.
Viserys tapped Blackfyre against Aerion's shoulder, his voice ringing clear in the stillness of the hall.
"Arise, Prince Aerion Brightflame."
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