The Ashen Wedding
Mazrick
Shai'tan
- Location
- The Pit of Doom
Chaos erupted in a blur of screams, steel, and blood. Aemon had barely drawn another breath when a crossbow bolt struck little Viserys. The boy let out a tiny gasp as the bolt buried itself deep into his chest.
For a heartbeat, time froze—the world holding its breath as Viserys' wide violet eyes stared in disbelief, his tiny hand trembling as it weakly reached toward the offending quarrel.
Then he crumpled to the ground, lifeless before his body even touched the garden's cobblestones.
"Viserys!" Aerys' voice split the air, a harrowing shriek of anguish. It was only one voice among a cacophony.
The garden descended into panic. Nobles and courtiers scattered, goblets and dishes clattering to the ground. But Aemon's mind cleared with singular focus. Move.
In a flash, he switched his Valyrian steel rapier to his left hand, scooped up dead Lord Jonos Bracken's discarded crossbow, and hurled it toward his brother.
"Daeron!"
Daeron caught the crossbow in one fluid motion. His gaze hardened, and without hesitation, he loosed the bolt. It whistled through the air, striking a Manderly knight in the neck just as the man aimed his own crossbow. The shot went wide, missing its intended target—and instead struck Brandon Stark in the belly.
The Stark heir gasped, stumbling backward. His weirwood harp, a gift bearing crimson dragon engravings, slipped from his grasp and clattered to the ground.
The heretical knights surged forward like a steel wave—eleven in total—and Ser Barristan Selmy was the first to meet them. His white cloak billowed in the sun as the rest of the Kingsguard closed ranks around the royal family.
Aemon had seen Selmy fight before, but never like this. Each movement was a masterclass of precision and fury, every strike a crimson brushstroke on the canvas of battle. The knight's blade cut down a Redfort attacker before the man could fire another deadly shot.
But these men fought like the damned—utterly fearless, their expressions void of emotion, their wild eyes unfocused. No fear. No hesitation.
Aemon's chest tightened as memories flooded in—his father, Maegor Targaryen, butchered in the streets of Lannisport by the same cursed brand of zealots. He saw the blood, the lifeless stare, and the fanatics' hollow faces.
"Fire and Blood!" Aemon roared, plunging into the fray.
His rapier flashed in the sunlight, its edge gleaming. The first heretic didn't even register Aemon's presence until his throat was slit. Without armor, Aemon moved like a dancer, nimble and fluid, striking with precision. His feet glided over the blood-slick ground as if guided by instinct. Visenya's instructors would have been proud.
More fell—another and another—his movements graceful, his blade merciless. Aemon wasn't clad in heavy armor, but that gave him an edge. He fought like a Braavosi water dancer, darting and weaving between the wild strikes of his enemies.
Uncle Tygett appeared at his side, cleaving down two attackers threatening to overwhelm him. With Daeron's unerring bolts thinning the enemy's numbers, the tide turned. The older knight howled, "Fucking traitors!"
Yet something gnawed at Aemon's mind even as they fought. These men cared nothing for their lives—they did not falter under pain, nor did they cry out when struck. Their eyes were empty, their movements stiff.
Drugged.
But it didn't change the outcome—they died all the same.
When the last of the attackers lay dead, Aemon staggered, gasping for air. Blood roared in his ears, and the pain of his wounds began to surface, gnawing at the edges of his focus. His gaze swept across the ruined garden—knights lay dead amidst shattered glass and trampled flowers. A small fire smoldered in the corner, but guards rushed to douse it with water from the well.
Then his eyes fell upon Brandon Stark, slumped against a tree, pale as ash. His belly wound bled sluggishly, the black poison already spreading through his veins.
Jolting himself to action, Aemon knelt beside the Northerner, ignoring his own pain. He worked quickly, using his knife to cut away the barbed bolt and pulling it free. Thick, black liquid oozed from the wound, the poison steaming as it touched the air.
"Hold on, Stark," Aemon whispered. He tore his sleeve, binding the wound with shaky hands, but he knew it was futile. The poison was working too fast. Stark's skin was unnaturally pale, and inky black blood spidered outward from the wound.
Brandon's breathing grew shallow, he shook with agony. His trembling fingers gripped Aemon's wrist weakly. "Tell... them..."
He nearly shattered his teeth as he convulsed.
"I will," Aemon promised, his voice tight. He could do nothing for the wound, but he could do something for the pain. He unstoppered a vial of the milk of the poppy, and poured the entire contents between the man's lips to ease his passing. "Rest now, Brandon."
Brandon Stark's eyes closed, his last breath slipping from him like a sigh carried on the wind.
Aemon sat back, his hands soaked in blood, and clenched his jaw. Failure. It tasted bitter on his tongue.
He turned toward Viserys. The boy's tiny body lay cradled in the arms of King Aerys, who rocked his son back and forth, tears streaking his gaunt cheeks. The knights of the Kingsguard stood vigilant over the sovereign.
"Rise!" Aerys wailed, shaking Viserys as if sheer willpower could resurrect him. "Rise, my son! Obey your king!"
The onlookers watched in horrified silence as the mad king clung to the lifeless boy. Aerys ranted, ordering maesters, septons, anyone—anyone—to bring his son back. But Grand Maester Pycelle shook his head grimly.
Then, through the crowd, a Red Priest stepped forward. Thoros of Myr, his eyes like smoldering embers, moved towards the fallen prince. His gait was stumbling, as if drawn forth by an invisible string.
"Back!" barked Ser Gerold Hightower, drawing steel. But Aerys raised a hand.
"Let him pass!" the king shrieked, wild hope in his voice.
Thoros bent low, pressing a soft kiss to Viserys' lips. A ripple of unease spread through the crowd. Some muttered of demons and foreign sorcery. Others scoffed, dismissing the priest as a charlatan.
Aemon felt it then—a strange warmth in his pocket. The Silent Stone grew scalding hot, thrumming against his skin. King Aerys, the Red Priests, and the smattering of converted Crownland nobles all stood stock still until looks of euphoria spread across each of their visages.
The Red Priest whispered in a tongue older than the Andals. His followers murmured in awe as the air around him shimmered, as if with heat. Then it happened—Viserys' tiny chest rose.
The garden stilled as the boy gasped, drawing in a ragged breath.
"He lives!" someone whispered.
A ripple of shock and fear spread through the gathered nobles. What magic had brought the boy back?
King Aerys collapsed beside his son, unconscious as his crown tumbled from his brow. Thoros of Myr stepped back, his expression a mixture of awe and triumph.
Aemon stared, stunned. His heart pounded with questions. What power could restore life? How?
Before he could move, his mother appeared at his side, her green eyes fierce. "Enough. You've done enough," she whispered, motioning for the maesters.
Aemon allowed himself to be led away, wincing as they began stitching his wounds. As the Red Keep locked down, soldiers combing every corner for more threats, Aemon's mind raced with possibilities.
The night is dark and full of terrors. Aemon resolved to face them.
---
What does Aemon do next?
[] Remain in his quarters. Offer comfort to his family and ensure their safety.
[] Delve into the library. Question Pycelle and Oberyn about the poison used.
[] Explore the secret passages. Gather intelligence within the Red Keep.
[] Disguise himself and enter the city. Seek out information on the heretics among the smallfolk.
For a heartbeat, time froze—the world holding its breath as Viserys' wide violet eyes stared in disbelief, his tiny hand trembling as it weakly reached toward the offending quarrel.
Then he crumpled to the ground, lifeless before his body even touched the garden's cobblestones.
"Viserys!" Aerys' voice split the air, a harrowing shriek of anguish. It was only one voice among a cacophony.
The garden descended into panic. Nobles and courtiers scattered, goblets and dishes clattering to the ground. But Aemon's mind cleared with singular focus. Move.
In a flash, he switched his Valyrian steel rapier to his left hand, scooped up dead Lord Jonos Bracken's discarded crossbow, and hurled it toward his brother.
"Daeron!"
Daeron caught the crossbow in one fluid motion. His gaze hardened, and without hesitation, he loosed the bolt. It whistled through the air, striking a Manderly knight in the neck just as the man aimed his own crossbow. The shot went wide, missing its intended target—and instead struck Brandon Stark in the belly.
The Stark heir gasped, stumbling backward. His weirwood harp, a gift bearing crimson dragon engravings, slipped from his grasp and clattered to the ground.
The heretical knights surged forward like a steel wave—eleven in total—and Ser Barristan Selmy was the first to meet them. His white cloak billowed in the sun as the rest of the Kingsguard closed ranks around the royal family.
Aemon had seen Selmy fight before, but never like this. Each movement was a masterclass of precision and fury, every strike a crimson brushstroke on the canvas of battle. The knight's blade cut down a Redfort attacker before the man could fire another deadly shot.
But these men fought like the damned—utterly fearless, their expressions void of emotion, their wild eyes unfocused. No fear. No hesitation.
Aemon's chest tightened as memories flooded in—his father, Maegor Targaryen, butchered in the streets of Lannisport by the same cursed brand of zealots. He saw the blood, the lifeless stare, and the fanatics' hollow faces.
"Fire and Blood!" Aemon roared, plunging into the fray.
His rapier flashed in the sunlight, its edge gleaming. The first heretic didn't even register Aemon's presence until his throat was slit. Without armor, Aemon moved like a dancer, nimble and fluid, striking with precision. His feet glided over the blood-slick ground as if guided by instinct. Visenya's instructors would have been proud.
More fell—another and another—his movements graceful, his blade merciless. Aemon wasn't clad in heavy armor, but that gave him an edge. He fought like a Braavosi water dancer, darting and weaving between the wild strikes of his enemies.
Uncle Tygett appeared at his side, cleaving down two attackers threatening to overwhelm him. With Daeron's unerring bolts thinning the enemy's numbers, the tide turned. The older knight howled, "Fucking traitors!"
Yet something gnawed at Aemon's mind even as they fought. These men cared nothing for their lives—they did not falter under pain, nor did they cry out when struck. Their eyes were empty, their movements stiff.
Drugged.
But it didn't change the outcome—they died all the same.
When the last of the attackers lay dead, Aemon staggered, gasping for air. Blood roared in his ears, and the pain of his wounds began to surface, gnawing at the edges of his focus. His gaze swept across the ruined garden—knights lay dead amidst shattered glass and trampled flowers. A small fire smoldered in the corner, but guards rushed to douse it with water from the well.
Then his eyes fell upon Brandon Stark, slumped against a tree, pale as ash. His belly wound bled sluggishly, the black poison already spreading through his veins.
Jolting himself to action, Aemon knelt beside the Northerner, ignoring his own pain. He worked quickly, using his knife to cut away the barbed bolt and pulling it free. Thick, black liquid oozed from the wound, the poison steaming as it touched the air.
"Hold on, Stark," Aemon whispered. He tore his sleeve, binding the wound with shaky hands, but he knew it was futile. The poison was working too fast. Stark's skin was unnaturally pale, and inky black blood spidered outward from the wound.
Brandon's breathing grew shallow, he shook with agony. His trembling fingers gripped Aemon's wrist weakly. "Tell... them..."
He nearly shattered his teeth as he convulsed.
"I will," Aemon promised, his voice tight. He could do nothing for the wound, but he could do something for the pain. He unstoppered a vial of the milk of the poppy, and poured the entire contents between the man's lips to ease his passing. "Rest now, Brandon."
Brandon Stark's eyes closed, his last breath slipping from him like a sigh carried on the wind.
Aemon sat back, his hands soaked in blood, and clenched his jaw. Failure. It tasted bitter on his tongue.
He turned toward Viserys. The boy's tiny body lay cradled in the arms of King Aerys, who rocked his son back and forth, tears streaking his gaunt cheeks. The knights of the Kingsguard stood vigilant over the sovereign.
"Rise!" Aerys wailed, shaking Viserys as if sheer willpower could resurrect him. "Rise, my son! Obey your king!"
The onlookers watched in horrified silence as the mad king clung to the lifeless boy. Aerys ranted, ordering maesters, septons, anyone—anyone—to bring his son back. But Grand Maester Pycelle shook his head grimly.
Then, through the crowd, a Red Priest stepped forward. Thoros of Myr, his eyes like smoldering embers, moved towards the fallen prince. His gait was stumbling, as if drawn forth by an invisible string.
"Back!" barked Ser Gerold Hightower, drawing steel. But Aerys raised a hand.
"Let him pass!" the king shrieked, wild hope in his voice.
Thoros bent low, pressing a soft kiss to Viserys' lips. A ripple of unease spread through the crowd. Some muttered of demons and foreign sorcery. Others scoffed, dismissing the priest as a charlatan.
Aemon felt it then—a strange warmth in his pocket. The Silent Stone grew scalding hot, thrumming against his skin. King Aerys, the Red Priests, and the smattering of converted Crownland nobles all stood stock still until looks of euphoria spread across each of their visages.
The Red Priest whispered in a tongue older than the Andals. His followers murmured in awe as the air around him shimmered, as if with heat. Then it happened—Viserys' tiny chest rose.
The garden stilled as the boy gasped, drawing in a ragged breath.
"He lives!" someone whispered.
A ripple of shock and fear spread through the gathered nobles. What magic had brought the boy back?
King Aerys collapsed beside his son, unconscious as his crown tumbled from his brow. Thoros of Myr stepped back, his expression a mixture of awe and triumph.
Aemon stared, stunned. His heart pounded with questions. What power could restore life? How?
Before he could move, his mother appeared at his side, her green eyes fierce. "Enough. You've done enough," she whispered, motioning for the maesters.
Aemon allowed himself to be led away, wincing as they began stitching his wounds. As the Red Keep locked down, soldiers combing every corner for more threats, Aemon's mind raced with possibilities.
The night is dark and full of terrors. Aemon resolved to face them.
---
What does Aemon do next?
[] Remain in his quarters. Offer comfort to his family and ensure their safety.
[] Delve into the library. Question Pycelle and Oberyn about the poison used.
[] Explore the secret passages. Gather intelligence within the Red Keep.
[] Disguise himself and enter the city. Seek out information on the heretics among the smallfolk.
