The Trial of the Seven had now taken place a few days earlier. The battle had been brutal and now silence reigned back in Summerhall.

All of Maekar’s Targaryen sons, apart from little Egg, had been injured to a greater or lesser extent during the trial.

With Aerion bond to his bed and Daeron retreating to his bottles again, only you remained. You had, in fact, been hit the hardest.

You were on Dunc‘s side.

Without causing any real harm to your opponents, a blow struck you particularly hard towards the end still. At first, it was unclear exactly where it came from or who it was. But it turned out to be your father. His mace struck you hard but unintentionally. The blow wasn’t meant for you, nor for any of his own. He didn’t know.

That was what he told himself every day, like a prayer. The bed that was usually empty during the day was now occupied by you. Bandages smeared with ointment and old, dried blood adorned your head. The blow split open your skull, the maesters spoke of a miracle that you were still alive at all. But when you would open your eyes or if you ever would was still written in the stars.

Day in, day out. Your father and uncle took turns, both were obviously close to you, so it went without saying that they wouldn’t leave you alone.

On a stormy day, a miracle occurred. Your eyes opened slowly. As if you were doing it for the very first time. Everything was too bright, too loud and too blurry. The maesters spoke of side effects, consequences that might affect you if you were to wake up.

A soft rustling sound beside you subconsciously told you that someone was sitting next to the bed, then you heard a voice, familiar

"My son…“ Maekar wanted to reach for your hand, but hesitated