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Chapter 60: Interlude: JudgeChapter Text

"The Youngest Sister was small and childlike, her beauty youthful and lively. Her hair was spun turquoise, her flesh carved from sandstone. Her wings and halo were polished silver, shining and cool, with feathers of green, covered in flowers, bright and beautiful. Her raiments were a dress of white wool, simple and humble. A brooch of rainbow jewels adorned her breast. She held in her hands a book and flowers.

'Young Prince, I shall counsel you Grace.' The Angel declared. 'The stag has broken the laws of gods and men, but even the worst sinner deserves forgiveness. Let him spend time as a penitent. The Light of the Seven shall redeem him.'

'Men are flawed and shortsighted. Many commit crimes when desperate, or when their hearts weaken and they succumb to rage or greed. Such weaknesses pass, and those that repent ought to be pardoned.'

'You shall fear, you shall worry, but there is no recourse. Grace is a path of faith in the goodness of others. The pardoning of evil is like the leaving of the nest. Risky and terrifying, a path uncharted and unknown. But it is your duty as Prince to take the leaps of faith yourself, when everyone else balks. Because it is necessary. Then and only then, can we rise above sin.'"

-Excerpt from The Dilemma of Judgement

111 AC, Westeros

They gathered.

Everywhere on the continent of Westeros, highborn gathered.

In Winterfell and the Gates of the Moon, the Citadel and Highgarden, Casterly Rock and Harrenhal, Storm's End and Sunspear. And last and most certainly not the least, the Red Keep. In all nine castles across the breadth and span of the Seven Kingdoms, highborn crammed themselves inside, sitting shoulder to shoulder as they breathlessly watched the broadcast. Knights and lesser lords filled the corridors, desperately pressing their ears to the doors and trying to hear the events occurring.

Right about now, the trial of the century was about to begin, and thanks to the lost technologies of Valyria, the lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms could watch it unfold live.

The glass candles in the Red Keep were broadcasting to those in the hands of the Dragonseeds, images from the capital projected onto walls in castles hundreds if not thousands of miles away.

It was the first of its kind, history in the making.

———

111AC, Gates of the Moon

On a bench of white weirwood, Lady Paramount Jeyne Arryn stared enraptured at the sight before her. It was almost as though she and her court were there, in the throne room of the Red Keep.

The image produced by the glass candle in Baela and Rhaena's hands was clear and lifelike. She could see just how full the throne room was, with the lords and ladies of the Crownlands attending in person, bolstered by the families of the accused highborn.

Everywhere in the projected image, no matter how one turned, stood at least a dozen highborn. Lords and ladies, knights and men-at-arms, maesters and septons. Over two hundred lords and ladies had made the journey to the capital, to watch what some called the trial of the century. And more and more were trickling into the throne room.

The herald announced the Hand of the King. Prince Rhaenyra Targaryen herself was sitting as judge. It was the first trial she'd be presiding over, and it was likely to be the single most high-profile trial of her reign.

———

111 AC, Storm's End

In the dark throne room of Durran's Defiance, King Viserys' hands tightened around the roughly carved basalt armrests of the Storm Throne, his knuckles shining white as Rhaenyra made her way to the Iron Throne.

He was stressed, Shaeterys realised. His uncle hadn't had a single glass of wine the entire day, which by itself was a major cause for concern, but was also looking at everything with an uncharacteristic razor-sharp focus.

Unsurprising.

Rhae's reign hinged on the outcome of this trial.

Like it or not, Borros Baratheon would make or break the reign of the Dragonqueen.

———

111 AC, Citadel

In the largest auditorium of the Citadel, Vaegon Targaryen sat, quill and parchment at the ready. As the man controlling the glass candle, he'd been given the honour of the best seat in the room.

Beneath him sat the Hightowers. The Most Devout. The rest of the Archmaesters. Even Reachlords whom lived closer to Oldtown than Highgarden. Like Lord Unwin Peake and his cabal of malcontent Marcher Lords.

The rest of the room had been filled to the brim with maesters and acolytes alike, all ready to record down history as it happened.

As Rhaenyra ascended the Iron Throne, Vaegon's hands clenched around his own quill, and prayed that his beloved niece knew what she was doing with her broadcast. There'd be no damage control, should something go wrong. Any mistake she made would be seen by the entire continent immediately.

———

111 AC, Casterly Rock

Where Lord Tymund Lannister was biting his nails and sweating, and Rhaegar Fyre kept glancing left and right nervously, Lady Mayin Blacktyde watched the proceedings with a detached air.

Mayin's parents were off with the Gold Fleet, enroute to Qarth. Mayin was only ten, and considered too young to accompany her parents, so Father had left her in charge of the Iron Islands while they were gone. Well, he officially left Aunt Lori in charge, but she never gainsaid any of Mayin's decisions.

While one might consider rulership over the Iron Islands an impressive feat at such a young age, Rhaenyra was a mere four years older than her, and was already the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms in all but name.

Mayin had spent time with the Prince, back during the Kingsmoot, and she had watched how the older girl had carried herself. Unflappable calmness and elegant poise. Eyes sharp and observant. Mature beyond her years, deeply wise and insightful.

There could be no better role model for the young Blacktyde heiress.

In the largest hall of Casterly Rock, surrounded by the lords of the Iron Islands and Westerlands, Mayin Blacktyde looked at the glass candle image of the Iron Throne, and swore to learn everything she could from the girl seated on it.

———

111 AC, Highgarden

Rhaenyra was wearing one of Queen Alysanne's old dresses.

A two-piece outfit, with a high-collared green undercoat beneath an asymmetrically cut kirtle of white linen. It was paired with a matching wimple, gold thread and emeralds embroidered tastefully onto the white fabric, with a cape of green wool descending down her back. The Good Queen wasn't particularly tall or shapely, so the thirteen-year-old could fit it without much issue.

Shaera had never met her great-grandmother, but she imagined Rhae as she currently dressed was a dead ringer to the Good Queen.

From the mutterings of the Reachlords surrounding Shaera, Rhae had achieved the desired effect.

It was a bold move for her cousin. She was trying to recapture the love and adulation the masses gave Queen Alysanne, but if she slipped, then she'd be jeered as the unworthy inheritor.

———

111 AC, Harrenhal

The other two judges had arrived as well.

Rhae was the presiding judge, the first and most powerful.

The second judge, Marshal Darold Darry, took his seat beneath the Iron Throne. As the highest ranking officer of the Legions of Westeros, the Marshal of Westeros had more than enough authority to pass judgement over the accused knight.

The third and final judge was Lady Rhaenys Targaryen. A compromise choice, for the Crown was unwilling to let Lord Boremund sit as judge, citing conflict of interests, while Lord Boremund was unwilling to let Borros be sentenced by someone not of his own blood. And so Lady Rhaenys had been chosen, as the one person with both Targaryen and Baratheon blood.

Daena could practically feel the tension mounting, in both the throne room of the Red Keep and the Hall of Hundred Hearths. Kermit Tully was hopping from foot to foot, and Lord Deremund Darry was an unmoving statue, eyes firmly fixed on his younger brother.

———

111 AC, Winterfell

General Roderick Dustin saw his compatriot Edric Dondarrion take his place at the prosecution stand. The General of the Second Legion would be pressing dozens of charges against Ser Borros, and there was enough evidence that there could be no doubt of the guilt.

But still, instead of just lopping off the Baratheon's hairy head, the Lady Hand decided that they were going to do the movements of the trial. Follow all of them fancy southron rules and rituals.

And so what if the Stormlands had an issue with good old fashioned justice? There was a reason why the Prince kept the Legions around, and it wasn't just because they looked pretty in their nice steel suits of armour.

Regardless, what happened there today would send shockwaves through the Seven Kingdoms. The General of the Fifth Legion could feel it in his bones. As could the rest of the First Men apparently, for near every lord from the North and Beyond-the-Wall had gathered in the great castle that Brandon the Builder had built for his blood. To witness the trial firsthand, displayed via glass candle by the sorceries of Aerion Fyre.

———

111 AC, Sunspear

There was no love lost between the Baratheons and the Dornish. And there was even less love lost between the Targaryens and the Dornish.

Daenys could feel the anticipation of the assembled Dornish lords and ladies hang in the air like smoke as the doors of the throne room opened and the herald announced the arrival of the defense.

It was only when Lord Boremund Baratheon took his place at the head of the defense stand that Daenys realised what was going on.

It was essentially a pit fight between the dragons and the stags, and while the Dornish had no care whom won or lost, they were going to enjoy watching their two enemies duke it out.

Either Rhae hung Borros and plunged the Stormlands into war once again, taking out the Baratheons. Or she'd be too lenient and make a mockery of justice, which took out her reign.

All the while, Dorne watched on, vicious snakes all grinning behind their veils and silks and perfumes.

Oh they wouldn't rebel. Probably. But Daenys was reminded of a quote she'd heard from Uncle Vaegon: 'I've never wished a man dead, but I have read some obituaries with great pleasure.'

One way or another, the Dornish would welcome the outcome of the trial with great pleasure.

———

111 AC, Red Keep Throne Room

Ser Borros Baratheon had arrived.

Black-haired, blue-eyed and built like a bear like so many of his blood, he was marched up to the defendant's stand by unsmiling legionaries before being shackled to the stand.

Laenor supposed he should have been more sympathetic towards his cousin—Whom was actually a closer relation than Rhae, come to think of it— but he couldn't find it in him.

Father had been clear about the consequences of breaking not only the laws, but laws he swore an oath to uphold til his dying breath. And there was nothing the Seven hated more than a filthy oathbreaker.

"I must say." Ser Joffrey Lonmouth spoke up, softly speaking into Laenor's ear. "Borros always was a shit. Was only a matter of time before he picked a fight big enough that Daddy couldn't just wave the consequences away.

Laenor snorted at that.

"You would know, my Knight of Kisses." He smiled, patting his sworn shield and lover on the back. "You've complained enough about your liege's heir."

"Well, you would as well, if you had the misfortune of growing up beside him." Joffrey sniffed. "Was why I was so happy to run away to Driftmark. Far more refined class of people there."

Oh how Joff's elegant voice made Laenor hard. It was just so smooth and well-enunciated, like honey to the ear.

"Order in the court!" The herald announced, the entire courtroom falling silent in response. "We stand here for the trial of Ser Borros Baratheon for the Incitement of Mutiny in the Legions of Westeros. The presiding judges are the Hand of the King, the honourable Prince Rhaenyra Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne. The honourable Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, the Lady of the Tides. And the honourable Marshal Darold Darry, General of the Third Legion and Marshal of Westeros.

"The prosecution is led by General Edric Dondarrion, General of the Second Legion and Lord of Blackhaven. The defence is led by Lord Boremund Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands."

The herald turned to face the accused.

"How does the defendant plead?" He asked.

Laenor knew from Mother, that this was the part where Borros would plead guilty. He'd confess to all of his crimes, and the judges would dole out a lesser sentence. Uncle Boremund had agreed to persuade his heir.

The script had already been agreed on. From start to end, this would be a show trial. One broadcast to the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms, a massive power play of Rhae's.

While the world would think the Heir to the Iron Throne was rolling the dice on her reign here, hoping that bold and decisive moves would carry the day, Laenor knew better than anyone that Rhae always stacked the deck, even when she was winning.

He'd sat through enough sessions of court to notice how she was able to shape a conversation the way she wanted it. Every time she made an announcement or passed some decree, there'd always be some lord or knight that'd ask questions that Rhae so conveniently had an answer to, allowing her to silence the opposition while quelling doubts simultaneously.

Most wouldn't notice, but Laenor's sister was literally in Rhae's bed. Laena was pretty gossipy when you got her in a good mood, and had spilled the beans regarding her lover. Rhaenyra had certain catspaws inside the court, shills and agents to feed scripts to, in order to sell whatever plan she wanted.

Today was no exception.

Laenor watched as Ser Borros Baratheon opened his mouth.

"I do not plead! I do not accept this farce of a trial!" The knight shouted.

Oh dear, that wasn't part of the script.

"I demand a Trial by Combat!" He bellowed. "I am Highborn and above these petty games. Let the Gods prove me just and right!"

That definitely wasn't part of the script.

Even as gasps of shock rippled through the court, and the judges, defense and prosecution sat stunned at the deviation from the script, the Hand of the King remained focused and sharp, glaring down at the accused.

"I thought you agreed to confess your sins?" The Prince of Dragonstone mildly asked, though the look on her face was anything but mild. For one brief instant, Laenor could have sworn he saw Rhaenyra's features twist. Her eyes grown slitted, her skin scaly and reptilian, and fangs where her canines were.

"I see no sin in my deeds. They were within my rights." Ser Borros shouted. "And let my accusers face my hammer, lest they be too craven to fight!"

Uh oh, the Hand of the King was losing the court. A lot of the assembled highborn were kith and kin of the mutineers, and were looking very favourably towards Ser Borros now.

Still, the Crown Prince was anything but an idiot, and could feel the tide turning against her.

"This is not repentance." The Hand of the King warned. And if looks could kill, then Borros would be a bloody smear on the ground ten times over.

"I do not need to repent for I am not wrong!" The Baratheon scion denied. "I seek not your forgiveness and never will!"

"Son, mind your temper!" Lord Boremund all but begged. "Do not provoke the judges!"

"Indeed." Mother added, near as desperate. "Compose yourself or you will be thrown out of the court in contempt."

But their pleas were in vain, as Ser Borros continued shouting his demands, unwilling to obey. It was with superhuman patience that Rhae dealt with him, attempting to reason with the knight, but he refused to budge.

"Ser, you will sit down and remain silent, lest the court hold you in contempt." The Hand of the King finally warned, her voice as unyielding as dragonstone.

"I do not recognise your right over me!" Ser Borros refused. "I shall not bow or—"

"Guards!" The Crown Prince interrupted, voice cutting through the Baratheon scion's own. "Have Ser Borros restrained and gagged before bringing him down to the Black Cells! If he insists on such belligerence, let the court hold him in contempt!"

It took three men to wrestle down Laenor's cousin, but they eventually succeeded in gagging him before dragging him out of the court in contempt. The sounds of their struggle echoed down the halls of the Red Keep before the doors slammed shut.

Rhaenyra took a deep, calming breath, before speaking once more.

"Let the record show that Contempt of Court is added to the list of charges the accused faces." Rhaenyra coldly said. "If he is unable to behave, then he shall not be allowed to attend this court for the rest of the duration of the trial."

———

"Such was the trap of the Path of Grace: Only those that wished to repent could be redeemed."

-The Dilemma of Judgement