The day had crawled by in a blur. His thoughts were not with himself, but with Percy. He couldn’t even presently focus enough to be bothered by the pain when Maester Byron wrapped his ribs. Only bruised, he had said, albeit pretty severely. That was all he had cared to hear before gluing himself to the young man’s bedside.
His lip was busted, back scraped to Hell, ankle swollen and purple. He didn’t want to think about what the giant gash on his arm had looked like earlier…
This is all my fault.
He shouldn’t have pushed Percy to join him today. It was selfish. He knew he wouldn’t fit in, wouldn’t feel comfortable, but his own comfort had taken priority. It always did… the blacksmith would never protest to something when he knew it would make him happy. He had toiled silently, on his own, just to get him a gift. Just to make him happy. Over the past weeks, Percy was always checking on him, making sure that he was okay, that he was eating enough, that his nightmares hadn’t come back, that everything was all right at home. It was always about Aryn Stewart.
And now he was horribly injured because of Aryn Stewart.
All because he wanted to make me happy…
“Aryn.”
He started and turned to face his brother, of all the people. “Philip… Are the horses okay?”
“Yes, they found them both. Dancer is fine,” he added.
A tense silence filled the air as he faced back towards Percy, his throat closing up. The faint howling of icy wind could be heard whistling across the castle’s stones.
“The maester says he should be okay. If anything, he might lose a little strength in his arm–”
“He’s a blacksmith, Philip,” he murmured angrily, overwhelming guilt swelling within his chest.
“It was an accident, Aryn…”
“I shouldn’t have asked him to come,” he said in a near whisper, shaking his head. “It was stupid, and selfish. All I wanted was to have a friend around–”
“I’m around,” Philip argued.
He whirled on him, tears brimming in his eyes. “Are you? You’ve never supported what I’ve wanted–”
“Oh for Christ’s sake Aryn and what is it you’ve wanted?” he spat patronizingly.
“A brother that cares for me!” he shouted back, voice cracking. “A brother who’s interested in more than just securing his ascension to the throne. Or how about a father that doesn’t despise me because I’m not you. Maybe a father that doesn’t try to beat Mum out of me–”
“Please, Father only ever beat you when you were being an insolent little child,” he dismissed. “Just like you are right now.”
“Are you sure?” he hissed. “Because the last time I remember his fists on me, I certainly was not small.”
Philip paused.
“What cause would Father have to beat his grown son?” he interrogated doubtingly.
“Maybe you should ask him,” he spat, locking eyes with his brother.
Blue irises burned with anger, with pain, as brown eyes on the other end flickered with uncertainty. Aryn broke his gaze and turned back towards Percy.
“Sorry I ruined your wedding hunt,” he mumbled dismissively, finality in his voice.
He didn’t turn back as the door slammed shut, even as it caused him to flinch. His mind raced, churning through one thought over and over again.
He might not be able to smith anymore.
What could he do? There had to be something, a solution. There was no way in Hell he would go back to Percy’s family and tell them their son was useless now, maimed. If he couldn’t smith, he still needed a purpose. A place in society, and a good one.
He bolted upright in his chair as realization struck him. A fire began to spark within him, and he pushed himself out of the chair and hobbled through the door, heading towards the King’s chambers.
Knuckles rapped assertively on the large oak door as he braced himself against the wall, ribs shouting at him. A few moments passed before a bolt clunked from the other side and the door swung open.
His father was almost a good six inches taller than him, even more so now that he couldn’t sit up straight. Although he had retired for the evening, he was still dressed in fine clothes. His sizable crown sat atop its cushion on a grand dresser made of dark mahogany. Many a time when he was younger he had found himself looking at it, wondering just how heavy it was.
“Aryn. You should be resting.”
“I know. But I need to speak with you, Father,” he murmured quietly, not yet finding courage in his voice.
Cold eyes looked him up and down before the King retreated into his chambers, silently inviting him in. A fire was crackling in the ornate fireplace carved from dark grey stone, and two plush chairs sat beside it. He motioned for Aryn to sit.
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The prince limped in that direction and gratefully plopped down, grunting slightly in pain as his rib cage shifted. The King made his way to his seat, far more gracefully lowering himself onto the cushions.
“Is the boy all right?” Aleksander asked. Aryn knew every word was forced.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” he started, earning a skeptical look. “His arm is… severely injured. It is likely he may never work as a blacksmith again, providing for his family.”
“Well that is extremely unfortunate news. I knew he had promise.”
He pressed his lips together anxiously.
“Father, the common folk… well, they share no love for you. For us. Especially because of this war–”
“Do they not know I fight this war to gain more land, more resources for them?” he countered forcefully.
“Some, yes. But most do not, no. At any rate, our people are unhappy, Father.”
“And how do you know this? From your friend, the blacksmith boy?” he patronized.
He felt his face beginning to flush hot, but he bit back his emotions.
“Yes. And I’m telling you–”
The King turned in his chair, a look in his eyes that he had come to know, and fear, too well. “You do not tell me anything, Son. I may be your father, but I am also your King. You may inform me, you may advise me, you may notify me, but you do not tell me. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Father…” he shrank slightly in his chair, heart racing, as he quickly turned his gaze to the fireplace. “I just wished to inform you that I believe if we do not start to put more attention towards the common people, then this kingdom that you’ve built will begin to fall apart.”
“How do you suggest we do that?” he asked impatiently.
It was clear by the King’s tone that he did not care for this conversation. They had been down this road many times before: he would attempt to present an idea, his father would belittle him, and he would shut down and give up. He refused to travel this path again. Not this time.
“The initial solution is simple. In order for us to more readily understand what our people need, what they ask for, we must work with them. Well, at least one of them.”
Aleksander actually paused for a moment. His gaze softened to confusion.
“What are you getting at?”
He turned back to look at his father, firelight reflecting in his blue eyes. “I ask that you give Percy a seat on your council. His family is well respected and well loved by the common people, he himself has immense popularity among their society, and I believe he has a natural talent for diplomacy.”
“He challenged your brother–”
“Good. Lord knows he needs it every now and then,” he pushed. “I believe it showed that Percy would be able to hold his own at court, wouldn’t you agree?”
“What you ask for, boy, is unprecedented. That commoner has no right to sit on my council–”
“No birthright, no. But men are lifted in station all the time by earning it, by performing a large service to the Crown. Many a knight have found their promotion through these means.”
“And what large service has this blacksmith boy done for the Crown?” he interrogated frustratedly.
“Saved my life.”
The King fell silent, cold brown eyes burning with intensity.
“You weren’t there. That boar was going to kill me. It was Percy who put a bolt through its skull, all while he had been dragged by his horse and gouged by tusks. The only reason he was there today, the only reason he was injured, was because of me. Because of my asking. I owe him, Father. This family owes him. At the very least, we owe his family for all of the work they’ve done. Their older son is on the front lines, fighting for us. And now their youngest has sacrificed his livelihood to save their prince. It is the least we can do to make sure his future is secure, and this presents us with the opportunity that I have brought to you. We help him, and he helps us hold our people.”
Aleksander sighed and turned to look into the fire, large hands encompassing the arms of his chair. “You truly are your mother’s son… One day that generous heart of yours will ruin you.”
He felt his heart sink to the floor, a sickening pit forming in his stomach. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough…
“But you may be right, this time. The men of my council have been bringing troublesome news to my ears. Whispers of rebellious fantasies. And with the territory we have been gaining from Farmond, we also gain their people. Needless to say, they are not very happy under their new situation. We cannot afford to attempt to quell our new citizens of Westgarde while more of our denizens stir up the countryside.”
A fire began to blaze in his heart.
“It must begin here in Oxmore then. If we can begin to make changes, meet the needs of our people within its capital, news will spread. But we have to improve things here first, else we spread ourselves too thin.”
The ghost of a smile twitched at the King’s lips. “Have you been learning strategy from your brother?”
“No. It’s rather amazing what you can simply learn from books,” he pointed out, a sense of self-pride pushing through his voice.
“And who will mentor the blacksmith boy? I will not have him come into my council and make a fool of himself and the Crown. He must be taught our ways,” his father said sternly.
“Might I suggest Oliver Farrington, elder brother of Philip’s betrothed? The two seem to be of like spirits. I dare say they were beginning to cultivate some friendship this morning, at least from my perspective. I believe they will work together well. Oliver already intends to stay at court with his sister, at his father’s request, and he is quite well versed in politics. He will most certainly be another asset we can utilize.”
“That does seem to be a sound choice. Fine, you will inform him of this proposition yourself,” he decreed. “As for the blacksmith, he is your responsibility. Any trouble he causes, any offense committed, also falls on your shoulders. Is that understood?”
“Of course.”
“Then we are done here for tonight. Go, rest. We need you well for the ball. I fully expect you to attend–”
“I will–”
“--And participate,” he added pointedly, his tone accusatory. “If you are to begin making demands of this family, you must in turn start to take your role seriously.”
“Yes, Father.”
Aleksander sighed once more. “I will see you in the morning.”
Painfully rising from his chair, he walked stiffly to the door, yanking it open.
“Aryn.”
He paused and turned to face his father.
“Do not make me regret this.”
With a bow of his head, he closed the door behind him.