GOT : All Left Behind

A knightly vigil was a sacred ritual that was meant to mark the beginning of one's life as a knight of the Seven Who Are One. A squire walked in, would spend the night wide awake contemplating his place in the world, and a knight would walk out. What a man did in that sept during his vigil was up to him. 

Perhaps he would pray to the Seven for guidance. Perhaps he would meditate on his life and wonder what his future held in store.

There was a curious duality to the vigil. The first vigil marked the start of your life as a knight, and every vigil afterward as another knight's career ended. Inevitably, they would be compared. Good and bad, beginning and end.

Would I ever be called on to hold a vigil? It was natural to wonder. My father was growing old. When he passed, it would be expected for me to hold vigil for him. Perhaps my brothers would join me in my vigil. I was younger than Aemon and Baelon, too. To outlive them would be natural. Would their children invite me to stand vigil?

I rubbed my face with hands that still felt sticky from dried wine even after hours of wiping them against my padded jacket. The darkness of the sept was slowly starting to lift, and I was really starting to feel the long hours without sleep. My eyes wanted to droop. My legs wanted to fold. My body craved rest, but it would not get it. Not today.

Not on my wedding day.

And it would be a long day, that I knew, a day of celebration and feasting and dancing.

But as long as the day would be, my night had been longer.

I had spent hours slowly pacing the confines of the sept, staring at the seven statues that made up each point of the structure as I passed them.

The Father, stern and bearded.

There was no judgement in his gaze. No, that would come later. For now, all he did was watch and learn, his stone eyes seeming to follow me around the sept.

The Mother, warm and welcoming.

There was naught but love in Her gaze. Whatever might happen, that kind smile would never abandon me. Even as those eyes seemed to peer into my very soul to dredge up the many ethically abhorrent schemes that bounced around my head, I knew She would always love me.

The Maiden, every modest and the very image of kindness.

She did not know the truth of what resided in my mind, and her smile seemed all the brighter for it. If She learned the truth, I wondered, would that smile remain?

The Warrior, clad in stony plate, his face the epitome of calm.

There was no love on that face, no hint of emotion. He barely seemed to care about my presence at all. Now, the night before I became a man like Him, and He did not even seem to acknowledge my presence.

The Crone, out of focus compared to Her ornately decorated lantern.

Her face lacked detail, but I got a sense of pride. The kind of familial pride one held for a relative you never met.

The Smith, His figure largely hidden in favor of His hammer.

He, too, looked proud, though this pride was more personal. His was the pride of a man who had watched over a project from inception to maturity and was proud of its progress.

The Stranger, little more than a cloaked figure age and sex and demeanor impossible to discern.

Even Their gaze was inscrutable, save for a possessive cast to the statue's eyes, as though They knew what my future held in store, and savoring every minute of it.

Thus, beneath their unblinking gaze, I waited. And I had had nothing but time to wonder if I had done the right thing. Dragonstone was free of the Cannibal, but a new one would arise in due time. My sisters were less neurotic, but the Seven alone knew how long that might last.

My intelligence network was nascent. My bank had only the initial capital. My dragon was near useless in a dance with another rider.

But I was winning. All I needed was time, and I would win. Given time, my family would have all they need to lock in their position as the undisputed lords of the Seven Kingdoms. I would succeed.

And then what?

When I had achieved all that I wanted, what would I do?

Enjoy domestic bliss? I was a prince of the blood! I was not the kind to rest on my laurels!

But then what would I do?

Where would I focus my efforts?

That was what my sleep-deprived mind was struggling to decide when the doors to the sept swung open on well-oiled hinges. They made nary a sound, though I would hardly have noticed even if they had screamed open. No, it was the sudden flood of light that had drawn my attention.

Through squinting eyes, I made out the familiar shape of my father. Dressed in fine black plate, highlighted with gold and covered in elaborate fluting, he looked every inch the warrior king he had been in the early years of his reign by necessity. His silver-gold hair was tied back, his beard neatly braided, and his face bore a proud smile.

At least, that's what it looked like to my barely conscious mind.

"Still awake, Vaegon?" my father asked as he calmly strode into the sept, one hand resting easily on the pommel of the sword at his side. Of one of them, anyway. Why he wore two on the same hip was beyond me. The room was nearly silent but for the tinkle of plate on mail and the jingle-jangle-jingle of spurs on his feet. "For a moment I had feared you had fallen asleep."

"Me?" I asked, stepping forwards to meet him halfway, keeping moving just so I did not collapse where I stood. Perhaps spending the night kneeling before one of the statues would have been wiser. "Perish the thought."

"It's only the two of us, my son," Father came to a stop a pace ahead of me. He was a tall man, my father, still half a head taller than I. Given time, I had no doubt that I would catch up to him, but for now, I was still his little boy. "There is no need for mummery."

Peering around him, I saw no trace of his armored shadows. It appeared that he was telling the truth.

"And yet rumors would fly," I muttered, earning a sigh from my father.

"You are too politically minded for your age," he commented, ruffling my hair without a worry for its sticky nature. I, tragically, was too tired to resist. "Relax, Vaegon. The realm is at peace, celebrating the marriage of its most pious prince. Now kneel."

I barely had time to acknowledge the compliment as my body obeyed his iron-toned command, sinking to one knee with my head bowed. My legs howled in protest after having spent the entire night keeping me moving, but this I could endure. I had to.

I heard the whisper of a blade leaving the scabbard, and I tensed. Too much training over the past years combined with too little sleep left me on edge, but I suppressed the urge to reach for a weapon. Mostly because I was too tired.

"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just." My father's words went almost unheard as I felt something deathly cold touch my right shoulder, all the way through my padded jacket. No, I realized, I felt something touch my shoulder. He had cut clean through a jacket meant to stop blows from a sword. 

"In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women. In the name of the Smith, I charge you to work tirelessly. In the name of the Crone, I charge you to act with wisdom." 

I felt the same deathly cold on my left shoulder, the jacket once again parting without resistance. "And in the name of the Stranger, I charge you to honor your fellow knights. Now arise, Ser Vaegon Targaryen."

I wanted to, but my legs did not. My mind said rise, but my legs strained and buckled, pitching me forwards and forcing me to catch myself on a nearby pew. From there, I was able to drag myself up.

Finally, after long moments of struggling to get to my feet, I made it, standing once again in front of my smile, a proud smile on his face. In his right was a sword, its smokey grey blade marred by the barest hint of red along the edge. In his left… another sword? No, a sword belt, held in an outstretched arm.

He threw it to me, gently, and I was not yet so far gone to be unable to catch it. From so small a distance it easily landed in my palm. Fresh leather wrapped both the grip and the scabbard, a grey so pale it looked white, the guard a simple steel crossbar. Not even the pommel had any adornment.

Plain, but it would serve.

I did not bother drawing the sword. Doing so while deathly tired seemed foolish. Instead, I fixed the belt around my waist, a tired smile growing on my face.

"Now go freshen up!" Father said, clapping me on the shoulder, sending a brief jolt of pain through me. The cut was still a bit too fresh for that. "No man should go to his wedding stinking of wine!"

He did not need to tell me twice.

...

Hey guys I really need you to throw some power stones to elevate the ranking Since this is a new story :)

...

If you want to read ahead of the public release, or just want to support me.

you can join my p atreon :

[email protected]/Nolima