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“Such irresponsible use of a shield,” Jace says, and he sounds like his fucking mother.
Laenor blows a raspberry at his eight-year-old, and the boy looks up at him, judgment clear on his face.
“We’re going to get in trouble.”
“I’m an adult. I can’t get in trouble with other adults.”
“Nuh-uh,” Luke says, inhaling deeply as he prepares to argue. He is not so much against the plan as his is eager for the opportunity to prove Laenor wrong. Just like his fucking mother.
He proceeds to remind Laenor of the many times he’s been in trouble with his wife, and his mother, and of “that time Aunt Laena threw a bread roll at your head because you were chewing with your mouth open at the dinner table”.
He had a broken nose due to an incident in the training yard that everyone fails to acknowledge when recounting this story, but whatever.
“Anyway,” he interrupts. Laenor holds up the shield he’d stolen borrowed from Ser Arryk. “I’m not going to get in trouble for this because it is a rite of passage for royal children such as yourselves.”
It was the middle of the night. He had made sure all of the lights in the throne room were lit for the occasion. The floors were freshly cleaned and waxed. The shield was new, polished, and liberally oiled, and though he would never say this to his children, he was certainly going to get an earful for scuffing up both the shield and the floors.
Worth it.
The boys have been pulled out of bed, still in their nightclothes, which, now that he thinks about it, is probably why Jace is giving him so much attitude. Interrupting his sleep has never been a wise move.
“I did this with your mother and Aunt Laena when I was your age. Even the queen joined us.” Laenor tells them.
“Really?” They say together. Luke sounds awed, Jace sounds skeptical. He nods at them both. “My mother did this with King Viserys and Uncle Daemon, too.”
“Queen Alicent?” Jace asks, putting special emphasis on her name, as apparently that is the most disbelieving part about everything he said. He nods, but the boy does not look convinced. “You don’t even like her.” He says bluntly.
“I—“ Laenor begins, and then sputters as he realizes he cannot deny that. It would be a blatant lie. He’s never said it outright to his children because it ventures into adult topics that are not for them to hear about yet, but it is so obvious that trying to claim otherwise would be ridiculous at this point. Hells, he can’t even say he liked her at the time.
He didn’t hate her, really. She was mostly just…sort of boring, he supposed. Like how, for example, she refused to let them slide her across the waxed throne room floor on an oiled shield. But she was Rhaenyra’s friend, so she was there. He mostly just included her because he thought it was the best way to convince them they wouldn’t get into trouble. Because if someone as uptight as the green queen herself would indulge in such an activity, surely they’d be just fine, right? Except—
“She didn’t actually do it herself,” Laenor admits begrudgingly. “But she was there!”
Jace hums in the sort of way where it’s clear he still doesn’t really believe him, and he huffs, deciding he doesn’t want to continue this conversation. Shield in hand, he walks to the foot of the throne and places it on the floor, and then stands up, hands on his hips.
“Alright,” he calls, giving Jace and Luke an expectant look. “Who’s first?”
Jace and Luke are still at the other end of the throne room. They look at each other, and then back at Laenor. They don’t move.
Laenor shakes his head disappointedly. “My children are scaredy cats.”
A scoff and a cry of offense, from Jace and Luke respectively. “You go first, then.” Jace challenges, cocking his little head to the side. “Since you’ve done this before.”
“Yeah!” Luke backs up his brother. “You go first!” And then he squawks like a chicken.
And Laenor will be damned if he’s squawked at by his six-year-old.
“See Erryk,” he calls to the Kingsguard who has been witness to the night’s shenanigans (and who had helped them steal borrow his brother’s shield for the occasion, thank you very much, Ser). “If I may.”
He huffs at him in exasperation, though Laenor can see the small quirk of his lips betraying his amusement. With faux reluctance, he hands over his helmet, placing it in his outstretched hands gently.
“Thank you, good Ser.”
Laenor shoves the helmet on his head and marches back to where the shield is sitting with all the solemn determination of a man going to war. He would know, he’s been to war.
The kids are too small to push him as hard as they need to, so he moves the shield far enough away from the foot of the throne to give himself enough room for a running start. Swatting his hands at the air silently, the boys take a few moments to get the hint and move out of his way, one to either end of the room.
“Count me down.”
Watching your father eat shit is apparently a much more exciting prospect than doing it yourself, because Jace finally looks interested in the activity. He grins, and on the other side of the room, Luke giggles deviously, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“Five!” Jace starts the count.
Four!” Luke joins him then, holding up four fingers.
“Three!” Laenor notices that he is too big for the shield the same time he realizes that he is definitely not coming out of this unharmed.
“Two!”
But his mother didn’t raise a pussy. So, he knocks twice on the side of his helmet and then gets into position.
“One!”
He launches himself onto the shield.
“Are you shitting me?”
“You don’t even know what I did yet!”
“Aegon came to my room—it’s the hour of the fucking wolf, mind you—and said he found you in the throne room bleeding on the ground with a shield still spinning on the floor next to you.”
Laenor’s face contorts with confusion and annoyance. “What was he even doing near the throne room at that hour?” He muttered, having vaguely noticed his presence through the blood dripping into his eyes, but was too disoriented to actually focus on it in the moment.
“Taking a walk.” The boy says from the doorway, a very unconvincing casualness forced into his tone.
“Walking where?” Laenor questions, and then quickly remembers he doesn’t care. Aegon is not his child, and therefore not his responsibility. He can do whatever the fuck his mother lets him get away with.
“You know what? Never mind.” He says quickly, turning back to his wife.
“You pulled our sons out of bed at the hour of the wolf to slide them across the waxed throne room on oiled shields, then for some reason decided you, a grown fucking man, would try to do so yourself, and crashed into the wall. Correct me if I’ve gotten any of that wrong.”
...
“…I crashed into a pillar.” He corrects begrudgingly. “The shield curved.”
“Fabulous.” She deadpans and then stares at him for a moment before quickly darting out to twist his nipple in between her fingers. Laenor shrieks at the pitch of a woman half his age, smacking at her inhuman grip frantically until she lets go.
“Damnit, Rhaenyra! I’m already wounded!” He motions jerkily to the cut on the side of his head.
“Good!” She snaps.
A throat clearing interrupts their spat, the maester Rhaenyra had all but ignored aside from a sidelong glance when she first entered, shifting his eyes between them uncomfortably.
He does not have much to report. Ser Erryk’s helmet didn’t fit on his head correctly, and it slid off when he launched himself on the shield. Head wounds bleed more than any other, so it apparently looks worse than it is, and he would more likely than not be perfectly fine.
“So I can go back to my bed?”
“You didn’t need to get out of your bed.” Laenor shoots a glare to where Aegon is still standing, for some reason, peeking his head into the room as the rest of his body disappears on the other side of the doorframe. The little snitch was simply supposed to take Jace and Luke back to bed. That is all Ser Erryk had asked him to do. No one told him to wake her up and tattle. He watches them with intense, sort of confused intrigue. Laenor wishes he would go away.
“Of course, Princess.” The maester nods. Despite her eagerness for sleep, she levels a somewhat menacing stare at him until he leaves—the older man directing Aegon back to bed with a thinly veiled threat about telling the queen of his nighttime activities as he goes—and then slouches tiredly on the edge of the table, pressing her fingers on either side of her head to massage her temples.
“I’m angry at you,” she grumbles, though there is no real heat or anger in her voice. She just sounds exhausted. And now he feels shitty. That’s great.
“I’m sorry,” Laenor says, grabbing one of her hands in his. “I understand it’s dangerous, and I shouldn’t have brought the boys—“
She scoffs and turns to look at him incredulously. “Are you serious?” She exclaims. Laenor is now confused, feeling wrong-footed.
“Laenor,” she rolls her eyes, “They’re boys. Who ride dragons. I’ve long since resigned myself to the perilous activities they will get up to throughout their lives, and I made my peace with you being the instigator for many of these activities the day I caught you and Jace trying to fry an egg on Arrax’s egg when Luke was a babe.”
“What do you mean by ‘trying’? It worked!”
“I’m not upset about you shield sliding in the throne room with our sons,” she continues, ignoring his comment. “I’m upset that you did it without me.”
“Oh.” He says dumbly, and then perks up as her words really sink in. “Oh!”
He beams, grabbing her arm excitedly. Oh, this is wonderful. Wonderful! She wants to join! He should’ve known. In truth, she doesn’t get to spend as much time with the boys with they are in King’s Landing. On Driftmark, or Dragonstone, or the few times they can get away to Pentos, it’s different. But here, she has so much more to do. Her duties as Crown Princess are trying enough on their own, but Alicent and her greens add an entirely different layer of difficulties that are tiresome and time-consuming, and aggravating beyond belief. He should’ve known she’d jump at the opportunity to do something fun with the boys. Something just for their family, with no prying eyes that she herself enjoyed greatly when she was their age.
“We’ll do it again. ” He insists, speaking quietly as they walk back to their wing of the Keep.
She nods. “Not tonight, but soon,” she responds, “While I’m still in the condition for it.”
Laenor deflated with confusion, his brow furrowing. “ What?”
“What do you mean, ‘what’?”
“Still in the condition? What are you talking about?”
“How hard did you hit your head?” She says after a moment of silence, her tone teasing.
“Pretty hard, but I would not forget something so drastic as whatever you are talking about.”
“Drastic?”
In the condition, she said. He does not understand.
“Are you dying? Are you ill?“ He asks, the faint distress in his voice rising the longer she stays silent. For some reason, the King’s missing fingers are flashing to the front of his mind. She looks like she’s trying not to laugh, so it must not be anything so terrible, and he does not know why his thoughts immediately jumped so far. He truly had hit his head so very hard; maybe that has something to do with it. “Why would you not be in the condition to—“ he stops with a gasp.
“Rhaenyra ,” he says slowly, leaning in close to her face. She does not move back. She just stares at him, her eyes tired but bright. A sneaky little grin full of joy is slowly growing on her face. “ Are you ill?”
“Earlier this evening, and the morning before. And I have not bled in some time.” Her voice is quiet, but so, so happy.
“ You’re with child?” He breathes, hopeful.
“It’s still very early.” She protests weakly.
Laenor lifts her off her feet, twirling them around happily in the middle of the corridor. A startled yelp bursts out of her, her fingers digging into his shoulders. He spins four times before he starts to get dizzy and remembers the head wound he’s suffered not an hour ago. He places her back on the ground, beaming at her and ignoring her muttered comment about turning her baby into a scrambled egg. “ Another babe.”
“Another babe. A girl this time, I hope,” She places her hands over her belly. “But if it be another boy, you will have your Joffrey.”
A pang shoots through his heart at the name. He stares at her, his eyes and nose suddenly burning with the urge to cry.
The way his father had reacted when he’d suggested it for Luke had left him resigned to the idea of never getting to pass on the name, to keep his love’s memory alive in that way. And he’d begun to make his peace with it, enough so that the babe’s name had not been his immediate thought at any point since they’d even agreed to try for a third, over seven moons ago. She was becoming disheartened by their failure. Laenor had not thought he would ever have one child, let alone two. He was happy with his lot in life, and had decided to let it go.
She had not let it go, apparently. The fact that she’d remembered at all means more than Laenor could ever put into words.
“My father—“
“Your father,” she cuts in, her voice suddenly dripping with irritation. “Does not get to monopolize the naming rights to our children. Not unless he plans to push them out himself. He was lucky enough to have a say in the first two. This babe will be called whatever I choose, and gods willing, in nine moons' time, we will have either a Joffrey or a Visenya. If he has a problem with that, then tough shit.”
To his amusement, she continues muttering about Corlys’s entitlement the entire walk back. He decides to sleep in her room the rest of the night, and strokes her hair until she’s too tired to talk anymore, her eyes fluttering closed as her weariness catches up to her.
“I am offended that they are much more eager to do this with you than with me.” Laenor huffs as Luke practically skips over and plops himself down on the shield with a wide grin. The only reason he’s going first is because Jace lost Stone Parchment Dagger. Ser Erryk is once again standing guard, and he watches the proceedings with mirth. He is somehow always the guard who bears witness to their most ridiculous moments and, over the years, has stopped bothering to hide his amusement at their antics. Laenor wonders if Ser Erryk sees their family in a light akin to that of a circus troupe.
Rhaenyra is bent over, maneuvering Luke more securely and placing his hands in the right spots. She looks up at him with a shit eating grin, and he flips her off while neither child is paying attention to him, which she merely rolls her eyes at and then goes back to what she was doing. When she stands, she waves her hand, and Laenor takes his position behind Luke.
“Should father be the one pushing him?” He hears Jace whisper—badly—to his mother. Laenor huffs. It’s much easier directing someone else, especially one so small, than throwing yourself forward and hoping for the best. Which he’s done before with much success! Only, he was twelve the last time he did that, and adult Laenor is out of practice.
“He knows what he’s doing, love, I promise.” His wife defends him, though she sounds much too amused for his liking.
“Are you ready?” Laenor asks Luke. He bounces, the force of his excitement shaking the shield as he yells happily, “I’m ready, I’m ready!”
“Alright, count down from five.”
“Five! Fo—“
Laenor propels the shield forward. The sound of Luke’s squeals echoes in the empty throne room. Not exactly helpful for the whole discretion aspect of their adventure, but whatever.
He doesn’t stop or slow when he comes upon the stairs, and he slams into them with a quick thwack, flailing wildly as he tumbles off the shield. Rhaenyra flinches next to him, but the immediate laughter that follows his fall stops her from rushing over like he knows she wants to. Luke scrambles up from the ground, giggling wildly. “Again, again!”
“No, it’s my turn!” Jace goes over to grab the shield that Luke left by the stairs, and when Laenor pushes him across the floor, a quick flick of his wrist has the shield spinning the entire way down as his son cackles wildly. The shield slows as he gets closer to the stairs this time. For some reason, this is unacceptable to Jace, who proceeds to fling himself across the few feet in between him and the stairs, knocking the breath from himself in the process.
“Why.” Rhaenyra deadpans. She gets no response and, from that moment forward, the boys seem to forget that their parents are there as they take turns dragging each other around the room, with and without the shield. Rhaenyra sits at the base of the throne, yawning into the crook of her elbow as they roll around.
“Tired?” He asks. She nods, leaning her head against his leg. “This was worth it, though.” She smiles. “Even if it would have been more fun had you let me take a turn.” She side-eyes him, and Laenor harrumphs, completely unapologetic. “You can propel yourself across the floor of the throne room as many times as you like when there is not a babe taking up residence in your womb.”
“Do you remember that time you brought a rope, and Laena spun you around in circles until you crashed into that pillar over there?” She points over to the left side of the throne room.
“Yes, that’s the same pillar I hit when I first brought the boys. Luckily, I didn’t lose any teeth that time. They would not have grown back.”
“That would’ve been hilarious.”
He sways at her head gently. “Normal wives do not take pleasure in their husbands' misfortune.”
“I think you would be surprised how many wives take pleasure in their husband’s misfortune. Laena takes pleasure in everything that even mildly inconveniences her husband.”
“It’s funny that you think I would ever qualify Laena as normal.”