Archive of Our Own

Daeron stood in the doorway, panting slightly, still wearing the clothes he’d been in under the armor he’d worn, with a grubby splash of blood across his cheek. “Father, you must come quick,” he announced.

Maekar had half a mind to tell him to fuck off. He sighed and watched as the maesters worked diligently over Aerion’s still frame. They had already assured him that he would live, though his wounds were serious. All Maekar wanted in that moment was to close his eyes and wake up from the nightmare that had become the Ashford Tourney. He most certainly did not want to deal with whatever mess Daeron had gotten himself into, while Baelor's body was still cooling. “What is it?”

“It’s Valarr. He’s gone mad.”

His thoughts came in a jumbled mess, interweaving with the barely remembered fact that his brother was dead. His first thought was to wonder who the fuck cared, because surely Baelor could sort his own boy out. His next was that it was a sure shame that Baelor was not there to see his perfect little prince crack. His last was more of an image of his brother in King’s Landing. A little boy came barreling down the steps of the castle, so fast that he nearly fell over his little feet before Baelor caught him at the bottom of the steps and spun him around and around until his laugh echoed throughout the great hall.

Wearily, Maekar pushed himself off of the wall he’d been leaning heavily against, and set out to limp after his son.

Daeron had, of course, exaggerated. Valarr was not spitting fire or screaming and crying at Baelor’s feet. He only knelt quietly next to the body where it had been placed on a stone slab, eyes set on his father’s face. A knight in white bent next to the prince, talking quietly to him. As they approached, Ser Roland straightened up, and had trouble looking him in the eye.

“He won’t let them tend to the body, my lord.”

The body that had once been his brother. His warm, kind brother, who would have made a wonderful king, but was now just a cold corpse laid out on the stone floor in some piss-soaked backwater castle.

Everyone looked to him for what to do next. Except for Valarr, who kept looking at his father.

“Valarr.” It hurt to speak, for some reason. The words drew pain from his throat. “You must let the septons do their work.” He couldn’t say it any other way. Couldn’t bear to even think about referring to his brother as the body.

Valarr wavered where he knelt. Then, he looked up, and Maekar found his brother’s gaze boring into his once more. “Can we not wait just a while longer? Just to be sure.”

“To be sure of what?”

“That he’s really dead.”

Baelor’s brains were not in his head anymore. He was well and truly dead, he wanted to yell at the boy. But Baelor would have his head if he was cruel to his heir.

He didn’t know where he found the strength to be calm and firm, to sound as if he was in charge. “You will need to save your strength for a real vigil. Go with your cousin, find something to eat, get changed into your mourning clothes. I will stay with him while the septons do their work.”

There was little light in the room. It was hard to see Valarr’s face clearly. But Maekar knew this boy, knew that he would do what he was told no matter what. Slowly, Valarr rose to his feet. He swayed when he stood, and the Kingsguard knight stepped close to him.

Valarr waved him away. He went to his cousin’s side instead, and as they disappeared down the hall, he could hear the quiet conversation that bloomed. “Your ear,” he heard the prince say, “we should find a maester.” He had not left Valarr in the hands of Daeron then, he had left Daeron in the hands of Valarr.

And they had left him alone with Baelor. With his body, cold on a slab. He was to watch over him now. He had never done this before. He had been watched by his brother many times, and he’d sat vigil as his sons had weathered illness and injury growing up, he’d even taken up Baelor’s place at his son’s side once, when Valarr had been caught by some sickness as a youth and his brother had been called away on princely duty. He did not want to remember that. Baelor’s eyes had been filled with tears the cold night before he’d been due to leave. It had been one of the few times he’d seen him cry.

He looked down at the body. Where are the tears for your precious boy now, brother? He wondered. If Baelor truly loved him, why had he gone and died on him? Maekar had long ago accepted that he’d been replaced in his brother’s eyes as his favorite. That position had gone straight to Valarr, who looked and talked just like his father. But he’d thought that this meant that Baelor would live so long as Valarr did. His little prince needed him. Who would teach him how to be king, now? Their father had spent all his time on Baelor, with none left for his other sons, much less a grandson. Who would interject when someone (most likely Maekar) mockingly called him the little prince? Who would teach him to watch his back around Bloodraven? Or how to bash in the heads of armies of bastards? No, he did not want to think of head bashing just then.

Septons filed into the room with water and cloth. They were all young too, far too young to be skilled at what they were about to do. Maekar slid heavily into a wooden chair in the corner and thought of how bloody boring it could be to sit vigil.

Oddly enough it made him think of Valarr again. Of one of the very first summers that the boy had journeyed to Summerhall with his father. It had been one of the best ones, even though partway through the summer months Daeron had been besieged by a fever. But Baelor had been enjoyable for the weeks that they stayed, and his little prince had been perfectly well behaved. He’d sat with his uncle one day at Daeron’s bedside, and Maekar had to admit to himself that he’d enjoyed that day. He tried to think of it once more, to push away the terrifying fact that his brother truly was dead and gone.

The Heir was coming to Summerhall. That was all anybody talked about for weeks. His brother had written to request that he come to meet the newest prince, sweet little Aemon who had just been born only two moons before. Maekar was gladdened by the news, of course. It had been too long since he’d seen his brother. But he could do without the fanfare that always tended to come with Baelor. His brother didn’t even ask for it. Which made it that much more annoying as the castle commenced with excitement. Prince Baelor is coming, the servants whispered to each other as they scurried around the castle. It only got worse when the second letter from his brother arrived, informing him that he was bringing his son as well.

Dyanna grinned in delight as he announced the news at their breakfast. “And Jena?”

“She is… not in a fit enough state to travel,” he read from the letter, “what the fuck does he mean by that?”

“Oh!” Dyanna clapped her hands together, bracelets clinking with the force of her excitement. “Good for her, she is with child again. Ah, well. It will be just as well to see the little prince at least.”

Maekar knew his wife had no reason to share in his discomfort. She was sweet, and wholly enamored with babes of any kind. But she did not understand that this very same little prince had changed his brother. Where his thoughts and affections had once been filled by battles and politics and his brothers, that had all changed with the arrival of an heir. In the years since Valarr’s birth, his brother had indulged the boy enough that he had a constant little shadow, a shade peeking out around his legs so that he might snatch up any spare time and attention Baelor was afforded.

Well, it was for the best that Valarr would soon have a little brother or sister. Maybe then he would know what it was like to have to share Baelor Breakspear with another.

They arrived on a sunny day, though there were always plenty of those to go around in the late spring at Summerhall. The din of the traveling party reached their ears just as Maekar finally got his boys to line up for once just outside the castle doors. The sight of the bannermen sent them off into excitement again, however, and Aerion demanded to be picked up so that he could see better.

What greeted his brother when he finally brought his horse to a stop in front of the assembly was Aemon crying in his mother’s arms, startled by all the noise, and Aerion wriggling in his father’s so that he might be put down and then just as quickly asking to be picked up again, and Daeron running around between the approaching horses, pretending he was a knight.

Baelor beamed at them all. “Maekar!” he called out joyfully, despite all of the commotion. “It has been too long.”

In front of him sat his miniature in human form. The six-year-old Prince Valarr took everything in with a wide-eyed look. He glanced around him as his father dismounted and hesitated before he allowed himself to be plucked off the horse. He was dressed the same as his father, in a small version of Baelor’s favored all-black riding clothes. Once he was set on solid ground, he stuck close to his father’s leg, reaching one hand up to quietly slip into Baelor’s.

They immediately began with all the necessary introductions. The boys had to get reacquainted with each other, though once Daeron had been caught by a nurse it didn’t take long for them to become familiar once more. Valarr was encouraged to step out from behind his father and join his cousins with their nurses. Baelor took Aemon in his arms and remarked that he was a healthy-looking babe and reminded Valarr that he would have a little brother or sister soon too.

“It’s not too bad,” Daeron told his cousin as the nurse led the children away towards the nursery, where their trouble would be contained, “they’re fun to play with.”

“I trust you had a good trip,” Maekar said once the clamor died away.

Baelor took a moment before responding, letting his hand come to rest heavy on his brother’s shoulder. “I am happy to be here,” he said, with nothing but sincerity in his words. “As soon as Jena gave me the good news I had hoped I could get some time alone with Valarr. It’s even better that I get to do it in my favorite brother’s home.” He leaned in conspiratorially towards Dyanna. “Don’t tell the others I said that.”

She was absolutely charmed by that. Maekar had to admit to a feeling of happiness as well. He enjoyed having his brother around, even if he insisted on bringing his shadow everywhere with him.

Meals were a much more enthusiastic affair with company. Valarr had been permitted to sit next to his father at the supper table, and his legs swung happily from the chair as he masterfully used his silverware to eat his food. He was much too small for the table however, so Baelor had set him atop a stack of books on the chair, and had then dissolved into laughter at the sight. Once he caught his brother's eye Maekar found it impossible not to chuckle as well. Valarr did not like being laughed at, but he weathered it all with only a small scowl on his face. 

“What wonderful manners you have, my prince,” Dyanna said, beaming at the polite little boy.

“Thank you, my lady,” Valarr said immediately. His face scrunched up into a smile as his father’s hand settled on his head, ruffling his hair. He wanted to be done with his food so he could join his cousins in the garden, but Baelor insisted that he stay through the whole meal, and only let him go once the adults took their drinks and retired to outside to the stone table and chairs that looked out into Summerhall’s vast garden.

They looked on as the children chased at insects and birds alike in the late afternoon sun. Valarr was particularly delighted in the abundance of butterflies, telling his cousins that he did not see twice as many in King’s Landing. Dyanna and Baelor both found that positively charming. It was a simple observation though, and one would think with how often Baelor told tales of his son’s intellect, he could have said something more interesting.

But he continued to delight their company. Daeron especially was obsessed with his cousin, likely happy to have someone so close to his own age to play with. While Aerion tried to keep up with his older brother, he was not half as fun at playing swords with as was a boy his own age.

Maekar decided that he could forgive Daeron’s infatuation though, because as they played, he noticed that his boy was already taller than his cousin, despite being just shy of a year younger than him. Daeron was bigger and stronger than Valarr in every way that mattered. He already had the makings of a good knight in him.

“How is life at Court, brother?” he asked once the boys disappeared down into the lower pavilion of the garden, having entertained their parents more than enough.

“Dastardly,” Baelor proclaimed as he reached for his wine. “Full of inaction. Which is for the best, as we all know, but it can be dull at times.”

“And our uncle?”

Baelor’s gaze found his, and he was pleased to pull a smile out of his brother with the own wicked one that was on his face. “The bastard makes his opinions known with no hesitation.” Something darker twisted in his smile. “And I catch him staring sometimes. At my boy. I do not like that.”

Dyanna gave a mournful shake of her head, and even Maekar felt something twist unpleasantly in his stomach at the thought of Bloodraven coming too close to the little prince.

“You know you are welcome here at any time.”

“Would that I could.” Baelor sighed, stretching his legs out. “This place is wonderful. Calm.” A breeze filtered over them. The children’s laughter rang out from the bed of rocks in the garden that harbored a little pond. He could hear them splashing about, and he knew that the nurses would have their hands full in cleaning them up.

But it wasn’t long before a shriek broke through the peace. He wasn’t sure whether he or Baelor had made it to his feet first, but they both spotted the little prince racing back up the hill at the same time. “Papa!” Valarr barreled straight into his father, grabbing his coat and tugging at him immediately. “Papa, Daeron’s hurt!”

Maekar grabbed the boy by the shoulders and took him away from his father. “Show us where he is,” he ordered gruffly. Rather than get scared, Valarr did just as he was told, spinning around to lead them back towards the pond.

“It’s his foot,” Valarr said, little voice carrying somehow as he hurried down the hill.

That took some of the pure panic out of his chest. As they came upon the pond too, he could hear crying, but it sounded more like Aerion than Daeron. And when they finally spotted the boys perched on the rocks around the pond, Daeron didn’t seem all that phased. He had his foot cradled in one hand, but it was hard for him to see the cut on the bottom, so he insisted that Aerion keep looking at it for him, and Aerion was crying at the sight of his brother’s blood.

In all, the cut didn’t worry any of them at first. The maester told him and Dyanna that it didn’t even need a stitch. The only complication that could come was if an infection set in.

And, two days later Daeron woke with clouded eyes and a burning fever. When the maester checked the wound on his foot, Dyanna let out a strangled sound at the sight of the ugly red monstrosity that it had turned into. She clutched at his arm, and he felt her sway on her feet once the maesters announced that they would have to keep an eye on the infection to ensure it didn’t spread. If it did, it was possible they would have to take the foot.

That could not make sense to him. His little boy. At risk of losing a foot.

Had Baelor not been there, the castle surely would have fallen into disarray. Maekar and Dyanna kept shifts between them, rotating in and out of Daeron’s room so that one of them might always keep an eye on him. The maesters and nurses who filtered in and out were many, but neither felt completely at ease unless one of them was there to see their boy through this as well.

Never in his life had Maekar sat so still for so long. He tried to read most of the time, but he found it hard to concentrate. His eyes always roamed back to Daeron, battling away with the fever. He looked so little and pale within his bed that it cleaved his heart in two every time he walked back into the room.

His duties fell to the wayside but were picked up with ease by Baelor. He only saw his brother in passing, or when Dyanna pleaded that he go eat a meal. Baelor only ever inquired after Daeron and tried his best to ease his worries. When Maekar asked if he should at least try to attend to his duties, Baelor shushed him and told him to think only of his son. “That’s what I’m here for,” Baelor told him softly.

“I thought you came to see Aemon.”

“No,” Baelor nearly laughed, “I mean, as a brother. I take care of things when you can’t.”

He had not thought of Baelor as just a brother in a long time. He wished he could do so more often. He was a good, fine brother.

On the fourth day of Daeron’s fever, the maester determined that the infection was not spreading up his foot. It was unlikely that he was going to lose it. All he had to do after that was recover from the high heat of his blood.

Maekar found himself at his boy’s bedside that morning with nothing to do other than to stare at Daeron and will him to get better. Soft footsteps came up behind him, and he thought they might be Dyanna’s at first, but when he turned, he found Baelor in the doorway. He nearly smiled for the first time since Daeron had fallen ill. The room felt lighter with his brother in it already, and some foolish part of himself still sincerely believed that nothing could go wrong so long as Baelor was in a room.

At his side, though, stood Valarr. He had one hand clinging tight to his father’s, and the other clutched a book half his size to his chest.

“Go on, then,” Baelor urged him, trying to get him to take a step towards his uncle.

Maekar watched them, bewildered as to what was going on, until Valarr spoke in a soft, sweet voice. “I would like to read to my cousin.”

Baelor beamed at that. And what was he doing smiling anyway, while Daeron lying on his deathbed? Valarr slunk back towards his father once he caught sight of Maekar’s eyes. But Baelor urged him forward once more, and when his gaze found his brother’s he made sure it was softened.

It would be one thing to deny Baelor. It would be another entirely to disappoint his son. And Daeron might just like having his cousin there. “Very well, then.”

He expected Baelor to find another chair for his boy. But his brother had other ideas. The little prince gave a soft giggle as his father swung him up into his arms, but it was cut short once he was dropped into his uncle’s lap. Even though Maekar was no fonder of the arrangement than he was, he still felt a pang of hurt as the prince looked up at his father with wide fearful eyes that seemed to convey a sense of don’t leave me here.

“You may return him to me when your wife relieves you,” his brother said, as if he had nothing better to do with his day than ferry his nephew around the castle.

“Of course.”

They sat there, listening to his footsteps fading away, until Valarr cracked open the book still clutched in his hands and sneezed at the cloud of dust that exploded in his face. He sighed and reached for a cloth. At least the boy behaved like a boy for once, wiggling his face away as Maekar tried to wipe the dust off.

“What is this, then?”

“Father wants me to practice.”

The book in question was one he didn’t recognize, but Valarr was being quiet enough that Maekar had no trouble letting him read if it kept him busy. His voice was soft, and his little finger traced under the words on the weathered page. “The in-cre-crease and rich-riches of towns con-cont-con-trib-contrib-uh-cont-trib-uh-ted to the im-imp- um, uncle?”

“Improvement,” he sounded out for the boy.

“Improvement,” Valarr repeated. “Improvement and cul-cult-”

“Cultivation.”

Valarr nodded. “Cultivation. Cultivation of the real-realms to which they be-long-ed, in thr-three diff-diff-”

“Different.”

“Different. Three different ways. First, by aff-aff-”

“Affording.”

Valarr let out a tiny huff of air. “You’re only supposed to say it if I ask,” he stressed. He tilted his head back to stare up at his uncle.

It was only the fact that Valarr’s eyes were just like his beloved brothers, that kept him from snarling at the boy. “Go on, then.”

He restarted his sentence. “First, by affording a great and ready mar-ket for the ru-rude pr-pro-produce of the realm, they gave…”

As he struggled with sounding out the next work, Maeker came to realize that his nephew was not reading a storybook, which he had expected. He glanced at the chapter title: HOW THE COMMERCE OF TOWNS CONTRIBUTED TO THE IMPROVEMENT OF THE REALM. His brow lifted.

“What the fuck is this?”

Valarr jumped at the interruption, so lost in his concentration on the next word. “Pardon?”

“This book. What are you reading?”

“Father gave it to me to practice.”

Maekar turned it over in his own hands, ignoring the squeak of surprise from the prince. It was some old book on pricing and economics. Why his brother thought it suitable for a child was beyond him. He sighed and set it aside. “Let’s find something better.”

Valarr clutched at him frantically as he stood, as if afraid that Maekar meant to drop him onto the stone floor. He hefted the boy higher in his arms and brought him to the shelf full of books that stood on a wall in the bedroom. Daeron had graduated from sleeping in the nursery just the year before and had quickly taken to making his room his own. “This one is Daeron’s favorite,” he pointed out a book on the dragons of Old Valyria. “Do you have a favorite story?”

Valarr took the question quite seriously. He looked over the colorful bindings and finally pointed to a blue one, glancing up at his uncle quickly, as if to gauge his reaction. He shrugged and pulled the book out. It was a children’s story alright, though he was sure neither of his boys were particularly interested in it, as the story followed a little girl rather than a little boy. A memory returned to him then, of Baelor reading him the same story when they were both young.

“This one seems much better,” he agreed, taking Valarr and the book back to their chair. He glanced over Daeron for any change, but the boy still slept undisturbed.

This time, Valarr struggled much less with the story. He seemed quite eager to get into it at first, although his voice stayed soft and quiet, ensuring that he wouldn’t wake his cousin by accident. The story must have been one he liked, because he knew it almost by heart. He only had to ask Maekar for a few of the words. The story washed over him. Valarr could read just as well as a boy twice his age, given the appropriate book. Maekar found himself drifting off as well, letting the quiet voice ebb and flow around him.

It was shocking then, when he abruptly stopped before the end. Somehow, he could recall that it wasn’t the end. Maybe Baelor had read it to him more than once. Maekar blinked away the heaviness in his eyes and glanced down, confused as to why the book was still open in his lap but Valarr had stopped reading. “Is something wrong?”

The little prince glanced up at him once more. “He’ll have to wait until he’s well to hear the end.”

Maekar wasn’t sure what he was talking about until a different voice rang out, clear as day. “Father,” Daeron whined from the bed, “make him finish it.”

He looked over to where Daeron lay, staring at them with clear blue eyes. Clear for the first time in days. There was sweat on his brow, and he frowned in either discomfort or displeasure. But his eyes were clear, and he raised himself up onto his elbows. The fever had broken.

Relief took hold of him. Tension bled out of his body in one breath. Valarr let out his own huff of breath, and it was then that he realized he was hugging him tight to his chest. “Your cousin is right,” he said as a smile graced his face. “You must rest now. You can hear the end tomorrow, when you’re feeling better.”

“I’m feeling better now,” Daeron tried to argue, though a yawn broke through his words.

It took only a little more convincing to get his son back to sleep. He curled up on his side and turned away from his father, and it was the most he’d moved on his own in days. By the time a maester made it in, he’d confirmed that his son’s forehead was not as warm as it had been just that morning. The maester agreed. His boy was getting better.

Maekar had a wish to go find his brother and have a drink to celebrate, but Valarr splayed out in his lap and cracked open the book once more, this time reading to himself. He supposed he could let him be. He still had to return the boy to Baelor eventually, there wasn’t much else he could do other than hold him and doze off himself, content in the knowledge that Daeron was going to be well.

A hand on his shoulder woke him eventually. His wife’s face came into view. Behind her, the sunlight splayed across the room and let him know that he’d been asleep for an hour at most. The sunlight was almost as brilliant as Dyanna’s smile.

“The maester gave me the good news,” she whispered. He told her what he’d seen too, how Daeron’s eyes had been clear. She squeezed his shoulder, then dropped her gaze to Valarr. He glanced down and found that he had fallen asleep as well. His cheek was pressed up against his arm, his legs curled in. One of his hands rested on top of his uncle’s, as if he’d been holding it while he dozed off. Dyanna reached out and brushed her knuckles over his cheek. “Sweet little prince,” she cooed. “I should have fetched your brother. He would have loved to see this.”

Maekar scowled at the thought that he should be observed so vulnerable. “No need.” He moved slow, careful not to wake Valarr as he stood and cradled him in his arms. “He’s asked that Valarr be returned to him.”

Dyanna’s smile was soft, and slightly conspiratorial, as if she knew something that he didn’t. “And you shall do just that,” she guessed.

“Of course.” Valarr curled closer to his chest, and he lowered his voice once more. “We musn’t disappoint the Heir to the Iron Throne.”

“I think it’s your brother that you wouldn’t like to disappoint,” Dyanna corrected him. He could not be angry with her, of course, but he could be annoyed by the fact that she was right.

He found his brother in his solar. Maekar hadn’t been in the room for a few days at that point, and he wasn’t surprised to find his brother’s belongings scattered around already.

“I am sorry for the imposition,” Baelor spoke before he looked up, somehow knowing it was him that had walked in, “Father has me going over these papers three times, and I- Ah.” When he did look up, a smile broke out across his face. He leaned back in the heavy chair, and his eyes went soft at the sight of his little prince. Maekar wondered whether he would have smiled like that had it just been him alone.

His thoughts were clouded as Baelor approached. He tried to hand the boy off to his brother carefully, aware that it was usually best to let sleeping children lie, but Baelor had no such reservations. He took Valarr from him in one swift motion and gave the child a gentle shake as he settled him in one arm. “How is Daeron?” He watched his brother try to wake the boy while he recounted Daeron’s broken fever. “This is wonderful news,” Baelor spoke from above his son’s head, as Valarr tried to hide his face from the sunlight in his father’s chest. His other broad hand rested on the boy’s head, just over the small tuft of silver hair he sported.

“The nurses could look after him in the nursery,” Maekar pointed out. He didn’t think Baelor would truly want the boy sitting in the solar with him all afternoon. Wasn’t that why he’d just been saddled with him for hours?

Valarr let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whine (had he ever heard the boy cry before? He could not say for sure) and Baelor pried the sleeping child off his chest. He held him out in front of himself with both hands under his armpits, letting his legs dangle freely in the air. It woke him. Valarr’s eyes blinked open and he reached for his father as soon as he realized who was in front of him.

“There’s my boy.” Baelor hugged him close once more, pressing a kiss to the patch of silver in his hair.

“Father, I’m tired,” came Valarr’s quiet response. His hands clutched at his father’s doublet, but Baelor pried his fingers off and set him down on his feet before he could cling too tightly. The little prince stumbled and had to grab his father’s leg to keep from falling over. His eyes, which had been closed in sleep only seconds before, seemed now too heavy for him as he struggled to keep his head up and stand beside his father.

“A Prince of the Realm must be awake for his lessons,” Baelor reminded his son, pressing a gentle hand to the top of his head to help steady him.

Lessons? Maekar was confused. “We’ve dismissed the tutor for the day.” There was no need in one being there if Daeron was ill. Which was quite the unexpected blessing. He didn’t think he could stomach another day of walking in on lessons where his boys were distracted at the window or doing cartwheels while Valarr sat perfectly straight and copied down High Valyrian with no complaint.

“Not to worry, we brought his along.”

He could not contain his rolling eyes. “You brought a tutor on your break?”

“You don’t know who is staying under your roof?” Baelor fired back just as quickly.

Valarr wavered on the floor. The little prince that had been asleep in his lap just now did not look happy to be woken up. But he leaned against his father and did not whine, only looked up at them both. It struck him how much Valarr looked like the faint memory in the back of his mind of his big brother from another time.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “I will take him to his lessons then.”

Baelor looked up at him, having been lost in his own stare at his son. “Would you? Thank you, brother.”

He was given a clap on the shoulder for his helpfulness. Baelor tried to urge Valarr forward to follow his uncle, but he reached down and plucked the child up once more before he could even move. It would be quicker this way, he assured his brother, as they trotted out the door.

It didn’t take long for them to be out of earshot. “Go back to sleep,” he told Valarr. And the little prince, so obedient and dutiful, laid his head on his shoulder and did just that.

“Father!” Aerion came barreling at him as soon as he entered the nursery, while a nurse tried to shush him. It was Maekar who got him to quiet down though, as he let Aerion clutch at his leg and peer up at him and the boy in his arms curiously. “Is that my cousin?” he asked in his best whisper, the words a jumble that he could only just make out.

“Yes.” A nurse came over to take Valarr, but Maekar waved her off. He was quite sure the little prince lived only in his father’s arms. It was a wonder altogether that Maekar had been able to get him to sleep in his.

Aemon slept peacefully in one of the cradles. The other was empty, and after a quick glance down at Valarr he knelt to lay the boy down in there. Aerion hurried to peer over the side at his cousin, regarding him thoughtfully. With his hands free Maekar took hold of his own miniature, grabbing Aerion and holding him on his folded knees so he could get a good look at Valarr.

“He sleeping?” Aerion asked.

“Yes.”

“He got to go to prince lessons.”

“How do you know that?” Maekar had no clue where his toddler could have found that out so quickly, but Aerion moved from one topic to the next without abandon.

“I want Daeron,” he whispered right next to his face.

“Your brother is still ill, but he’ll be better by the morrow.” Maekar was glad he could say it truthfully. His heart felt light with the news. He pushed some whispy silver hair away from Aerion’s forehead and smiled. “You can play with your cousin when he wakes up.”

Aerion’s face screwed up. “He’s boring.”

A laugh nearly broke through. He stifled it and imagined what his brother might say about his perfect little boy being described so aptly. “We do not insult our cousins,” he tried to tell him.

A nurse interrupted them before Aerion could pull out another insult. She approached hesitantly. “My lord. Prince Baelor has told us that Prince Valarr need not stay in the nursery. He’s to have his lessons-”

“Fuck lessons.”

The nurse scurried off, and it was for the best, because he was just getting started on the train of thought that led him towards indignation. Who cared about what Prince Baelor said? This was Summerhall, his word was the only one that mattered here. Let Baelor believe his son was at his princely lessons, while in truth he was fast asleep in the nursery, still small enough that he fit into a cradle. 

He could not remember if Baelor had ever confronted him about the missed lessons or putting his child in a cradle. He did know that Dyanna had confronted him when Aerion’s favorite choice of phrase had suddenly become ‘Fuck lessons’ in the weeks afterwards. He almost smiled at the memory.

He had not thought of that summer in years. In truth, most of the best parts of it had been lost to time. It wasn’t long after that that Daeron had started to be plagued by nightmares. They had blamed it on the fever at first, but when it became clear they weren’t going away, he and Dyanna had been thrust into a nightmare of their own – helpless as they watched their strong little boy disappear, and in his place came the wretched sorry sot that was the Daeron of today.

What was he to do with his children? Dyanna would have known. Baelor might have helped.

But now Baelor’s cold, dead body was prepped for a pyre for the next morning. It lay on the stone and taunted him, haunted him with all these thoughts and memories, and the pure disbelief that he was really gone.

And then his brother’s ghost appeared in the doorway.

No, it was just Valarr, returned. He carried his father’s sword, and his usual black attire had acquired a cape to go with it as well. As Valarr walked into the room, he heard the rustle of armor outside. The Kingsguard, stationing themselves just outside the room.

Valarr stared at the body, looking over the work that had been done to prep Baelor for the funeral, before he took a deep breath and turned towards him. It was still too dark to see him clearly from far away, but he knew those eyes that held his gaze. “A serious accusation has been laid against you, uncle.” He could hear the faint ‘tink’ of metal striking metal as Valarr’s shaking hand rattled the sword it gripped.

It took him a while, of course, to realize what the words implied. “An accusation?” Valarr did not look away, even as he painstakingly stood and took two quick steps toward him. “What do you suppose you mean by that?”

“My cousin Daeron told me that you said it was your blow that was the killing one.”

Rage nearly overtook him. His hand rose to reach for the boy’s throat, even, but he snatched it back before he could do something rash. “You think I meant to kill my brother?”

“No, no, I do not think it.” Valarr shook his head. “But I must ask. The king will want to know that I have. There are protocols for things of this sort that-”

“Things of this sort?” His voice boomed around the room. “Define these things, boy.”

“In royal families, blood striking blood- it can lead to ruin. Father said I would never need to know what to do in this instance, but he made sure I knew it all the same.”

Kinslaying. That was the charge laid against him that the trembling boy could not utter out loud. And it was true. He had killed his brother. He’d robbed his nephew of a father, robbed his own father of a beloved son, and here he was snarling in the face of the little prince his brother had loved so dearly all because the boy was trying to do right by his father.

Should he curse his own father instead then? The king was going to explode whether he did so or not.

He stumbled towards a wall, suddenly unable to hold himself up. Baelor was dead by his hand. Dead. And his little prince followed Maekar at his heels. “I will stand vigil tonight, uncle. You should see to your wounds. Daeron’s have been taken care of. Aerion-” It was undoubtedly hard for him to get the words out. “Aerion is abed.”

Up close, he could see that Valarr’s eyes were ringed in red. He’d been crying.

“You have not even seen battle yet,” he realized, wondering how Valarr could look so like his brother and so like a little boy all at the same time.

“No,” Valarr agreed. “So I will need my uncle with me should the time come.” He offered out a hand to help him, the one that wasn’t gripping tight at the sword. “Please, see to your wounds.”

He batted his hand away and stood up straight on his own. Valarr backed up as he advanced toward him, stopping only when Maekar did.

“I did not mean to kill my brother,” he said, straight into Baelor’s eyes. They were wider than he remembered, more frightened. “He’s left behind a child to take the throne, and I am terribly sorry for that.”

They stared at each other in the dark, quiet room. Baelor’s body was just next to them, and they both tried their hardest not to look at it. His own breath came in short, sharp gasps. “I do not know what to do, uncle,” Valarr admitted, voice barely a whisper.

And what was he to do? He had two sons gone mad already, and a third that was obsessed with a fucking hedge knight. He nearly pushed the boy away from him. “You’re the heir, you figure it out.”

Valarr closed his eyes. He took in a deep breath, then nodded. “Yes,” he struggled to get out. “Yes, I will.” He was trying not to cry. When his eyes reopened, they darted towards Baelor’s body, then back to his face.

Baelor had loved his son more than anything. Valarr was a living testament to it. He straightened his spine and accepted the grim responsibility placed on his shoulders without complaint. Just as his brother would have. Many words could be said about what Valarr lacked. And they would be said, should he have to assume the throne too soon.

But what did anyone else know about Valarr? Valarr, who was kind and good and honorable. Valarr, who always did as his father told him. Valarr, who had never embarrassed his family or cursed them through his actions. Valarr, who had paid possibly the highest price for everyone else’s folly. Of course Baelor had loved his son so.

This compelled Maekar to put a hand on his shoulder, partly to steady himself and partly to bring Valarr back to him. He had to do something, say something more, so that he might do one thing right by his brother.

“Your father loved you.” Valarr wanted to look away, he could see the tears brimming in his eyes. He settled his other hand on his head to keep his gaze focused, over the silver spot of hair that Baelor had been absolutely enamored with. This pulled a muted sob out of the boy. He ignored it. “He taught you all he could. He thought of you as the perfect heir, and he knew you will make a fine king.”

It was all the bitter truth of it. Baelor had loved Valarr more than anyone else, more than his own brothers. Maybe that meant something. Maekar certainly felt as if he had been made better by his brother’s love. Wouldn’t it make sense then, that Valarr, with all of his father’s affection, could truly be worth something?

It was either that, or the realm was doomed. But he could not say that to Baelor’s baby. His brother would knock his teeth out.

“Ser Donnell,” Valarr called, suddenly able to command his own voice again as he took air in through trembling breaths. “See to it that my uncle finds his way to Maester Yormwell.” They broke apart. Valarr looked at him and nodded, giving a soft word of thanks, before he stepped closer to Baelor’s body. “I will stand vigil with my father tonight.”

The Kingsguard knight stepped in so he could bow to the boy. “Yes, Your Grace.”

The words dealt a blow to him. That had been Baelor’s title all these years. Was supposed to be for many more. And now his son owned it, just the same as he had owned his looks, his position, and his affections. But now Baelor was dead, and neither of them would have his smile grace their presence again.