Chapter Text
A wretched scream cut through Dragonstone’s mighty halls, incessantly echoing his suffering towards those in earshot; the servants had no choice except to hurry their chores, whilst the braver ones mumbled of impending death upon their castle, as if Gael could not hear the voices talking about his mother, Prince Daeron.
Dread fleshed inside his bones and mind, unable to remember if his mother ever suffered childbirth in such a wrecking shape.
For he knew the answer was no the moment Grandmother Maekar climbed the steps, almost stumbling down and pushing the servants who only tried to help. In the end, they only putted themselves at the sides, waiting for further instructions.
“Where the fuck is he?” Maekar brawled, eyes glistening with utter madness Gael only saw displayed in Uncle Aerion’s eyes.
“My queen,” Gael made a small courtesy, voice feeble out by the end, “his grace is his private chambers.”
His grandmother quickly left, not uttering any words as his feet made up for his lack of voice, stomping until all that remained was his absence from the grand hall.
Uneasiness fell short, heart thundering higher that he could no longer hear nor see anything else apart from his muña’s agonizing screams. He looked around the hall, finding no one but him left by the threshold of the grand hall, even lacking the castle lackeys. He watched the shadows die by the shining lightings, wind fighting to take hold of Dragonstone gloom against the coarse voice of prince Daeron. At that very moment, he finally got his mother’s displeasure for their castle, brick walls upon stone walls so loomed and dark that certainly made the whole castle haunted. Gael supposed it was, while counting every little lighting he could.
A dry and hollow incessant pounding on the floor managed to fight the wild wind coming from outside and the voice Gael so desperately tried to mute. The wood hitting against the marble floor could only belong to someone.
“Gael, my prince,” his grandsire Baelor entered the hall, walking slowly through the room, with no faltering steps even as his right foot did not move as swiftly as it did.
Not that Gael ever knew him differently, for he was born long after that fateful trial in Ashford.
“Your grace,” he courtesied again, feeling vexed of having to do it once more for what felt an eternity by that time, for all he wanted was to see his mother.
He even wanted to see his father, who could only come from his wife's chambers to the small sept and to the sept towards Daeron’s chambers. On and on since the lady of Dragonstone entered labor.
“Come, take a seat by my side.”
The great hall glowered in tormento, eerily empty where not even a small bug could enter. His grandsire, the king, walked unbothered by it, reaching a chair.
“Your siblings?” He inquired softly whilst Gael sat beside his right.
“In the farthest nursery from my Muña-,” he paused, already tired of courtesies, but corrected himself, “from prince Daeron’s chambers.”
The king gazed upon him with the slightest amusement he could manage in the situation. A few minutes passed and he only made himself comfortable, cane resting on the table and his right leg extended for proper resting.
Unsure of himself, he continued. “So they cannot hear his pain.”
“I figured so.” His hands rested by his lap, ever so slightly fiddling with the black rings on his fingers.
“Would you like to see his grace?” His voice broke, searching for any way to get to see his mother one last time. “I can show you the way.”
King Baelor gave him a knowing look, having seen every little knack and secret behind Gael's soul.
“For all the appreciation and respect I bear for prince Daeron, he is not my son to see.” He smiled kindly.
Gael wavered his eyes on the floor, so the king could not see the tears grazing on his eyes, the screaming so far away and close both of them paid no mind for a moment.
“Go see your mother, lad.”
He laid his hopeful eyes upon the king’s gentle eyes. The man caressed his silky locks of blonde hair, the closest he had been since living in Dragonstone.
“I fear it is not proper.”
“When did your mother worry about such things? With his own flesh and bone for that matter? You must go.” He nudged him. “Send him my regards, I shall see him in a moon in King’s Landing”.
Gael rushed, his footsteps rumbling through the walls in the way his mother hated, for it was a sound so wicked wet and hollow at the same time. When he turned around the left corner of the corridor, he almost impacted a set of midwives, the four of them screaming at the unprompted interruption. And he paid no mind, not even when he heard the maester’s shout at him whilst passing by his side.
When he reached his muña’s room, the burning fatigue that lit his legs was nothing more than a small nuance, panting as he opened the chamber’s door from where all the pained vocals came.
“My prince, please lay down.” A midwife cried, walking behind Gael’s mother.
“I will not have him butchered for a babe.” Valarr ordered Gael’s uncle, maester Aemon. “What other options do we have?”
“No.” His mother's voice crooked, raspy and painfully hoarse, like the rustling sound of sanding metal. “I have been in labor for more than a whole day, the babe is going to die.”
“As you will, such they cut you open.” Maekar sneered, a distraught smell cutting through Gael’s nose.
A cough erupted from him, for he never smelled such strong emotions, notifying every being of his presence. His right palm covered his nose and mouth, so he could stop breathing the intense torrent of scent, blood and sweat that the grown adults seemed unable to pay attention. The whole scene made him feel dizzy, only worsening when his eyes settled in the burgundy fluid coating his mother’s legs and tunic, which he tried to cover from his son’s eyes.
It gave him a strange sense of relief to see the characteristic obstinacy his mother donned every day. Like he was not on the brink of losing his world.
“Ñuha tresy,” he softly whispered, sitting on the bed, discomfort etched in his expression. Hands trembling, grabbing a discarded pillow, so he could give a futile attempt to hide the horror sowed upon his body.
His father looked at him, eyes glistening of what Gael knew was thinly veiled disappointment, which he was accustomed to by then. Gael held his gaze in defiance. The prince of Dragonstone shifted in his place. He sighed and gave him a swift nod, tearing his eyes apart from his heir.
“Muña.” He whined, walking towards him, batting the hands who tried to hold him down.
“My prince, this is not a place for a young man, a seeder, at that.” A midwife almost catched him, arms extended over his form, before he crawled on all fours towards the pained prince.
“Leave him.” Prince Valarr commanded as he watched Gael embrace Daeron’s body.
His mother somewhat managed to conjure up a smile for him, his arms cradling him softly.
The room seemed easier then.
In the end, two babies arrived amidst a big storm. The first one was a girl so red and angry at the world, screaming bloody murder upon her first breath in the castle.
His mother, with all the strength he could muster said “perhaps I would cry the same if I was born in this castle.”
Then a smaller and less fuzzier babe came, so silent that the whole room held a breath for the boy took more than a few moments to get his first wailing, and as the world knew of his safe arrival, his mother collapsed knowing both babies were alive, hands limp on top of blood soaked sheets. His father stumbled then, almost tripping over the way, so he could cradle his wife’s unconscious body. Soon after Gael was taken away from the room.
A few hours passed before Gael could sneak into his mother’s chambers once more, tiptoeing. Had his cousin Aenys seen him he would go on making fun of him, for Gael was what people considered a pampered mother’s son.
“His fever is yet to be broken.” He heard his uncle Aemon say. “I’m afraid the birth took a tool upon his body.”
Gael stopped a few paces away from the bed, the room no longer smelled of blood nor distress, only an eerie lack of scent. He slowly crawled until he could hide in the bed blind point, sitting and listening.
“Has prince Valarr taken care of the babes?”
“No, he has not left the sept nor ate since you sent him away,” he pondered, uncertainty marrying his tone, “the king has taken the responsibility of presenting the babies to the rest of the children.”
“Aemon, you are my son,” Maekar grunted, the fight in his voice long gone, “I need you to be truthful… is he going to wake up?”
“I cannot say,” Aemon softly said, voice even.
“As your queen and as your father I command you to try your best.” He stated, empty voice. “I shall keep watching over him.
“Your grace.” His uncle said, most likely courtesing.
The steps echoed through the chambers, the only sound besides the feeble and wavering breaths coming from his mother. He heard a soft rustling and the creaking from the chair, where his grandmother lay in wait.
“I chastised your mother for less than what you are doing at this very moment, boy.”
So hiding was for naught.
He rested on the chair by the bed, one hand cradling his son’s limp one, while he rested his chin against his left hand. It was the first time Gael ever saw his hair unkempt, most likely he fiddled with it whilst watching over Gael’s mother. He never expected to see him so… normal, for he was prone to anger and exasperation, never the uneasy dejected state he donned at that time under the pale morning light. Even his eyes were painted red.
“Your grace,” he gave another courtesy, near both his mother and the queen.
His grandmother lifted the left corner of his mouth, in a smugly manner Gael felt offended for, given his mother state.
“You do not need to keep doing it, the gods know you don’t even do it for your own father.” He closed his eyes in exasperation.
“You are the queen.”
“And your grandmother.”
Both fell into silence, unable to know how to proceed, for Gael’s grandsire Baelor was always the bridge between them.
He tore his gaze from the old man, eyes welling up with tears at seeing such state his mother had, body limp and rigid under the bedsheets, brow glistening with so much moisture his hair was nothing but wet strands plastered across his forehead and cheeks. His cracked and pinkless lips left out heavy breaths his chest could not actually support, so painful to watch that he did not realize some tears already began to spill from his eyes.
“I do not recall a single time he was so peaceful,” Maekar said, “He used to be so fussy even as a newborn. Crying incessantly and none of us knew how to soothe him.”
Gael sat at the end of the bed, hand grappling his mother’s calf, eyes cast upon the hands that cradled him with love every morning before lessons. The very hands that laid lifeless.
“Perhaps you can sleep beside him,” Maekar rasped, going back to his position. “If you have the same stubbornness as your father, you haven’t had a fuckton of sleep.”
He wanted to argue he was nothing like his father, for all of Gael's existence was only Daeron Targaryen.
“Sleep, I can hear your fucking thoughts from here. I can’t manage watching over my son if his small version is troubling himself.”
Ah.
The rustling of sheets and papers effectively woke him up.
He slowly blinked, eyes adjusting the newfound light of what must be past noon. His hand still held the limb, curled like a cat at the end of the bed, posture so uncomfortable his spine was sore.
“His fever broke.” His father's velvety voice woke him up completely. “They said he is to wake up anytime.”
He sat up quickly, head dizzy at the sudden movement.
Prince Valarr lay in the same chair his grandmother had been the last time he was conscious. Unlike him, his father flipped through pages, legs extended to make himself comfortable. He seemed pristine, doublet clasped tight and rings donning his fingers. If Gael didn’t know the man, he would have missed the downward turn of his mouth, the one his father always tried to conceal in the way one hides a dagger in a sleeve, small but tensely present, notorious for the ones who paid attention. He too noticed the misty eyes, so unlike of his ever heavy and sharp gaze.
“Lord father.” He tried to make a courtesy, stopping short when his father raised a hand.
“Stay still.” He assured, closing his book.
It took Gael a few moments before getting a sense of anger, for the prince seemed almost eerily calm, when Gael only felt the coldest of pain still etching on his skin, shoulders lit with pure fire and glacial air, mind too young to comprehend his feelings.
“Why are you so calm, sir?” He urged, suddenly feeling years of buildup frustration bubbling under his skin.
Valarr remained unperturbed. The hands in his lap made the slightest twitch, one second there and the next gone, like he was the prettiest statue carved.
“Someone has to be.”
“Even when my mother is laying on the brink of death?” Tears welled in his eyes,the statue no longer one being but a fragmented version of it. A pure kaleidoscope of wetness and uncertainty.
“Especially then.”
For all of his father’s discontent and disapproval of him, he left him cry, ever the patient man, the perfect prince Gael would never be. He stayed there, waiting for his son, never initiating contact.
“Father,” he sobbed, voice dropping, “why do I ever feel like you hate me?”
“I could never hate you.” Valarr simply remarked.
“Then why are you always so distant, even when muña could die?”
“I never knew differently,” he rasped, folding his legs. “It is all I ever knew since your mother and I became one. What good can be done if the both of us succumb to utter madness.”
“My lady mother is not mad.” Gael gritted, hands clasping in fists of utter rage.
He knew of his mother's disappearance at times, mind too drunk to even comprehend what triggered such a state. He knew of the dreams that haunted him in sleep, the few ones he managed to retell for Gael mirrored hell upon the earth, for prince Daeron found solace in his older child. He also knew how his mother’s affinity for wine and cups took tool inside the family, especially his father who always managed to find him and bring him home safe, for what Gael would be eternally grateful, always in secrecy so their children never found out.
“I never declared so,” he stated, face crumbling into the first specks of anger, Gael never saw such expression before, hand gripping his left knee.
He felt vindictive, trying to milk the feeling off of him. “If you do not feel any hatred towards both of us, then why do you continue to be so… gone? You see me and all I can sense is your disapproval, for not being you.”
He swallowed, throat compacted and raspy.
“I very much prefer not resembling you, for all I know, for all you have done is to remain here and watch. Not even comforted Daelor, who is your favorite son and spitting image. It is pathetic.”
Valarr maintained his gaze, not biting the obvious bait his son presented him. At last, he broke their eye contest.
“You feel that strongly about your own sire?” He rasped, clenching his jaw, letting a feathery sigh out of his mouth. “I love both of you, you and your mother, with all my soul can muster.”
Gael retaliated with silence, not dignifying the statement.
“But to give myself the opportunity to descend into despair is a one way path.” He cradled his wife’s face, quickly and carefully to not disturb Daeron’s sleep.
He took one breath, steeling his posture once more, a futile attempt for all Gael could see was the heaviness perched in his shoulders.
“You must understand it,” he pleaded, fist gripping the bedsheets beside him. “It is not a lack of love itself, but the courage of letting myself feel so strongly. That way I can protect all of you.”
“Why?” Gael sniffed, for he never felt the need to hide his feelings nor his mother. “I just wish to understand, sir. I never ask anything from you, just this…”
“I was stripped from my boyhood”, Valarr rasps, knuckles white, “the moment I married your mother it was the very moment the Crown tore me apart from my life.” He turned his eyesight away from him, distant, whilst his eyes examined the limp body between the two. “All I could do was to maintain my composure… who shall do it if not me?”
“Mother,” Gael tried with no success.
“I see him in you, you are his spitting image…” He smiled ruefully. “Sometimes I think I loathed the need you had for me, for I was completely ruined to be half of what you required of me. I sired you trying to love every inch of your mother, but then you came and all I could see beyond reason was how lacking I felt, for Daeron, for you.”
“Father…” Gael tries again, unable to grasp what was being heard.
“For those months after Matarys passed away I could not feel anything more than emptiness hollowing out my limbs, just as if I was never meant to survive. I think part of me died that night… “he sniffled. “Your mother was so afraid of me slipping away in the night to never return, he just failed to realize I never fully returned after the sun cast its light upon our bodies.” His hands covered his eyes, face hidden beneath his palms. “And then you were born and all I could feel was dread, of how I was supposed to take care of you when I myself was a boy of six and ten”.
He retired his hands off, palms extended in his thighs. His eyes glistened, trembling in a futile effort at keeping himself at bay.
“For all I did was to chase your mother around since we bind ourselves in marriage,” he slowly exhaled, “afraid of where he should go without me… and you, my sweet boy, even in his arms, could only gaze at me, and I feared that. The way you needed me, or how your arms would sought me instead of him… I sired you for him and all you ever seek was me,“ he laughed with such a hollow and dreadful sound. “Because even then you did as you pleased and I could not be any happier, for I see the blood of our ancestors flowing through your veins.”
A small tear took a path down Valarr’s cheek.
“I learned how I should raise your siblings because of you. It is not that I lack love for you, I just never understood how to love you the way you crave.”
If two tears spilled from the older man, Gael doubled in tenfold. He remained silent.
“Do not doubt me, ñuha tresy, for I take one look upon you and see the perfection both me and your mother created,” he raised and walked towards him, movement echoing a predator sizing his prey, “I love you enough to let you build your own path.”
Both of his hands cupped his face.
“I do not apologize for having temperance, for it's my weapon against the court.” He whispered, eye to eye. “I apologize for not loving you the way you needed me.”
He kissed his brow, before slowly turning away, back to his chair.
“We shall wait for him.”
Gael did not know if he felt better.