Chapter Text
Dyanna had cooked for them on their first date.
“Qué te parece?” Her voice was eager and sweet as she moved about her tiny studio apartment. Maekar sat at the small dining table in the corner of her kitchen, he’d never been in a place this … small, he thinks, looking at the cracks in the ceramic floor tiles and the rough shape of the wooden cabinets, bewildered at the state of the place. The mismatched dining chairs groaned if he so much as breathed, so he’d been sitting upright with a peculiar stillness that Dyanna squinted at.
“Es muy, um, bonita?” He tried, and she just giggled at his attempt before fiddling with the stove, finally finishing whatever it was she had made him cancel their reservations for. He looked out of the singular window of the entire place, annoyance bubbling at the thought of their abrupt change of plans. He gazed at the sea of rooftops and billboards and bit his tongue.
She had started cooking way before he arrived, even though they’d agreed over the phone on eating out. It had irked him quite a lot, actually, but she had ushered him inside and sat him down and told him she had something else she wanted him to try instead.
“I thought-“ he’d started, a little harsh and mean spirited at first, fully intending on asking why the last minute change of plans. But her eyes were practically twinkling with excitement, and he just couldn’t, falling victim again to her endless charm.
She was suddenly in front of him, setting his plate and her own down on the table. The warm light of the absurd amount of candles and lamps in her home lit up her face with a warm yellow hue, framing her beautiful face perfectly. Her locks spilled out of a pretty purple and yellow head wrap. He had been wearing such a formal get up compared to her, he had even borrowed a nice white dress shirt from Baelor for the occasion, also wearing his favorite pair of black slacks. She was wearing a yellow tank top that showed her collar bone, with big weathered jeans that caught on her waist in a particularly mesmerizing way.
She had motioned to the plates of food she had placed in front of them, anticipating his response with a lopsided grin. The plate had a little bit of everything she had cooked, which to his surprise, was a lot. He had glanced over and sure enough, quite a few pots and pans sat on the stove top. Red rice, mashed beans, cactus apparently, and what seemed to be shredded pork.
“Se ve muy bueno,” he tried saying, heat rising in his face at his awful pronunciation. He could tell that she was holding herself back from some kind of quip, so he tried busying himself before she decided to say it, struggling for a second to choose what to start with. She moved to show him how to eat it, grabbing a tortilla from a small basket in the middle of the table, steam rising from it when she lifted the lid. Cupping the warm tortilla in her hand, she scoops the meat into it, a pinch of cilantro, a pinch of finely chopped onion, a half a spoon of red sauce, then green, then a splash of lime. Though, instead of eating it herself, she leaned over and neared the taco to his mouth.
“Say ‘ah’,” she told him, and he, for whatever reason, obliged, taking a bite and savoring the immense flavor that he had somehow lived his whole life without.
“You like it!” She sings as she watches his face melt with satisfaction, and he nods his head in agreement.
He can hardly remember exactly how the conversation after that goes. He can recall how it ebbed and flowed into sharing their thoughts on the flavors, about the meaning, about the love that went into the food and then their love for their family, and their heritage. He could sit in that memory of her for hours, imagining her across from him, the way she had made their fingers brush whenever she could, her hand interlocking with his own once she felt brave enough. Laughing, just the two of them, like no one else existed, like nothing else mattered.
He could feel the weight of the day pressing at him again, the way it always did this time of year, bringing these old memories to the surface of his mind.
“Are you doing alright?”
His thoughts dissolve with the sound of the voice, and Maekar glances over to see his brother, Baelor, leaning back against the kitchen counter next to him. Concern was evident on his brow, but Maekar nodded, rubbing at his suddenly teary eyes.
“Of course, why?” He blinked, but Baelor just stared at him for a second before sighing.
“You’ve been stirring that pot for about 10 minutes, to start,” Maekar glances back and forth between his brother and the pot, and realizes he had been there a little longer than he’d thought, his face flush from the steam coming off the Pozole.
“Oh,” he coughed, the spice he’d been inhaling finally catching in the back of his throat, and he turned to have a fit. Baelor tried soothing him by patting his back.
“Here, let me finish,” he said simply, ushering him out into the hallway and leading him into the living room, “Valarr and your boys will be here soon, you can greet them.”
Maekar nods only because his coughing won’t stop, moving to heave in the open space of his home, alerting his three youngest who were all sitting on the carpet, toys chaotically strewn around the room.
“Are you alright?” Aegon, his youngest son, worries, standing to pat him as well. He was grateful that the boy had always been a little more tenderhearted than his sisters, noticing that both had continued playing with their large collection of my little ponies without so much as another glance his way. He pats at Aegon's bald head while the boy leads him to an armchair, pleased both at his kindness and at finding a small fluff of hair growing back.
Aegon had been worrying him recently, shaving his head had been one of the many rebellious bouts he had gone through over the last few months. He had also been lying to his face about going to piano practice everyday for two months, and had joined a little league Rugby team instead. That, and he ran away. Multiple times.
It didn’t matter. He had been ready for this since the day his second eldest ‘accidentally’ broke a boy's fingers in middle school for calling him a freak, just a month after his eldest threatened to off himself and had to be admitted to a psych hold.
All his children seemingly had something grave about them: Daeron's now diagnosed anxiety and depression, Aerion’s undiagnosed everything, Aemon recently being tested for OCD. He had reasoned it was only a matter of time before his youngest three also started to exhibit whatever hidden maladies plagued them, though he had expected to have to deal with Daella first since she was a year older than Aegon.
Maybe the Gods had only cursed his sons, maybe she was a late bloomer, who could say?
Still, unlike the three before him, Aegon had seemingly calmed after a while of this. He supposed it had something to do with the child finding a somewhat healthy place to put all his energy. He also supposed, in the privacy of his mind, that since the boy had barely been three when his mother passed, there was a possibility that the tragedy of her death hadn't completely affected him like it had the others.
A familiar ache starts in his heart and blooms painfully across his chest.
He often found that he could never truly be perturbed by his boys and their constant outbursts because of this fact. After all, their only fault had been to have known their mother, only to be left with a broken father, and the task of figuring out how to reconcile with her devastating absence.
He closes his eyes and tips his head back, his hands massaging his forehead, headache starting to settle in.
“How was practice this morning?” Maekar asks Aegon, desperate to change the subject matter on his mind. He cracks one of his eyes open to peer down at him, only to find the boy grinning in his face, buzzing with excitement.
“It. Was. Awesome!” He exclaims, and Maekar's head rings at the pitch, “Ser Duncan let us run mock games and I was team captain of mine ‘cause I’m the fastest on the whole team and I scored the most points and our team won! I also pushed Rickon Stark so hard he fell down and cried!”
Maekar held a hand up, quieting the boy, his other still nursing his head, fingers pressing into his temple. Aegon stopped, big round purple eyes filled with worry, likely wondering if he’d been wrong to mention the last potion of his story.
“‘Ser’ Duncan?” Maekar questioned the title instead, relief washing over Aegon as he rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. Duncan Pennytree, the coach of the infamous Rugby team, had also been the subject of his son's attention for the past few months. Maekar had been woken up in the middle of the night too many times to the behemoth of a man carrying his small child and apologizing for the late hour, explaining that he had found him on his apartment step, begging to run drills and ‘hang out’.
He hated him for it. For being the person his boy ran to. He hated that he couldn’t be, and wondered what could be so special about the large man. But his son loved him. And he hated that too.
“Our team is called the Kingsguard! We’re knights, dad, and Ser Duncan is the captain so it's ‘ser’ for him!” There’s a certain tone in the boy's voice, as if he were stating the obvious to another child, that reminded Maeker that no matter how much more emotionally stable the boy was than any of his siblings, Aegon was still only 10.
Before Maekar could continue on to the subject of poor Rickon Stark, they hear a car turn into the driveway. Aegon clambers up onto the couch and peeks through the curtains, squealing, “Valarr!” Daella and Rhae also gasp with delight, scurrying onto the couch, sitting on either side of him. A car door opened and closed outside, followed by three more, each one louder than the one before it. The last one undoubtedly being slammed. Rhae and Daella stilled at this, and merely watched and waited, but Aegon rose and ran towards the door.
Maekar also gets up and makes out the muffled yelling going on outside, quickly identifying it as his sons voices as he moves to the door as well. He opened it only to find Valarr and his Fiancé, Kiera, trudging up the balcony steps holding a few heavy looking bags in their arms. He glanced around behind them, before choosing to ignore the spectacle that was happening between his eldest boys on the sidewalk.
“Uncle,” Valarr greets warmly, as though his two cousins weren’t fighting and pulling at each other's hair mere feet away. Always the sweet boy, this one.
If this had been any other family dinner, Maekar might have been inclined to say nothing and just let the two through without much fuss as usual. But something sentimental gripped at him at the sight of the young couple, tugging like a fish on a line just below the water.
He tries smiling, which likely comes off as awkward as it felt on his face, and he pulls Kiera in for a brief hug, grabbing the tote out of her hands with a swift motion. He clasped his nephew on the back, welcoming him as he made room for them to come inside.
Aegon was already rattling off at Valarr, and Daella and Rhea had now run up hug them both, pulling them into the living room. Maekar, however, lingers in the foyer, vaguely aware of the scuffle still happening while calling up the stairs behind him for the two teenagers of the family, Matarys and Aemon, to come down. He was glad at least one pair of his and his brother's children were friends, he thinks, watching them tumble down the stairs to greet Valarr.
He lets his two dim witted sons punch and pull at each other some more, trying to piece together what might’ve spurred it. But something shiny catches his eye in the bag he’s holding, and he looks again to see a white and brown stuffed horse staring back at him, sitting inside a sparkly pink bag. Gifts, he realized.
“GET OFF OF EACH OTHER, NOW!” He barks, now irritated at the mere fact that such a kindness would never come naturally from either of the two fools in front of him. They immediately let go of one another, scrambling to their feet in a huff and making their way to their front steps.
“Heya dad,” Daeron greets with a tired slur, at the same time Aerion all but shoves his way into their home, indifferent gaze looking past Maekar as though he wasn’t there. Anger from their last fight must still be sizzling in his boy's mind, though Maekar struggles to remember what exactly it had been about. He breathes in deeply through his nose, refraining from yelling rather uselessly after his second born.
He shifts to look at his eldest son, who was slouching against the brick half wall of the patio, holding his nose in some pain. He’s expecting some kind of leniency, most likely, after having been punched by Aerion, but his outfit was so fucking ridiculous that it instantly wiped whatever patience Maekar could spare. He’s sporting a ratty white t-shirt with some kind of idiotic cartoon on it, with a pair of bright green joggers on for his bottoms. His shoes are filthy, his hair is dirty, and now that he was closer to him he could smell liquor on his breath, Maekar wonders desperately where in the seven hells his child went off to in his free time.
“Get upstairs. Shower. Change. Fast. Before your uncle sees you.” Thinly veiled threat behind his curt words. Daeron at least has the sense to look a bit sheepish as he looks down at himself and nods, and Maekar calls for Aemon as he drags himself up the stairs to his room.
“Make sure he comes back down,” he sighs, and the boy rolls his eyes but nods and follows, waiting a few seconds as though he was reciting something in his head, before lazily walking up the stairs after him.
He scans the living room, now, realizing he hadn’t gotten a good look at Aerion, and hoping he could somehow convince him to change out of whatever extravagant get up he was likely in. But his heart drops when he realizes he wasn’t in the living room terrorizing his brother and sisters, which meant he was probably in the kitchen terrorizing his cousin and Uncle.
He strides down the hallway, begging the Gods to help him, before turning and finding the boy sitting on the counter, already eating out of a cheez-itz box that he had stashed on top of the fridge so that the children wouldn’t find it. He looked… fine, surprisingly enough. There was maybe some wear and tear on the shirt he wore over a black long sleeve, and his pants were a little too big for his liking, but it wasn’t outrageous at all.
Baelor was cutting up cabbage, somehow making conversation with him and Valarr, who stood against the tall pantry cabinet in the kitchen.
“Ah, Maekar,” Baelor greets, pouring the thinly sliced cabbage into a bowl, then moving on to the radishes, “the boys were just telling me how school was going.”
Right. As if Aerion was contributing anything at all to the conversation. If Valarr’s unimpressed sneer directed at Aerion was anything to go off of, he’s sure all his boy had told them he was skipping class and barely passing.
Gods he hoped he was passing.
“Yes, well, how is it?” He asks, staring directly at Valarr, uninterested in the feeling of disappointment his son’s answer would likely inflict upon him. The boy starts informing him of the gargle of more and more impressive things he was up to, which only made Maekar shift his attention to his son, who had shoveled another big handful of cheese-itz, hand thankfully covering his full mouth as he chewed.
Aerion, who was just a few months younger than Valarr, had somehow managed to get rejected by every school in the city aside from the fucking Westeros School of Visual Arts. He hadn’t even been aware Aerion had a talent. He would later find out that it was Daeron who hd submitted the application for him, writing an artist's statement on Aerion's behalf while sending in a portfolio full of Aerion’s bizarre drawings. Apparently some poor sighted admissions counselor had seen something in the mess of black paint that Aerion used to depict dragons, of all things.
Aerion’s obsession with the fictional creatures was something that had worried Maekar profoundly. He often called himself one in his youth, biting classmates and threatening those who didn't believe him. While the biting eventually stopped, he continued to be violent in other ways, constantly picking fights with other boys his age, eventually turning to cutting up and bruising Valarr on more than one occasion. Jena had stopped coming to the house eventually, their relationship straining after Aerion tripped Valarr down the stairs in high school, giving the boy a concussion. Maekar had scoffed at her, as if Valarr hadn’t fractured Aerion’s arm at the beginning of that same year. They could go on forever like that, on and on until neither of them could recall the original offense that began their son's retaliations. Valarr, as good a kid as he was, never pulled his punches.
Even though Aerion was still in the city for school, he had seen less and less of his boy since he started last year. He came around during some breaks, but not all, and on occasion would answer Maekar and actually run an errand or two for him. Maekar had thought that maybe this would give them some needed time ease the bitterness that they both had towards the other, but their reunions had only become more and more explosive. Maekar suspected that his tolerance for the boy had been completely shattered by just how quiet their home had become since his departure. At least when they lived together, it was as if he was being drip fed the chaos that came with having his three eldest home. But Aemon had been accepted into an Academy the same year Aerion had left, and Daeron had moved out a few weeks after, though he came and went as he pleased. Leaving Maekar with quite the large townhouse he’d promised Dyanna would always be full.
He had been somewhat worried that none of the boys would come for dinner today because of his last few fights with them. He knew he was on rocky terms with Aerion for whatever reason, and that Aemon hated being at home, and that Daeron would likely be at the bottom of a pitcher for any day that required any emotional baring, so he relunctantly relents that he should be grateful that they’d shown up.
This dinner meant a lot to him, he was glad it seemed to mean a lot to them too.
Baelor had started this dinner tradition a little over a year after Dyanna passed, and they had continued to have it every year on the same day. Maekar, who had been so damned exhausted back then, hadn’t even remembered that there was any significance to the day even after they'd come over. Groceries in one hand, children in the other, and his brother orchestrating the chaos.
Who was he to argue? He had immediately let them in before going upstairs to take Rhae up for her nap, leaving his brother and Jena to tend the rest of the children. He recalled laying Rhae down in her small bed, tucking her in, watching how peaceful she looked, curled into her soft blankets and pillows.
And then, without thinking, possibly delirious from the lack of sleep that came with a family whose average age was 5, fit himself into it with her. She hadn’t seemed to mind, nestling into his chest as they both fell asleep.
He woke up to the smell of familiar food and a hand on his face, and he’d opened his eyes to see Rhae, the splitting image of Dyanna, looking up at him. Large purple eyes, and wavy dark brown hair, she raised her palm and smacked it lightly against his face again.
“Papa, hungry!” She whined.
He’d carried Rhae down the stairs with him to find that all the lights were turned off except for the kitchen’s. The noise of children’s voices echoing around the house spilling out from the doorway.
“Maekar,” Baelor announced once he noticed him in the frame, where he stood bewildered at the sight of their combined 7 children helping in the kitchen. Aegon was in Baelors arms, Daella in Jena's. Matarys and Aemon stood on chairs next to the countertops, kneaded dough balls in their hands, and Jena stood at the end of the counter helping them fill them with some kind of stuffing.
“Uncle Baelor said that Mama liked these,” Daeron said, coming up to him with a small smile on his lips as he held up a poorly folded empanada for Maekar to see.
It was at that moment, looking at his eldest son, that he realized that he had proposed to Dyanna Dayne on March 7th, a full 14 years ago at a Dornish restaurant she loved. Bittersweet memories filled his thoughts, as tears started falling from his eyes without permission. He quickly wiped at his face, smiling with a wrinkled brow at Baelor and Jena before kneeling down embracing the boy in front of him, probably squishing the food in the process.
“Those were her favorite,” he murmurs, shaky, he looked up to the rest of the kids, now all looking at them.
“Come here,” he beckons, hugging the children one by one, and then Baelor and Jena.
A second later, once they all returned to their respective stations, Aerion had tugged at Maekar’s sleeve, holding something carefully between his small hands. “Look,” he whispered. Maekar leaned down to see a neatly folded empanada, its extra dough shaped into wings and a tiny head. “It’s a dragon,” Aerion said, like it was a secret meant for just the two of them, and Maekar watched the boy’s purple eyes glisten.
He looked at the 20 year old in front of him who had turned away from him, now sitting crisscrossed on the counter, gazing out the sink window. Seven hells, where had the time gone?
“Alright, everything’s chopped up,” Baelor declares, finally stretching from where he had been hovering over a cutting board, “You all sit. I’ll bring the pot out.”
As they both call everyone into the dining room, Maekar wanders into the living room to look around for his sons, girls walking past to join. Aemon grabs him and pulls him to the side.
“You know he’s wasted,” the boy says, a little nervous, fidgeting with his fingers, “I made him take a shower and laid out some old clothes that were still in his closet.”
“Thank you,” Maekar sighs, before looking at Aemon and taking in how much older he looked, “How are you?” He hadn't had a chance to ask yet, Aemon often escaped him, being the least needy of his siblings in a way. His white hair was a little longer, brushing his shoulders, and the bags under his eyes were deeper, but he had a fuller look to himself.
“I’m fine, dad,” he responded with a thin smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. Maekar wants to keep talking, but Daeron chooses then to strut down the stairs, swiveling to face them on the edge of the rail. Aemon took that as his chance to wander off.
“All clean,” he sings, and he immediately looked a lot better. He had just changed into wearing jeans and a dress shirt, but that’s really all Maekar wanted anyways. Daeron dips a bit, making it clear that he was still a bit inebriated, so Maekar grabs him interlocking arm and arm, and takes him into the dining room.
Baelor had taken the hot pot and put it on the dining table on top of a wooden block. The room was full, combined, they're a family of 11 tonight. Jena having been ‘caught up’ with something or the other at work. Luckily their dining table was large enough that they could bring a few extra chairs out of their closet and everyone fit, if a bit tight.
Maekar moves them to the further side of the table, sitting next to Baelor in the middle and placing Daeron next to him. Idle chatter amongst the kids starts, and Baelor goes to stand to start serving everyone bowls. Maekar lets himself take in the moment, laughter and conversation filling the room. Being here, surrounded by all his children and his brother's children was a blessing, even if they could have a difficult relationship with one another. He was sure Dyanna enjoyed watching these nights from her place in the heavens.
Aerion, who had lingered in the kitchen for a second, finally walked in and took his seat, turning towards Maekar and facing him.
Maekar freezes when he finds four little shiny beads protruded from either side of Aerion’s bottom lip.
“By the Gods, Aerion, what have you done to yourself?”
He snaps. He knows he shouldn’t have. His outburst very quickly shifted the mood at the table into something awkward. Baelor eyed him, he had barely grabbed the first bowl he was going to fill, before setting it and the ladle down, and deciding to wait for this to end. The rest either stared off into the distance and braced themselves, or watched intently, like a game was about to begin.
It suddenly occurs to Maekar that the brat had been avoiding showing him the damn things to him this whole time, probably knowing he’d get the biggest reaction from him at the dinner table in front of their entire family. He was right.
“They’re called snakebites. What do I care if you like them,” is Aerion’s quick retort, and Maekar has half a mind to strangle him right then and there.
“I am your father,” he scoffs indignantly, “what kind of example are you setting for your siblings when you do that sort of thing to your face? Not to mention you'll never be able to find a damned job like this!”
“Like the fucking brats give a shit what I do,” he hisses, rolling his eyes and leaning back into his chair, tilting it slightly off the ground. Maekar looks over at the children, at his girls who had sat on either side of a nervous looking Keira and just sort of twiddled with their bowls, avoiding the conversation, and then at Aemon who seemed rather unimpressed. He was ready to leave the argument at that, not wanting to ruin the night further, certain he’d have a moment to yell at Aerion after their guests left. That was, until, a certain bright white fuzz caught his eye.
“Aegon shaved his head!” he bellowed, motioning towards the boy, who shrunk in his seat a bit.
“Well then yell at Daeron then! Fuck!” Is Aerion’s exasperated cry, throwing his hands up and then crossing them, glaring at his older brother. Maekar whips his head to the blond mop of hair on the table next to him. He had gone face down on the table with a thump the second Maekar had started reprimanding his second born.
“What?”
Daeron was quiet and still, face down on the table as they all waited for him to say something, though his silence turned concerningly long. Maekar was about to shake Daeron awake, worry suddenly washing over any anger he had felt at that moment. Had his drinking really been this bad?
“I shaved Egg head,” he said, muffled into the wood of the table, and Maekar groaned, relief springing from his heart as his hands flew up to his face.
“Why?” he asks, sounding a bit defeated. Aegon had told him he had done it to himself, though Maekar had been almost certain it was that damned coach of his.
Daeron finally stirs, sitting up only to slump back into the seat. His eyes are still lidded, but at least he seems a little more conscious than before.
“He said he didn’t want to look like the devil,” he motions bitterly towards Aerion, who scoffs in return. He eyes both boys, melancholy settling in his chest. The bitter irony that both boys were Maekar’s splitting image did not escape him, though he was always sure that Aegon had inherited his mother’s version of their purple eyes, which dipped into a warmer tone in the sun, whereas Aerion’s were stubbornly cold like his own.
Baleor turns to his own kids and starts to say something, no doubt something along the lines of, ‘I think we should step out for a second.’ A familiar routine, one that allowed his family and Maekar’s uninvolved children out of the spectacle. But before his brother could get the full sentence out, Aerion cuts in, voice a little too loud and somehow a bit unsure, as though he forced himself to speak.
“Whatever. My boyfriend likes them fucking plenty, and that’s all I give a shit about,”
A quiet settles around the room, and the entire family's eyes quickly shift to look at him curiously.
“What?” Aerion’s brows furrow. It dawns on Maekar, suddenly, that in all the years that the boy had spent raising his cortisol levels by picking fights, getting arrested, mutilating his body with piercings and tattoos, he had never once said anything to the effect of having any interest in friends, romantic or otherwise. Never a girlfriend, and especially not a-
“Boyfriend?” Maekar asks, a little more incredulous for his liking, but the shock was so severe that the question had tumbled out of his mouth before he could check his tone.
It was Maekar's turn to be stared at, wary were the eyes of his nephews and brother, but his older sons all carried a challenging glint in their eyes, and he knew why. The word had felt accusatory, and he knew he’d need to clarify quickly, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure how to make it obvious his shock wasn’t for the boy aspect of the situation. So he stayed silent, mulling over how to fix it, while everyone else held onto bated breaths.
“I think that’s lovely, Aerion,” was the first thing anyone said, warm and sweet, and to his surprise it had been Kiera. They all glanced at her, her smile wavering for just a moment at the sudden attention. Valarr had also seemed a little surprised that she had spoken, though it was quickly replaced with something close to pride.
Aerion grins, the piercings moving with the stretch of his lips, shining under the dining room light, taunting Maekar.
“See, even Valarr’s wife thinks they’re cool,” he says, pointing at the girl, earning him a collective groan around the table.
“Her name is Kiera, you moron,” Valarr sniped, usual indifference waning, but the girl hadn’t seemed too offended. Her hand reached around Daella to pat Valarr’s arm, somehow she kept smiling, nodding pleasantly at Aerion.
Bless her. Truly.
“No one gives a shit about your piercings, Aerion,” Matarys squawked, realizing he could now contribute to the conversation without overstepping. Those two had never liked each other, but although Maekar understood why Valarr and Aerion were always at each other's throats, he hadn't been aware of what started this specific rivalry. To him, it seemed like Matarys’ issue was just genuine dislike for the other, “we’re all just surprised you’d lie so blatantly about dating someone.”
Matarys laughed, full and hearty. Something about what he said clicked in Maekar’s brain. Ah. Yes. A lie. Of course. His mind could wrap itself around that. Aerion was no stranger to lying to him. About his grades, about getting tattoos, about where he had been after sneaking back into his room through his bedroom window at 1 in the morning. Why wouldn’t he lie about this?
“What?”
But the pure confusion that coats the word makes Maekar falter in believing in Matarys’ theory.
“Aerion, no one would ever willingly date you,” Matarys is mean about it, grinning as he says it, but he wasn’t wrong. In fact, to help prove him right, Aerion grabs a butter knife from the table with a growl and goes to lunge at the ginger across the table.
Daeron acts fast and leans across to stop him, almost knocking over the large pot where their meal sat forgotten. Maekar’s girls take this as the moment to scurry off, grabbing Kiera and leading her away from the growing mess. He scans the room for Aemon and Aegon, but they’d thankfully snuck off sometime before this.
Matarys startles slightly, Valarr stretching a hand protectively in front of him, staring down Aerion with a tight jaw. He watches Martary's blue eyes shift between Aerion and his father, though Baelor sat with the same calm pensiveness which was usually present in these situations.
“Don’t pick a fight you can't win,” he says simply while shrugging, and Matarys scowls.
“Enough!” Maekar demands, and Aerion finally lets up, flinching at Maekar’s voice. He shakes his head like a dog shaking off water from its fur, then cranes his neck and lets the knife clatter onto the table.
A beat of quiet respite, where all they could hear was the huffing of Aerion’s angry adrenaline dispelling. Short-lived as Matarys opened his mouth once again.
“Do you have pictures with him?” Matarys seemed to think that the situation was a joke now that the immediate danger had been dealt with, earning him a look of disbelief from his father and brother.
“I’m not a fucking girl, Matarys, it’s not like i’m taking selfies in the bathroom mirror with him,”
“All I’m hearing is you can’t prove it,”
“Why are you even talking right now? I bet you’re still a-”
“Aerion just call him,” Daeron interrupts their quick back and forth that everyone else had been too tired to stop, the altercation seemed to have sobered him up as he moved to stand closer to Aerion, probably in case he tried something else.
“He lives in the city, doesn't he? We’re not eating anytime soon anyways.” he motions at the food, likely a little cold by now. Aerion looks at him, then looks at Maekar and Baleor who just sort of nod in reluctant agreement.
“I don’t know why you wouldn’t have brought this person from the start,” Maekar mutters, “I’ve been telling you to bring your significant others for years.”
Which was true, he often asked the children if there was anyone special they were bringing to the dinner, but both Daeron and Aerion rolled their eyes at him anyways.
“Fine,”
“No!”
They’re startled by Aegon, who was standing in the middle of the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen. He looked a little frazzled, it was likely he’d been standing just outside the room, listening to everyone’s yelling.
“What’s the matter, Egg?” Daeron asks, peering at the boy from behind where Aerion stood, to which Aegon fidgeted. Maekar watched Aegon's face, twisting like he was in pain, and then he glanced quickly towards Aerion. He'd somewhat suspected Aerion to be intimidating the boy, but was surprised to find he was only staring at him thoughtfully. Not grinning, not glaring, nothing.
“I mean… I’ve been… looking forward to dinner, I don’t want to wait any longer,” the boy says softly, wringing his hands.
“I’ll give you a cookie or something to hold you over, ‘kay?” Daeron tells him, pushing past Aerion and moving to offer Aegon his hands. Aegon takes it, and they wander into the kitchen. The rest sort of disperse, Aerion notably pulling out his phone and pressing it to his ear as he walks off, leaving Maekar and Baelor alone at the table.
“That was interesting,” Baelor muses, throwing his head back onto the cushion the padded dining chair to look at him, and Maekar lets out a deep, guttural groan.