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“Maegor. Not after Maegor the Cruel, surely?” Tybolt Lannister’s grating laugh followed, the idiot seemingly unaware of his slurring loud voice and the sudden stillness from the table that followed. “What ill name to give a child.”
It was an ill name, Maekar would be the first to agree if it hadn’t come with blatant mockery of his very first grandson, a mockery that this Andal thought to give in jest toward another unfortunate soul situated next to him.
“And what of my grandson’s name, Lord Lannister?”
Someone cleared their throat mildly at Maekar’s voice before sparing the venison with as much attention as one could muster to exclude one’s self from the conversation.
Tybolt, his awareness properly catching up to sober him, glanced around the table, arranging himself properly on his seat when no one wanted to meet his eyes. “It is only the name, my prince.”
“As you have said,” Maekar replied, eyes narrowing. “What of it?”
Tybolt was unable to maintain the semblance of confidence he had mustered. “Er. Certainly, we do not need another Maegor the Cruel, no?”
“Are you claiming my grandson to be the second coming of such a man?”
The deafening silence was pointed, and Maekar’s pause was deliberate enough to cause this yellow-haired toad to squirm but apparently not enough to discourage him from loosening his tongue even more. “Well, with his omega mother…”
“His omega mother is my son, Lord Lannister, I’ll have you remember,” Maekar seethed. “And if a child’s basis is of their sire and mother, then we’d have you remembered as a man known to lose to a mere hedge knight in a simple tourney.”
Whether Tybolt Lannister went red from embarrassment or anger, Maekar cared not to find out, his attention immediately on his brother Aerys at the head of the seat who sighed and gave Maekar a reprimanding eye. What help his older brother was.
Maekar excused himself from the table, his fuming pace dragging him toward the nursery. He was unsurprised to find Ser Duncan present, playing with his son on the floor.
“He should be sleeping at this hour,” Maekar told him. “Where is Aerion?”
Ser Duncan was swift to bow at his entry, if a bit curt, given that he had Maegor wanting to sit on his lap. “Aerion is asleep. Maegor has been restless during the evenings as of late.” He tickled his son’s button nose. “He needs to play first, otherwise he won’t let his mother sleep peacefully.”
The man was yet to shed some pieces of his light armor, his golden cloak haphazardly strewn at the back of a chair. There was exhaustion on Ser Duncan’s shoulders, though while he was stifling, quite unsuccessfully, his bouts of yawn, his rumbling delight was unmistakably true.
Maekar sighed. “Give him to me.” At his grandson and sire’s stare, he added, “You look about to fall over yourself, Ser Duncan. Go. I’ll keep him occupied for the evening.”
The knight looked about to protest until Maegor promptly crawled over to where Maekar was and took hold of his boot to stare up at him pleadingly as he was wont to do when asking for something.
Grumbling, Maekar bent to pick him up. Maegor was growing bigger with each passing moon, heavier beyond his age. Not that Maekar expected anything less considering who his sire was.
“You will have to learn how to walk soon,” Maekar groused to the boy who giggled when his legs were left dangling in the air as he was lifted. The dark bits of hair on his white could only have come from Dyanna. “Princes do not ask to be carried all the time.”
Maegor gurgled, his chubby arms extending toward Maekar as if wanting to be closer to him.
It was easy to relent to such a request, Maekar found, all the while giving Ser Duncan a warning look lest the man thought it pertinent to laugh at how easily Maekar acquiesced.
He was, however, unable to stop Ser Duncan’s amusement when Maegor gripped his beard and pulled.
Cruel, indeed.
“Look, Grandpapa. She’s very cute, isn’t she?”
It was the ugliest wet cat that Maekar had ever seen and wanted nothing but to remove it from Saera’s delicate arms lest she contracted some disease from the animal.
But doing so would mean agreeing to her incensed septa who had been nothing but harsh in the guise of discipline that Saera’s behavior never once called for.
“She is,” Maekar said, clipped. “What is her name?”
“Maegelle,” Saera said after a thought, her fingers drying the wet fur. “Because she is a good princess.”
Maekar nodded grimly. “And she will be cleaned and properly looked at first because she’s obedient."
Saera whispered the statement as a question to the cat that mewled in return. Her granddaughter took it as an agreement. Maekar gestured brusquely at the grimacing septa to take the cat to be bathed.
“Please take care of her, Septa Moran,” Saera said, expectant and full of concern. The girl was entirely unaware of Maekar behind her as he eyed the old woman in warning. “She will sleep on my bed tonight.”
“Yes, Princess,” she muttered before gritting her teeth as she bowed at Maekar.
Maekar produced a clean cloth to wipe Saera’s chin and hands. “A princess is not supposed to muddy herself.”
Saera’s dress was sullied with dirt, particularly at the knees and elbows. Maekar had been told that his granddaughter had thought it pertinent to roll on the earth like the mulish little girl that she was, but her septa seemed to have neglected to mention that Saera wanted to get to a cat that was about to drown.
“Septa Moran said we should leave her because she would die anyway,” Saera told him glumly. “How would she know that?”
Maekar only grunted.
“And she said I am stupid for saving her and that you won’t let me keep her anyway.” She scrunched her face into an adorable frown. “Septa Moran always said that I would grow up as stupid as the last Princess Saera she knew.”
His fingers paused. “Did she now?”
Saera nodded and hesitatingly added, “I don’t like her.”
Well, Maekar hated her now, too. “She is the stupid one,” he told her simply, earning him a bright gap-toothed grin in return. “It is for the best that we won’t be seeing more of her,” he said.
He would take care of it before Aerion decided that the septa had too many fingers to return her with. And then he would let his son know afterward.
After all, Saera might be as lovely as her namesake was said to be, but she would never be the likes of the Conciliator’s errant daughter, which everyone clearly should be reminded of.
It was the gods’ goodwill that they decided Aerion’s presence was unnecessary, though as to whether it was for the better or worse was yet to be decided.
Daena stood with her hair an unruly mess of golden curls, her arms crossed with barely concealed rage that was almost reminiscent of Maekar’s younger years of being an impatient boy himself.
On the other side was a group of three boys, two wearing Rosby’s sigil and another from a herald Maekar couldn’t be bothered to figure out what.
What he already figured out, though, was whose fists had broken the latter boy’s nose and made those twin black eyes on the Rosbys.
“Explain,” Maekar said, mentally praying for strength.
“They called Nyra and Vaella foul names!” Daena declared immediately. “I heard them say Vaella is a lackwit and Nyra is Maegor with Tits! My brother Maegor doesn’t even have tits!”
“Language, Daena!”
“You asked!”
Although Daena, true to her name, was not one to cower under Maekar’s glower and volume, her apparent fury simmered down to a boil as her expression demanded retribution from her grandfather. Her trust in him to expect her justice did quell some of Maekar’s own annoyance.
But not toward the audacity of boys from some minor house and possibly a landed knight’s household.
“You two,” he barked at the Rosby boys, “Bring that one to the maester so he can stop his pitiful whining. Compose yourselves after and go to the stables and serve until nightfall.” Maekar scowled when one of them thought to open his mouth to complain. “You should be glad that’s all you received. If I hear any more name-calling, a broken nose and busted eye will be the least of your worries.”
Daena merely huffed at the threat that had the three boys scrambling out. She met Maekar’s eyes squarely. At ten, her height was almost that of a young man of five and ten. Although she looked every bit like her sire, from stature to hair, it was his sire’s brand of righteousness that she had inherited best.
“I will not apologize for defending my cousin and twin sister,” she said without prompting. “They insulted two princesses, and one a daughter of Lord Stark at that.”
She pursed her mouth the longer Maekar held her stare, and it was telling how she started shuffling her feet. Maekar did not delight in making her squirm and sighed. “Indeed,” he conceded. “But it could have been handled better.”
“... I know.”
“Were you hurt?”
“Someone hit me with their elbow.” She glanced at the floor. “It might bruise.”
Maekar’s fingers were far too rough and large to tame down her mane, but he was able to manage it presentably. He pretended not to see her hastily wiping her eyes.
“There won’t be a repeat of this,” he told her. His tone broke no argument. “We do not tolerate insults, but you will tell me next time.”
Daena nodded. “Are you going to tell mother and father?”
Maekar doubted that Aerion would not learn of it. “Do you want me to?”
“No.”
“Then I won’t.”
The second son born to Aerion inherited the fine features of his face the most, though his coloring and the mess of dark hair atop his head could only have come from Dyanna.
Jacaerys, his mother had thought to name him.
All things considered, it was a name that didn’t bode much ill compared to his older brother’s and sisters’. History spoke of Prince Jacaerys’ diligence; a perfect heir who had carried his responsibilities with boldness, not to mention with a political acumen uncommon for someone so young.
“He looked like him, too,” Daeron made mention once, wistful. “Donnor said that Lord Cregan Stark had written an account of his earlier years, including some… inspired poetry to describe Prince Jacaerys the first time they met.” His clear eyes were lit with what could only be amusement as he stroked his flat stomach absently. “I am partial to the name Lucerys myself, if it will be a son next.”
One Velaryon name for a grandson should be enough, Maekar wanted to argue, though far be it from him to decide for his omega sons who were clearly given far too many liberties by their husbands when it came to naming their children.
Impressively, Jacaerys grew up living up to his namesake’s reputation: intelligent and with a gallantness befitting his station. But more than that, he was kind, as kind as Ser Duncan, yet as firm as Aerion without his impatience.
More than once did Jacaerys remind Maekar of another boy who had grown into a fine young man, a fine prince and heir of the realm. A fine Hand of the King who could have been a great king himself, had he been given a chance.
Except they would rather think that Jacaerys’ name was all there was to this boy, and that for his appearance that held none of his sire’s, it was fitting to call him a bastard.
The pomp of the tourney for Daella and Breon Tarth’s first son’s presentation day was lost to Maekar as he unhorsed another impudent Reach Lord’s son two decades his junior.
With age, Maekar found that he rather enjoyed striking down insolent young men on the mud, especially those with none of the wisdom and sensibility to call his grandson a bastard like his namesake outside of Maekar’s hearing.
“What are you doing here, boy?”
Mismatched eyes looked up from behind a fringe of pale hair. Aemond held the book closer to his chest protectively. “Reading.”
“The library is made for that.”
The boy chewed his lip before nodding, standing up with his gangly legs. “Excuse this one, Your Grace.”
Aemond was already by the door when Maekar asked, “Who let you in?”
“... no one.”
Maekar believed him, surreptitiously glancing at the northeastern wall that he had long suspected to be a hidden egress. This bloody castle.
He took a sheaf of parchment and pushed it in Aemond’s direction. “You’re already here. Do me a favor and indicate where those bloody hidden doors are.”
Aemond stood for a moment before shuffling near to gather a couple of parchments and a stick of coal before ambling toward one of the chairs that Maekar had long designated to him.
The boy worked silently, occasionally observing him. Maekar himself pretended not to notice, used to his grandson’s pale blue eye that was oft to study him.
“What?”
“Are you going to appoint Rogar Baratheon to be your kingsguard?”
Maekar did not know where the ridiculous idea came from. “And why, pray tell, will I do that?”
The question seemed to catch Aemond off guard. “He rides well and is a tourney champion. He’s good with a sword. I think.” When Maekar remained unimpressed, Aemond was swift to point out, “He’s Lord Baratheon’s second son.”
And Rogar was also a pompous ass who Maekar had heard was wont to use his station above others. His father, Lyonel Baratheon, had been an insufferable man himself but for some odd reason held Ser Duncan’s respect and friendship.
Rogar Baratheon seemed to have conveniently forgotten his own father’s association with Ser Duncan when he had deigned to call Aemond a soon-to-be kingslayer.
Not so different from your namesake. Not so different from your grandfather.
The latter was an uncorroborated statement that Maekar had only been aware of through passing whispers of third-hand accounts. But the fact remained that Rogar Baratheon had no business picking on a young prince barely of his size.
“Rogar Baratheon rides and wields arms about as well as any other lord’s son, a champion among carefully selected contenders, and his father is not the only lord of the realm.”
“Oh,” Aemond mumbled. “If you say so, Your Grace.”
Maekar supposed he ought to be occupied with a rather compelling petition on tariff increase to notice Aemond’s face breaking into a slight smile.
For all of his sons’ faults, Maekar had wanted them to at least have decent marriages.
Aemon was safely at the Citadel, away from the machinations of the court, free to follow his own pursuits with the chains of his own choosing. Aegon had been able to marry for love; favorably, even, before his new station within the line of throne could warrant him an arranged match.
It was his eldest two that held irreverence for their designations, with Daerion choosing to associate himself with the bottom of a tankard while Aerion would rather cut down any posturing alpha that would come within his presence.
But in some twist of fate, the gods had thought for Lord Donnor Stark and Daeron to come across each other after the latter claimed having a dream of a long-forgotten, unfulfilled promise of ice and fire, and for Aerion to take a sudden interest in the man who had as good as beaten him to pulp in the dirt. Despite their history, Ser Duncan grounded Aerion’s inner fire to practically worship the ground he walked on.
As he should, Maekar kept reminding himself. His children should want for nothing less.
“Daemon and Aenys, Your Grace,” Ser Duncan proudly told him of his and Aerion’s newborn children, both situated on each of his huge arms. “Visenya is the girl. Aerion is currently feeding her. Maegor and Daena and Rhaenyra are already with him.”
Three children within a single day of delivery. And another three to be named after figures who were renowned for their notoriety. “Aerion chose the names, I wager.”
Ser Duncan nodded, absently tickling Aenys’ foot. Daemon hiccuped in his sire’s hold. “Would you like to hold him, Your Grace?” Ser Duncan asked when he noticed him looking at Daemon. “He’s better behaved than Aenys.”
Daemon did not fuss when handed over to him, and this close, Maekar could distinguish the silver-gold from the tuft atop the babe’s head, as distinct as the one his rebellious half-uncle had.
And Aerion thought to curse the boy with his name.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but you are wrong,” came Ser Duncan’s level voice. Maekar did not know he had spoken aloud. “For the Rogue Prince, Aerion said.”
Maekar scoffed. “And you believe that? I know him. He meant to offend, just as he had with the rest of your children. He could have done it without their expense.”
It spoke of his son by law’s character that there was nary a change in his scent at Maekar’s bluntness. Where another alpha would have taken offense, Ser Duncan seemed to consider the words, consider Maekar fully from the frown on his face to the way he carefully cradled Daemon.
“If he says Daemon is named after the Rogue Prince, then he is named after him,” Ser Duncan said. “Aerion can name them however he wishes to. It’s his sole right after carrying them to term all by himself.” He tilted his head a fraction. “It is only a name, Your Grace. I’m certain they will be more than their namesakes.”
Spoken like a promise, Maekar couldn’t help but note. And yet somehow, something that would prove to ring true.
“If you wanted a namesake, Father, you needed only ask,” Aerion remarked one day, apropos of nothing.
No sooner than the turn of the next moon did Aerion announce another child on the way, his children and husband utterly delighted at the news of another one.
When the next pair of twin boys were named Maekar and Arlan, Aerion’s smirk from the birthing bed, pale and sweaty and triumphant, was incredibly telling.