Chapter Text
· · ─ ·˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ · ·
Baelor dismissed the servants with a small gesture, barely a flex of ringed fingers, the same hand that had once wrapped around Maekar's wrist when they were boys and pulled him back. The solar emptied, leaving only the brothers in the low afternoon light slanting through the window, and the tall figure that stood stifly near the door. Maekar remained standing though a chair had been offered, he had expected the man to leave with the servants, yet heard no retreating footsteps.
Maekar's jaw worked, they’ve circled this godsforsaken conversation three times already since his arrival. Baelor ought to know his answer by now. "I've managed my household without the Crown's oversight thus far."
"This isn't oversight." Baelor crossed to the window, not looking at his brother directly. It’s starting to put Maekar on edge, like a child about to be scolded.
“A few unanswered ravens don’t quite give that impression.” Maekar began pulling on his riding gloves, making no effort to hide his impatience. Let Baelor think he had somewhere better to be. Baelor frowned at that. “And for the last time I will say this,” he said, “I don’t want your man.”
“A sworn protector.” Baelor corrected him gently.
“A watcher in my own halls,” Maekar snapped. “My household is my concern.”
“And mine,” Baelor insisted, “when the blood in that household is the same as mine.”
Maekar’s fingers stilled against the leather. Cheap blow, he thought, pulling the ‘blood of my blood’ excuse on him.
They had stood at this impasse often enough to know neither would bend. But Maekar has left Summerhall in Daeron’s authority, and gods know what’s been happening in his absence. Perhaps the castle truly was burning, just as the boy had once sworn it would in his fevered childhood dreams.
He can’t afford to delay his return, not while he hadn’t recieved a single letter from any his children. None from Daeron, from Aerion, the girls. Even when he’d instructed them to do such simple thing. So he would relent, just this once, for them.
“And what would you have me do?” His voiced lowered, that was not quite a good sign.
“I already told you.”
“I have men already.”
Baelor’s gaze did not waver.
“You have sons and daughters to raise alone.”
As if Maekar wasn’t aware, is he not on his way back to Summerhall now to return to his children? Did Baelor still see him as some furious boy of twelve, snapping at heels and chasing after brothers who were always just out of reach? Still the youngest son? Still the one sent away? He resisted the urge to curse his brother.
Gods damn you.
Maekar’s eyes narrowed. “You think I cannot protect my own? You think I lack men?”
“I think you have many.”
“And yet you intend to send me one more.” Maekar’s lip curled. “A stranger.”
Baelor’s gaze softened— having the audacity to remain calm as Maekar’s temper threatened to climb.
“Just so.”
Maekar turned away from him sharply, leather creaking as his gloved fingers curled into fists. “You admit it, then. You doubt my household.”
“I doubt every household,” Baelor says. “Including my own.”
Fuck, Maekar thought, that wasn’t a good sign now was it? That was no courtly reassurance, nor gentle excuse meant to soothe his pride. That was Baelor speaking plainly. Does he really believe tensions are growing? Waiting for it to ascend into rebellion as it once did? Was that what this was? Some whisper in the Reach? A bastard gathering swords in Tyrosh? Was it truly so bad that Baelor doubted even his own walls? Maekar forced the thought down before it could root itself.
No.
“You insult me.” Maekar said, trying to redirect the discourse.
“I protect you.” Baelor answered.
· · ─ ·℘· ─ · ·
“My brother is a proud man,” Baelor had warned him before, “Quick to judge, and quicker still to assume the worst in others. But do not mistake sharpness for cruelty, Ser. Hard as he is, Maekar is not unjust.”
At the time, Dunk had not known whether that was meant to comfort him. Truth be told, it had done the opposite. Prince Baelor had said it calmly enough, as though sending Dunk into another prince’s household was no greater burden than handing off a sword-belt. As though Dunk himself were fit for such work. Dunk still was not certain of that.
He trusted his arms, his shield, his horse most days. His wits? Less so. And the Prince Maekar standing across the chamber looked very much like the sort of man who weighed others by what sat behind their eyes.
So he kept still as the silence engulfed the room, now that the brothers appear too be battling silently with their gazes. Until Baelor’s gaze shifted past his brother and landed on him. Dunk straightened at once.
Maekar followed suit, as though only just remembering there was another man in the room. Seven hells. The prince was unafraid to look into his eyes, violet met blue. He could feel the prince’s assessment through the stare alone.
Best not fidget, then.
“Ser Duncan.” Baelor addressed him gently. “Come forward.”
Dunk obeyed at once, boots heavy on stone, and bowed too stiffly most like. “Your Grace.” Then he glanced to Maekar, “My prince.”
More silence settled. Prince Maekar seemed content to forget Dunk was even in the room, which suited Dunk well enough. Better to be ignored than noticed. At last, the prince let out a slow breath through his nose.
“And this one?” He gave a small nod toward Dunk, as if discussing a horse. “This is your answer?”
Baelor smiled faintly. “Ser Duncan has proven… reliable.”
“He looks like a sellsword who took a wrong turn.” Maekar’s mouth twitched, though whether toward a smile or a sneer, Dunk kept his mouth shut. He had been called worse by better men.
“Perhaps,” Baelor allowed. “But he is not.”
Maekar studied Dunk again, looking up at him with a noted frown. Up. And up. Dunk almost felt sorry for him for having to crane his neck—almost. A breath escaped Dunk, trying not to squirm away from the prince’s stare.
“Tall,” he says at the last.
His eyes narrowed.
“Broad.”
Another pause.
“And green.”
What happened to looking like a sellsword?
Dunk swallowed. “I was squired long enough, my prince.”
“So are most boys before they’re sent home.” Maekar’s gaze sharpens. “Who knighted you?”
Dunk’s stomach dropped, his tongue felt twice its size. He hesitated, just a fraction too long. Baelor interupts before Dunk could make a muddle of it. “I did not summon him for you to test his spurs.”
Maekar did not look away from Dunk. “You summon him to insult me.”
Baelor seemed to ignore the comment and fold his hands instead. “Every knight at court belongs to someone.” He began, “A house, a marriage, a history. Even their loyalties have loyalties.”
Maekar’s lip curled. “And this one does not?”
“No.”
Maekar gave a quiet scoff. “Then he has no loyalty at all.”
Baelor’s gaze flicks briefly to Dunk again.
“I did not say that.”
Maekar begins to take a slow step towards him, then another until Dunk realized that he was circling him in appraisal. Dunk ought to get used to it by now, it’s part of the job after all. Men with titles always liked to look a man over before deciding what he was worth. Knights, lords, royalty most of all. His own eyes followed the prince’s careful pace, trying not to shy away from the prince’s scrutiny.
“You’ve no lands?”
“No, my prince.”
“No house?”
Leather creaked behind him somewhere.
“No, my prince.” Steadier still.
“No house to bind you?”
Breath. Don't turn. Don't shift.
“No, my prince.”
“And why,” Maekar stops in front of him. “should I trust a man with nothing?”
A trial of words, Dunk concluded as the question came. I shant yield. So he straightened once more and spoke with a confidence he’s gathered.
“Because I’ve only my word, my prince.” He held Maekar’s glare. “And I mean to keep it.”
Maekar nodded in return, turning back to Baelor.
“Pretty.” Maekar tugged at one of his gloves, finger by finger. “Did my brother put those words in your mouth?”
Dunk can’t help but to look at Baelor for assistance, catching him rolling his eyes. “He has already kept it. When it would have been easier not to.”
Maekar glanced back over one shoulder. “You speak as if you’ve tested him.”
Silence struck the room again.
“I wish to send him,” Baelor says, “because your men may one day be forced to choose between you and something else.”
“And he will not?”
“He cannot.”
That brought Maekar’s head up.
“Cannot?” Maekar repeats.
Silence meets the prince.
If he kept Dunk mouth shut now, the prince would make up his mind without him. So he swallowed once and stepped forward before his courage had time to fail him.
“I have nothing else.” Gods, his own voice sounded louder than he meant it to.
“No lands to lose. No banners to follow. No kin to sway me.”
He met Maekar’s stare head-on, though every instinct told him to look elsewhere.
“If I stand… I stand because I choose to.”
Maekar’s expression hardened at the knight’s confession, eyes searching for any trace of a lie. Duncan had hoped that he would not find any.
“You would place my children in this man’s hands.” He adressed to Baelor.
“I would place them behind his shield,” Baelor replied.
“I have shields.”
“You have knights,” Baelor corrects softly. “This is something else.”
Maekar let out a sharp breath through his nose.
“You ask much of a stranger.”
And just like that, Dunk was no longer part of the conversation again. Baelor did not seem to notice.
“I ask what I believe he will give.”
“And if you are wrong?”
Maekar’s eyes met his brother’s.
“Then the cost is mine.”
· · ─ ·℘· ─ · ·
Aerion stood before a polished bronze mirror while a page fastened the last clasp at his collar. Black velvet, red embroidery threading through the fabric like veins beneath skin. Not a wrinkle anywhere. Not a thread out of place.
Perfect.
The boy’s fingers slipped, Aerion caught his wrist before the clasp could snag. He watched the boy's face in the mirror's burnished surface rather than turning to face him directly. As if fear itself could be hidden.
“Again,” he said.
The page swallowed hard enough that Aerion heard it.
“My prince, I—”
“Again.”
Aerion tilted his head just so—the angle he saw his father used when patience was three seconds from becoming irritation. He'd practiced it. Knew exactly how many degrees it took. The boy’s fingers trembled as Aerion finally released him.
Pathetic thing.
The door opened behind him.
Daeron carefully entered with Rhae slumbering in his arms, her drool dripping down to wet Daeron’s (surprisingly) unsoiled shirt. He hadn’t even noticed.
The little dragon was six already yet she still found it proper to be carried in the arms of anyone older than her. Father's arms most often, though he'd set her down the moment she woke, as if affection past consciousness might rot her. Then Daeron's, who would carry her until his back screamed and say nothing of it. Aerion would indulge her every once in a while. When it suited him, when Father was watching.
His mouth twitched.
“Gods.”
Aerion dismissed the page with a flick of his fingers. The boy practically fled. Only then did Aerion turn.
“She is six, not six months.”
Rhae gave a sudden exhale, rubbing her face against against Daeron’s shoulders. Their oldest only adjusted her higher without complaint. Daeron moved further into the chamber. “She fell asleep waiting for Father.”
Aerion snorted.
“At the table?” He asked.
“In the window.” Daeron glanced down at the girl. “She thought she might see him cross the bridge.” Something tightened in Aerion's chest. He ignored it. Daeron huffed a laugh through his nose before it faded just as quickly. He shifted Rhae again. The girl made a small sound and buried herself deeper into the folds of his tunic.
“Strange,” Daeron says, “I don’t recall being that eager for father’s return.”
Aerion snickered at that. “Perhaps your fear of his displeasure rooted itself too deeply.”
He crossed toward them slowly.
“Even when you do nothing, you still expect punishment.”
Daeron merely hummed.
That would not do.
“Though who could blame Father?” Aerion went on. “His heir speaks more fondly to cups than to his own blood.”
Still nothing, not a flash of temper or offense, not even Daeron’s clever little barbs— dulled now by a week without wine.
Daeron smiled faintly at some point beyond Aerion’s shoulder.
“I do wonder sometimes whose fault that is.”
His hand moved slowly along Rhae’s back.
“You will be glad to know I find only my own cowardice to blame.”
Aerion frowned.
Gods, how sobriety had ruined him.
Drunk, Daeron at least still had teeth. Wine sharpened him, made him laugh, made him cruel in ways that could almost be called spirited. This Daeron only drifted; all softness and sorrow. Aerion found that he liked it far less.
Aerion stepped closer still, gaze drifting once more toward Rhae.
“She’ll never cease this nonsense so long as Father indulges it.” He said instead.
Daeron stroked absently through the little girl’s silver strands. “Would you rather he did not?”
Aerion opened his mouth but found no words.
Would he?
Maekar was stern on the rest of them. Hard enough that even the walls seemed to stiffen when his temper rose. Daella went quiet beneath it although she was never one to cause trouble. Aemon apologised for things that were not his doing. Aegon vanished entire days into the hills to avoid him.
Daeron drank.
But Rhae? Aerion’s thoughts burst apart at the sudden sound of boots beyond the chamber doors.
“Prince Maekar’s party nears the gate,” one of the guards announced.
Rhae stirred at once in Daeron’s arms, silver lashes fluttering.
“Father?”
Daeron brushed her tangled hair back from her face.
“Aye, little dragon. Father’s home.”
Little dragon.
Aerion’s mouth tightened.
That had once been his title. Long before Rhae had drawn breath and started feeding from their mother's body until she wasted away. Long before she arrived red-faced and squalling into the world and wrapped Father’s heart around her tiny fist.
· · ─ ·℘· ─ · ·
Dunk was careful not to loom, considering that gaining the prince’s trust proved almost imposible. If there’s one thing Dunk had learned from stubborn lords, it is that they did not take kindly to intimidation. Intentional or otherwise. Though looming seemed unavoidable when a man stood near seven feet tall besides.
He'd tried slouching in the saddle earlier, which had only made his spine ache and his horse confused. Tried falling back further, but that felt like retreat. The prince rode ahead of the column beneath a hard grey sky, black stallion pacing steadily over the Kingsroad mud. Dunk followed half a horse-length behind, trying very hard not to say something foolish. One problem he’s learned from royalty is that silence is dangerous. But talking was worse, talking had a way of reminding nobles he was only a knight.
Don't think about that. Think about the road. The horse. Anything else.
Maekar had spoken little since taking him into service. A question here—Can you ride?—as if Dunk might have walked from the capital. An order there—You'll ride with the column, not in it—which meant something Dunk was still working out. Most exchanges ended with grunts from one side or the other, sounds that meant understood or dismissed depending on how they landed. Dunk found that he preferred that.
Words required thought. Thought required time. And time spent thinking near princes was time spent realizing all the ways he might cock things up without meaning to.
Ahead, the prince finally broke the silence.
“You know why my brother chose you?”
Dunk straightened slightly in the saddle; too quickly, damn it, which made his horse sidestep. He corrected with a gentle hand and a quiet curse said only in his head. There did not seem to be a safe answer to that question. Honesty might insult the Crown. Flattery would insult them both.
“No, my prince.”
“Hm.”
The sound could've meant anything. Agreement, skepticism, amusement at Dunk's expense. The prince's profile gave nothing away
Maekar continued before Dunk could think of something to add that wouldn't make things worse.
“Baelor believes lowborn men see things highborn men overlook.”
Dunk scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck, buying himself three seconds he didn't have.
“Might be true enough.”
Stupid, foolish boy. Choose your words wisely.
But what words? What could he possibly say that wouldn't sound like agreement or argument, both of which felt like traps?
Thick as a castle wall, Ser Arlan used to say, and just as slow to move.
“Summerhall is not court.” Maekar’s horse slowed slightly until they rode nearer side by side. “You are not being brought to stand idly beside doors.”
“No, my prince.” He agreed.
“I will not have a silk-clad fool trailing after my children and bending at their every whim.” The prince glanced toward him then. “You will escort them when they ride. Attend them at meals. Accompany them through the grounds.”
Dunk nodded, though Maekar wasn't looking anymore.
"You will also watch the guards."
That made Dunk's hands tighten on the reins before he could stop himself. His horse felt it, ears flicking back.
"My prince?"
"And the servants." Maekar's jaw worked like he was chewing something bitter. "And the knights who come and go. And any face that appears where it should not."
Oh.
Not a protector, then. Or not only a protector.
"And if something seems wrong…" The prince glanced toward him then, actually turned his head, "…you will tell me. Not the steward. Not the master-at-arms. Me."
Duncan realizes that it’s the closest he’ll ever get to the full instructions, and Maekar was not the man someone ought to ask questions to.
"Yes, my prince."
Dunk meant it or he thought he meant it. Hard to tell when his head was still catching up to what his mouth had agreed to.
The silence returned, and Dunk let the words sink in properly, turning them over the way Prince Baelor had taught him to.
Escort them. Attend them. Accompany them.
Them.
The last he recalls is that Maekar Targaryen had six children by Dyana Dayne. Did the prince expect him to watch all of them? At the same time?
That can't be right.
But Maekar had said them; not him or her. not the heir or my son. Them. More than one. As if Dunk were supposed to split himself six ways and still be useful.
He opened his mouth then closed it, counted three breaths while the horse kept walking and the mud kept sucking at hooves and the sky stayed grey overhead.
Don't ask. Don't make him repeat himself. Don't sound like you can't manage what he's giving you.
"My prince—" His voice came out rougher than he meant. He cleared his throat. Tried again. "How many, my prince? How many of your children am I to—"
"All of them."
Somehwere in Dunk’s mind he can hear the sound of a door slamming shut.
"All five. When they are together, you are there. When they are apart…" Maekar's mouth twitched, something that might've been a smile on a different man's face. “You will do your best."
Dunk's stomach dropped.
Six royal children... wait. No, five. What happened to one? Five different wants and needs and ways to get into trouble. Five different ways for him to fail.
Seven fucks.
"I understand, my prince."
He did not understand. But what else could he say?