Chapter Text
Maekar held him close against his heart.
He could feel the heat radiating from his son’s skin, seeping through his tunic and into his own skin. His son’s eyes were closed. The lines of pain had gone from his face. Maekar kissed the brow that was done with agony, then buried his face into the tangled, sweat-soaked hair. He remembered when that hair smelled of sun and grass and summer.
Maekar rocked the shell of his quiet son gently, as he had in infant years.
Take the beat from my chest and give it to my son.
Take the air from my lungs and put it into his.
A life for a life. Then take mine.
“Please…” The word tore out of him.
Let my son reach twenty, then thirty, forty, fifty.
Let him wed and have children and grandchildren of his own.
Maekar held his son tighter as though his strength could force life back into the still body. The gods were punishing him. He had taken a brother’s life and now they were taking his son’s.
Why must the gods claim my son to answer for my sins?
“Give him back to me,”
“Give him back,”
Cry ragged his body. He begged to the gods but the gods were silent the way the stone was.
Thirty days before.
The main gates of the Red Keep opened to the riding party from Ashford. Once they halted in the yard, servants and guards moved about with the usual briskness, bringing the royal’s belongings into the palace. Maekar swung down from his horse and gave the reins to the stableman. He then walked straight to Aerion, helping the boy get down from the carriage.
“Come, boy,” Maekar extended his hand.
Aerion took it, trembling hard as he rose from his seat. He took the first step into the yard, and his balance was quickly gone. Maekar wrapped an arm around Aerion’s waist before the boy could sprawl onto the hard cobbles.
“Do you want me to carry you?” Maekar asked.
Aerion shook his head, “No need, Father. I can walk,”
Maekar pressed his lips thin at his son’s refusal. Aerion looked ready to collapse, his wounded legs trembling as the boy bore his own weight, and he was surely worn down by the long days on the road.
The journey from Ashford to King’s Landing had been grueling, days of jarring movement that had turned a simple injury into a source of constant agony. Aerion had borne the journey worst of all. Each mile had reopened what little healing he had managed. Maekar knew they could have turned toward Summerhall, it was closer, a shorter path to rest. But King’s Landing awaited him, there was no way to avoid facing his father. He must speak to the King himself, telling him all that had passed at Ashford and of the manner in which Baelor had died.
Maekar brought his two sons with him. Wounded as they were, he kept them close. There was no one else he would trust to care for them but himself.
Aerion straightened his back and removed Maekar's hand from his waist. He stepped forward, one foot before the other, careful and shaking. As the boy walked, Maekar tailed him behind, ready to catch him should his strength give out.
For a brief moment, Maekar turned his head, searching for his eldest. Daeron was just getting down from his horse. The moment his feet touched the ground, he swayed side to side. No doubt, he was drunk. Again.
Maekar called for a guard, “Escort Daeron to a bedchamber, make sure he rest,”
“Yes, Your Grace,”
The walk to the royal apartments drained Aerion’s strength. He turned down Maekar’s help four times, yet Maekar took him up in his arms regardless, unwilling to chance a fall that might worsen his boy’s wounds. Aerion scowled, then buried his face in Maekar’s attire, avoiding the servants’ and guards' gazes. Arriving at a bedchamber prepared for his son, Maekar carefully lowered Aerion into the bed.
“You shouldn’t have carried me, Father,” Aerion said, “I’m not a child. It’s…embarrassing.”
Maekar reached for the clasp at Aerion’s robe, gently eased the garment from his son’s shoulders.
“You are a child,” He replied, tossing Aerion’s and his own robes to a servant.
“I am seventeen,” Aerion said quickly.
“Seventeen,” Maekar repeated, unimpressed. “Still a child,”
“And you weigh little more than a sack of feathers in my arms,” he added.
That only deepened his son’s scowl, but Aerion didn’t say another word. He simply sank into the pillows.
“After the maester checks on your wounds, you can rest,” Maekar told him.
Aerion gave a nod.
Maekar commanded a guard to fetch a maester, and they did not wait long for the healer to come. Aerion pushed himself up on his elbows, while Maekar arranged the pillow for his son to lean on against the headboard.
“See to his right leg first. The upper thigh,” Maekar told the maester.
Aerion loosened the ties of his breeches. He began to work the fabric down, but before the bandaged wound was shown, the boy hastily pulled the fabric back up.
“The bandage is all right. There’s no need–”
“Show it,” Maekar didn’t let him finish.
“Father–”
“Show it,” he repeated.
“It’s all right, there is nothing to see,” Aerion insisted.
Maekar sat on the edge of the bed, his expression hardening, “If it is as you say, then you have nothing to hide,”
Aerion held his stare for a moment, stubbornness flaring, but then faltering. The boy brought down his breeches again, just enough to expose the bandaged wound high along his thigh.
Maekar saw it, and all the breath seemed to leave him at once. The white linen was no longer clean, a dark bloom of red had spread through it.
“How long has it been like this?” His gaze snapped up to his son.
“I didn’t know, not until just now,”
“You didn’t know?” Maekar repeated. “Aerion, it’s your leg! You must have felt the pain,”
“I thought it was just sore,” Aerion replied, frowning. “It’s been hurting since the ride. I didn’t think–”
“Yes, you didn’t think! You didn’t use your fucking brain,” Maekar sighed, trying to hold back his anger. Frustration and worry had mixed into one.
“Boy, a wound like this does not simply… bleed through without cause. You must have felt the strain, the pain. Did it not worsen when you walked?”
Aerion hesitated, then looked away. “Yes,” he admitted.
Maekar’s shoulder slumped. “And you said nothing,” Had he not carried him for half of the way to the chamber, the wound would have been far worse.
“It didn’t seem worth the fuss,” Aerion murmured.
Maekar wanted to shake him out of his nonsense. He had fought in the trial for him and had even accidentally crushed his brother’s skull to save him. All that was not for Aerion to think, even for a moment, that his pain was something to be dismissed.
“You can barely stand, you bleed through your bandages, and you think it's not worth mentioning?”
“If you are hurt, you speak of it,” he spoke more firmly.
Leaving Aerion no chance to argue, the boy nodded, “Yes, Father,”
Maekar rose, “Go on, check the wound,” he spoke to the maester.
The maester leaned closer, he began to unwind the bandages. Aerion’s jaw set tight as the cloth peeled away.
“Be gentle!” Maekar warned.
“Y-Yes, Your Grace…” The maester nodded, “I will be as gentle as I can,”
The last of the linen came free, revealing the wound beneath. It was a long slash on his upper thigh, the work of a sword, deep enough to bite through flesh, but not so deep as to have found the artery. Even so, it had cost Aerion a great deal of blood. Now it wept again, dark and sluggish. The stitches had torn loose in places where the strain had pulled them apart. The skin around it was swollen, the wound not yet ready to bear the weight Aerion had forced upon it.
“It must be cleaned before being bound again,” The maester said.
Maekar watched as the maester used a cloth soaked in warm water to clean the blood. His son bit his lips and flinched at every touch. The sight was unbearable, for all his hardness, for all the violence and blood he had seen in his life, he found he could not bear to watch his own son suffer.
How am I to send my boy to Lys? The distance alone will torment me.
I will be gnawed hollow by worry, day and night.
After cleaning the blood, the maester gave Aerion a measured dose of milk of the poppy to ease the pain. The man then poured wine into the wound. From a satchel, he took out a silver needle and a bobbin of silk thread and began to close the flesh. Aerion swallowed a scream, clutching the sheet so tight his fingers turned white. Maekar rushed to the other side of the bed and sat beside his son, resting a hand on his shoulder.
A small whimper slipped from Aerion’s lips. It was the same helpless sound of an eight-year-old boy who had once cried over a scrape upon his elbow, seeking comfort from his father for a hurt far less than this. After a time, the tension drained from Aerion's body as the milk of the poppy began to take effect. When the maester had done stitching the wound, he painted it with green salve, saying it would prevent infections. At last, he wrapped the wound again in clean bandages.
“It is done, my prince,” The maester said as he gathered the needle and the thread back into his satchel.
“The bandage is to be kept clean and dry,” The man went on, “It should be changed daily, and the wound inspected for any sign of swelling or foulness,”
Maekar nodded, listening.
“You must keep your weight off that leg, my prince. No walking unless it is absolutely necessary, and even then, only with support,” The maester added.
Maekar gave Aerion a hard look, the boy’s eyes fell half-closed, the weight of the draught pulling at him now, but still he managed a faint murmur, “I heard him, Father,”
“Good,” Maekar said, “Then you will do as you’re told,”
Aerion gave a short obedience nod. Maekar told the maester to check on the other cuts, scratches, and bruises. The swelling in Aerion's eyes and cheeks had begun to go down and the dark purple bruises had faded into yellow. Maekar leaned in, staring at the red, angry cuts across his son’s face. There were no longer the boy’s smooth cheeks. The cuts would scar, leaving lasting marks as a reminder of the trial.
Aerion met his gaze, but then quickly looked away. Maekar drew himself back when the maester began to apply a pale orange salve to the cuts. This time, Aerion barely flinched at the touch, the poppy had dulled his pain.
“This will help the skin mend and lessen the scarring, if the gods are kind,” The maester explained.
“As for the bruises, the color has begun to turn, they will pass with time,”
While Aerion, lulled by the poppy milk, didn’t seem to listen and be able to catch up on what the maester said, Maekar listened to every word and was troubled. Scars would not be helped, most men wore them, princes no less. Maekar himself had plenty of them, from pox, from battles, from jousting, even from practices.
As he looked at Aerion’s cuts, something bitter and protective curled in the pit of his stomach. There was part of him that rebelled at the idea of scars marring his son’s face. Not because scars were shameful, but because he knew Aerion would see himself lesser.
Maekar knew his son well enough to know how much the boy valued his looks, how much pride he took in his Valyrian features. Every time Aerion looked into his reflection, he would see the scars, and he would hate it, he would hate himself.
“My prince, if you feel the warmth of new blood, you can summon me,” the maester said politely to Aerion, who was trying hard to keep his eyes open.
“You will be summoned at the first sign of it, whether he speaks of it or not. I will watch him,” Maekar said.
The maester nodded, “As you say, Your Grace,”
Once the maester had finished doing what was required of him, Maekar excused him to leave. He then helped Aerion to lie down and tucked the boy fully into the fur blanket, making sure he was all warm and comfortable.
“Rest well, now,” He brushed Aerion’s hair.
His son did not give him any response, he had already closed his eyes, submitting himself to the draught. Good, Maekar thought. Better that he sleep than walk around and worsen his wounds. Maekar dragged a chair close to the bed and sat with a groan. The stiffness and exhaustion of the road clung heavy on his limbs. No sooner had he sat and let his muscles ease than the thought of Daeron returned to him.
Maekar brushed back his hair. He had ordered a guard to see that his eldest rested, but he doubted Daeron would comply. He rose from his seat, took one last look at Aerion before he left to check on Daeron. He would return. Aerion would wake to find his father at his side, ready for anything he might need. Maekar would not have him out of the bed, not while his wounds remained unhealed.
It took no time to reach Daeron’s chamber as it was only three rooms in between his and Aerion’s. The door of the chamber was slightly open. Maekar pushed it and entered. To no surprise, he found the chamber empty.
Fuck
Fuck the guard, he cannot even do a simple task to make sure my son rests.
Anger swirled inside his chest like a hurricane. Daeron should be resting, not wandering.
Where the fuck does he even wander?
Maekar stormed out of the chamber. Servants shrank aside as he swept through the castle, his temper plain upon his face. Daeron could be anywhere, sprawled unconscious in some corridor after too much wine and exhaustion. Maekar searched the nearest halls first, then the stairways, the throne room, even the training yard, though he doubted Daeron would ever want to set foot there.
After what felt like an eternity of searching, Maekar made his way towards the Godswood and found his eldest there. Daeron sat beneath the heart tree. Leaning against the trunk, he looked pale in the bright sunlight. A wineskin dangled lazily from his hand.
“Gods be damn,” Maekar breathed out.
There truly did not seem to be a single day his eldest son spent sober anymore. Maekar strode towards him, snatching the wineskin from Daeron’s hand.
“That is enough wine for today,”
“Father–”
“You’re supposed to rest, not wander around!” He raised his voice.
Maekar held his son’s chin, turning his face aside to look at the stitched wound on his left cheek. Then, to his ear, he lost almost half of it.
This will scar too, Maekar thought.
“Get up, get into your chamber and rest,” He told him.
“Yes, Father,” Daeron pushed himself up, but his knees buckled immediately. His body fell forward into Maekar’s arm.
“I’m sorry, Father,” Daeron apologized weakly, “I’m sorry,”
Maekar said nothing. His arms came around Daeron instinctively, taking most of his weight. For one strange moment, Maekar realized how long it had been since he had held his eldest this close. Daeron had once been a sturdy child forever clinging to his side, demanding rides upon his shoulders or tugging at his sleeve for attention. Somewhere along the years, that had vanished. His eldest grew quieter, and Maekar himself grew distant after Dyanna’s death.
Carefully, Maekar shifted his hold. He dropped the wineskin and caught Daeron’s arm, draping it over his own shoulder. He steadied him more securely before gripping him by the waist.
“Stand properly,” Maekar muttered.
“I can walk myself,” Daeron insisted, though his voice lacked conviction. His stubbornness was as strong as Aerion’s for letting himself be helped.
“I only lost my footing because I stood too quickly,”
“No,” Maekar simply said, “You will lean on me and keep your feet beneath you. That is what you will do,”
“Father–”
“Daeron,” Maekar cut in, he would not have his son argue.
Daeron sighed in defeat. Together they began the slow walk back toward the castle, Daeron stumbling only slightly at Maekar’s side while he bore much of his weight. When they finally arrived at the chamber, Maekar helped his son to lie down upon the bed.
“You’ll have to stop wandering around without me knowing,” Maekar told him while he arranged the blanket, pulling it up to Daeron’s chest.
Daeron gave a tired hum of acknowledgment.
“And stop drinking yourself senseless every waking hour,” Maekar added sharply. “You are the eldest. Your siblings look to you, whether you realize it or not,”
That seemed to stir Daeron more than the earlier scolding. His brows knit together as he looked up at his father.
“I did not think they paid that much attention to me,” Daeron said.
Maekar folded his arms across his chest, “Aegon has imitated your habit of sneaking away whenever it pleases him,”
Daeron let out a quiet breath through his nose, showing an expression somewhere between guilt and amusement.
“Don’t worry about Aegon, Father. He is protected. Ser Duncan is with him,”
That made Maekar almost laugh. Daeron had stated before that the hedge knight kidnapped Aegon, and now he was suddenly glad the kidnapper was with his little brother.
“Ser Duncan is a young hedge knight who lacks skill,” Maekar said sharply.
“He defeated Aerion,” Daeron responded.
“If I had gotten to Aerion in time, that hedge knight would never have laid another hand upon your brother,”
Maekar looked away before continuing, “After the trial, I spared him only because Baelor fought for him,” His jaw tightened.
“He insisted that the knight was a good man,”
The words faded into silence after that. His heart bled at the thought of his brother. Maekar could still feel the weight of the mace in his hand.
“If he is indeed a good man, then perhaps he may teach Aegon what he lacks in learning at home,” Daeron muttered, his voice low and small as if he was afraid to say it loudly.
His gaze snapped at his son, "And what exactly does he lack at home?” Maekar asked.
Daeron hesitated, his hands clutched the blanket.
“Kindness,” At last he said.
“A certain… honor,”
“You think I cannot teach him that?” Maekar asked, quiet now, but harder than steel.
Daeron’s fingers whitened on the blanket, “No, that’s not– that’s not what I meant, Father,”
“It’s only that you… you rarely look at him. Or at me. Not unless we’ve done something worthy of your notice,”
“That is nonsense,” Maekar denied.
“You give all your attention to Aerion. You look at him differently,” Daeron continued, “You always have,”
“Aerion is no different from the rest of you,”
Daeron gave the smallest shake of his head, his shoulder drew inward.
“In your eyes, Aerion is perfect. He’s beautiful, he’s smart, and he’s so good in combat,”
“Somehow, he always finds a way to impress you, Father. The rest of us… I think sometimes we stopped trying quite so hard because we knew we would never match him in your eyes anyway,”
Maekar stared at his eldest son in silence. Daeron’s word had struck deeper than the boy had likely intended. He had always believed his love was equal, a steady flame meant to warm all his children without favoritism. However, in Daeron’s mind, Aerion stood alone in the light, the golden standard against which all others were measured and found wanting. Maekar had never intended such a gulf. Aerion’s gifts simply shone brighter. He had grown accustomed to watching him because Aerion always gave him something to watch.
Perhaps, without realizing it, he had expected the others to understand that they were loved all the same. But his other children were not mind readers, they did not know how much love he had for them, and they had been starving for the same pride Maekar so openly gave Aerion.
There was a dull ache behind his ribs as he realized Daeron might have carried the feeling of being neglected for far longer than his siblings and that even saying it aloud to his father made him shake and shudder.
He loved him as fiercely as he loved Aerion. Daeron was the very first who made him a father. He was the first to warm his heart with pride and joy.
“I love you all,” Maekar said as gently as he could, “Equal in my heart,”
Maekar sat at the edge of the bed, “Yes, there are times I have been disappointed in you,” he admitted.
“And I have been harsh. Too harsh to you, perhaps,”
Daeron stayed silent.
“But that was never because I loved you less,” Maekar went on. Perhaps, had pushed Daeron harder than he should have, expecting more of him because he was his heir.
“I need you to understand that my anger, my disappointment, none of it lessens what you are to me,”
Something in Daeron’s expression shifted. His eyes wet, glassy, and unfocused as though he did not quite know how to receive such words after going so long without hearing them spoken plainly.
“You are my firstborn, that place in my heart cannot be taken. Not by Aerion. Not by anyone,”
“Father…” Daeron’s voice trembled.
“Hush,” Maekar said, “Now, you shall rest. I know you’re tired,” he tapped Daeron’s shoulder.
“Maekar,”
The gentle voice drew both their attention towards the chamber door where the queen stood.
“Mother…” Maekar stood up at once.
“Grandmother,” Daeron tried to sit, but Maekar pushed him back to lie down.
“Stay on the bed,” He told him.
Maekar crossed the chamber toward Myriah. He intended to take her hand and kiss it in a formal greeting. But instead, his mother pulled him into a warm, enveloping hug. For a moment, Maekar went rigid, surprised by the sudden closeness, but then he slowly melted. The exhaustion, the worry, and the heavy grief that had weighed him down broke in his mother’s arm. A low, shuddering breath escaped him as he buried his face in Myriah's hair, his large hands clutching at the back of her gown like a child seeking comfort.
How long has she been standing here? Maekar wondered. How much did she hear?
He had spoken to Daeron with honesty that no one could replace him as his firstborn. And now the weight of those words pressed on him. His mother had lost her own firstborn.
Baelor.
Gone because of him.
A wave of shame crashed through him. The grip on Myriah’s gown tightened.
“Mother…” He whispered, though he did not know what he meant to say after that. The word sorry would never be enough for such a thing.
His mother’s hand stroked the back of his silver hair.
“I know,” She murmured gently.
Those two words nearly broke Maekar entirely. He wanted to weep in her arms, he wanted to apologize a thousand times, but it would not undo what he had done. It would not bring Baelor back to life.
Myriah pulled herself back and placed her hands on Maekar’s shoulder, “Your Father is waiting for you,”
Of course he is.
Maekar straightened, drawing in a slow, steadying breath. The weight that had momentarily lifted in his mother’s embrace settled back onto his shoulders, heavier than before. His king father deserved to know every detail of what had happened to Baelor. Maekar prepared himself for whatever punishment, whatever judgment, whatever resentment or rage his father might unleash. If his father wished to strike him, to disown him, to curse his name, Maekar would bear it.
He glanced back at Daeron, who was watching them both with wide eyes, then looked once more at his mother.
“Does he already know… most of it?” Maekar asked quietly.
Myriah gave a small nod. “Enough to grieve. Not enough to understand. Tell him everything, my son,”
Maekar nodded. With one final look at Daeron, he followed his mother to meet the King.