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1) Daeron
The boy had not been sleeping as of late. He didn’t say as much, but it was written on his face and in the way he dragged his feet. Heavy, dark circles hung beneath his eyes and his skin was ashen and pale. He struggled to keep his eyes open and he stumbled half-awake through his daily tasks. It was disappointing. He couldn’t concentrate nor learn in such a sorry state and yet he turned his nose up at help from his father. As he had always done. Maekar had sent Maester Melaquin to speak with him instead in hopes that it would have some kind of positive effect. The maester's training would permit him to understand what plagued the boy better and his advice might get through to him, though there was little hope of Daeron listening.
Yet, as Summerhall’s heir, however begrudging, his responsibilities did not disappear due to a lack of sleep. He did not seem to realise as much as he leaned heavily on his hand and regarded their vassal lords through a half-lidded gaze. Minor lords and smallfolk alike had come to their halls, as they were so fond of doing, to air their grievances and seek intervention. Even for the most diligent of liege lords, holding an audience could be a tedious endeavour. The boy acted as his shadow, seated on his right and listening to the complaints of the supplicants and the consequent resolutions. At times, his counsel was sought, though seldom heeded. He was not a necessary addition to the court, though there would come a time where he would be.
In his current state, however, it would be wiser to trust the counsel of a goat. Each time Daeron blinked, slow like his eyelids were made of stone, Maekar felt a stab of irritation. He wore his boredom on his face, and the words of their vassals were dust.
Maekar leaned over the arm of his chair towards him. They were seated next to one another at the high table, raised above the rest of the rabble. “Do you think this behaviour is becoming of a prince?” He asked, lowering his voice so his words would not carry.
“Hm? I didn't say a word.” Even the manner in which the boy turned his head was sluggish. His unfocused gaze found a target, and for the first time since they entered the room he started to pay attention.
“Not as if you have to, what with that look on your face,” Maekar’s lip curled with palpable disgust. “Men did not come here to watch a boy doze because he could not deign to listen.”
“I was listening,” He sounded every bit like his brother, who swore he was doing as he was told with so much conviction it was almost believable.
Maekar's head jerked, and he fixed him with a stern glare, “Do not try to bullshit me. You are dismissed. Go wait in the solar. We will discuss this properly once I am done here.”
Daeron sat there, staring him down, and for a moment Maekar thought that he might protest. Yet, in the next second he stood up. Clearly confrontation would cost too much of the meagre energy he had left. His chair scraped across stone flooring, and a hush settled across the hall as the boy left. It remained even after the door clattered closed behind him, and lasted until Maekar indicated to his steward to send the next speaker forward.
He had sent Daeron away for the better. The complaints which followed in his absence were trivial at best. A dozen aurochs had gone missing and the farmer had want of men to find them and bring them back. Were there no men to be found in his own village? A boy had been caught thieving and was awaiting punishment. It would be cruel to cut the hand off one so young, but a night in the cells would put fear in his heart. A body was found and no one had yet claimed it. As if that was his problem, what were the septons and silent sisters for?
His patience worn thin, Maekar dismissed the court soon after. As the crowd dispersed, he rose from his seat and made for the solar. A pain grated against his skull like he had been struck over the head, and the chatter of the smallfolk still rattled in his ear. Useless rabble, he thought, and he still had to check on his own.
Useless was not a strong enough word. He didn’t have any expectations of Daeron becoming the image of royal duty in the time he had been alone, no better than he had in the last fifteen years, but when he opened the door he hadn’t expected to find the boy snoring. He was folded over the table in two, his face buried in the dark sleeve of his doublet. The firm surface of the table couldn’t be more comfortable than his feather bed, and yet he couldn’t sleep in the latter. Still, he could not leave the boy like that.
The solar was a floor beneath his own chambers. Maekar closed the door over to dampen the sound of his footsteps before taking the stairs. Fire logs were already stacked in the hearth, though it would be some time before he retired. In the top of an ornate wooden wardrobe, spare blankets were stored in bundles awaiting the next winter. He chose the nearest one, tucking it away beneath his arm to be brought down the stairs.
Daeron hadn’t moved in the time he had been gone. His exhaustion had caught up with him at last. No sleeping draughts necessary. A relief. Maekar approached, draping the blanket over the boy’s shoulders. He moved in his sleep, grumbled unintelligibly under his breath before pulling the warmth closer around him. In the evening light and the peace of sleep, he looked younger than he was. Like the boy he was. Maekar’s first.
What plagued Daeron was an ephemeral, intangible thing. It wasn’t like the problems that they heard of endlessly in court— Not an enemy to be cut down in a field, a knife in the back, or a dozen missing aurochs. There was little for Maekar to do for him. He was forced to rely upon Maester Melaquin, who brought him only a summary of his son’s struggles, and an uncertainty as to how to treat him. Would that he could grant Daeron a restful sleep with ease, it would be done.
He pulled out a chair, sitting down to start his vigil against faceless monsters in the dark.
2) Aerion
Aerion took after him.
Maekar had heard it since the boy was a babe. He was filled with pride every time, even as he grew older. It was overdue. Daeron closely resembled his mother, and carried her favour aswell. Aerion was his. Not only in his colouring, but Dyanna had said that they pulled the same faces. Not that Maekar agreed. However, Aerion was a better sword than his brother, rode better at quintains, and his fierceness was unmatched. A worthy heir, save for the matter of birth order.
Another trait that they shared, and one which Maekar chose to believe he was responsible for, was his taste in clothing.
Ever since he was young, Aerion had found his way into his closet. For a time, he was content just to play dress-up. He would assume the role of ‘father’ and act in his image, bossing around his siblings and furrowing his brows into the greatest scowl he could muster. Or he would, until he discovered much more interesting warriors in his history books. He became Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel. And then after the Blackfyre Rebellion, the Hammer and the Anvil started to appear frequently in their children’s games in the training yard.
Though, Aerion was not so content to follow in another’s footsteps forever, even his father’s. He forged his own path and carved out his identity in a far more extravagant way than his siblings. ‘Brightflame’ was an understatement. He had a different dress for every occasion. Maekar was partially to blame, as he was the one to fund such expenses. The tailor they kept in Summerhall was one of the best he could find in the realm, a Tyroshi man whose work was flawless and finished quick enough for the prince’s liking. He complied with every request asked of him, and his connection to the Free Cities ensured that only the finest materials were used in his work; silks that were light as air, the richest velvets and exquisitely dyed fabrics that rarely faded in the sun.
However, there was a reason why the follies of children were seldom listened to. Provide one thing, and the next was even harder to achieve. Maekar learned that on the Street of Steel a month before they were to set out for some tourney further south.
“I need new armour,” Aerion announced, gazing at all of the blacksmiths at work as they passed. They rode side by side on two palfreys, black as night and sure-footed, and the street swarmed with people. Maekar had not missed King's Landing. The whole city stunk. It heaved with bodies like a living beast and the air was muggy and thick. Suffocating. The children were not quite so disillusioned. It was livelier than Summerhall, and that was enough to charm them. There was no lack of inns and winesinks for Daeron to bury himself in. Aerion sat up in his stirrups, craning his neck to get a better look at the armour displays. The smiths worked in the open, and the place rang with the clang of hammers. Maekar wished to be free of it at once. At least the Red Keep was quiet, and set far enough back from the city that the smell was not so pervasive.
“You have armour,” He answered flatly. Which, Aerion did. He had too many sets of armour for one who was not a knight and seldom had reason to use them. Armour for tourneys, for his nameday, for practice, for this and that and the other. He had no lack of choice for a place as irrelevant as Ashford Field.
“I cannot wear just anything to the tourney. Valarr will be coming, and he has that new helm with the dragons adorning the top,” The prince looked towards him, and the implication was clear in his expression. Though he may not be permitted to ride against him, he wouldn’t be overshadowed by his cousin. It was a fine helm, too, topped with the three dragons of their household sigil and red lacquer.
Aerion’s argument wasn’t much in terms of worthy reasoning. If he bought a new suit of armour for every back-field tourney, there wouldn’t be a dragon left in his pocket. It appeared that was the cost of fatherhood. “Prince Valarr gets a new helm so you must too? I’d expect such childish notions from Aegon, not you,” Maekar gave him a sideways glance, wrinkling his nose.
“Aegon is barely a squire. I’m representing our household as much as the Targaryen name, I can’t partake looking like some hedge knight,” Aerion said, sitting up a hair straighter. Pride rolled off of him in waves, and there was the slightest hint of a smile on his lips like he was laughing at a personal joke.
“Hedge knight?” Maekar scoffed, incredulous. His oldest set of armour didn’t even have a scratch on it, and if such a knight could get their hands on it they would feast for their entire lifetime. Luckily, the boy was not so easily unhorsed. “I’ll send you out without any armour and you can see what it feels like to be a hedge knight.”
Aerion shifted in his saddle, ignoring the comment with a whip of his head. His eyes were never far from the smiths, trying to spy those with the best wares. Like a sword was a present to be dangled before a child. “I’d like a set like yours, father,” He hummed, sweet as anything, “With the spikes on the pauldrons and the helm resembling a dragon.”
Like his. Maekar suppressed a smile. He was meant to be teaching the boy some humility, not encouraging his behaviour. Yet, he could not deny that it pleased him that Aerion at least took some pride in being in his image. If only Daeron was more like him. “The armourer at the end of the street made mine. I am sure he made Prince Valarr’s too, as he will make yours.”
Aerion beamed. He didn’t need to be told twice, driving his heels into his mount and spurring it into a trot towards the end of the street.
3) Aemon
They were taking his son away from him. Ripping him from his home without mercy. Maekar couldn’t believe it. Aemon was barely ten, and yet King Daeron thought it pertinent to send him to the Citadel and become a maester. A maester! He was bookish, more so than his brothers no doubt, but Aerys had never been sent to Old Town and he loved books more than his own wife. It was ridiculous. Nobody else received such treatment, it was only ever him. They would never send Valarr away from Baelor, or even Matarys.
Some small fortune was the fact that the order didn’t come by raven. Maekar had been summoned to King's Landing under the guise of a feast. It was one of those standard celebrations that were thrown for any and all reasons in the capital. While Maekar loathed the week of travel, his family lay on the other side of it. They were a welcome sight after seeing nobody but his own household and the faces of several innkeeps and lesser lords. And for a time he could enjoy their company, as he was told the morning after the celebrations.
Some time after dawn, he was summoned to his father’s solar by his steward. The King’s Solar was designed for smaller audiences, and more private than the small council chamber. No doubt they each knew of the decision. Maekar adjusted his doublet before he knocked, wiping away non-existent dust that had accrued from the walk. The response came immediately, a prompt ‘enter’ uttered from the other side of the door.
The solar was spacious, with a long trestle table standing in front of three open windows leading out onto the balcony. In the early morning it was comfortable and warm, and the silks framing the windows floated in an imperceptible breeze. Daeron’s tomes and scrolls were neatly organised, stacked carefully at one end of the table. The king had a book opened before him, though he looked up at the sound of the door opening and graced him with a smile.
“My son,” Daeron greeted, gesturing towards the seat before him.
Maekar crossed the room slowly. As the youngest of four sons, he had never been granted much special attention from his father. It was divided unevenly, spent on those more deserving, more necessary, and in the end he was the only one to turn away from the court. Unmissed, no doubt. Yet it made these moments disconcerting; to sit before his father and not know what to expect. He traced the pattern on the wood grain, and his hand lingered for just a moment before he sat. “Father,” He replied, “You sent for me?”
Daeron closed the book over, marking the page he was on with a sheet of paper. His posture shifted, a certain rigidness coming to his rounded shoulders. The air changed, and all the warmth of spring was nowhere to be found. Maekar sank lower in his seat.
“It’s a matter of one of your sons,” He started, and Maekar’s first thought was of Daeron, his father’s namesake. He was aware of what was said about him. An unfortunate heir, but heir nonetheless. There was nothing to be done about him. The king continued, “I know it is not as you would have it, but it is my belief that Aemon would best spend his time in the Citadel, training to be a maester. He is a highly intelligent boy—”
“The Citadel?” Maekar couldn’t keep the disbelief out of his voice, his manners forgotten. “He is content where he is.”
Daeron looked at him, and the edges of his expression were strained, “He cannot remain in Summerhall forever. He is wasted there, and he is not like his brothers. You will send him to Old Town when you return. It is the best thing for him.”
Those words hit like the blow from a battle axe. The best thing for his son was to be away from him? His family was to be torn apart, and he could do nothing to stop it? Maekar knew that he didn't have a choice. There was never a choice. He would return to Summerhall and send his son away like he didn’t mean anything. And the Citadel being so far, tucked away at the realm’s southwestern edge, when was the next time that he would see him again after he was gone? Even when his links were forged, where would he end up? There was a chance he could be sent to bloody Bear Island, and he would be forgotten there amongst the trees. He couldn’t stand for it.
“This is a disgrace,” Maekar hissed. The chair scraped behind him as he pushed himself to his feet. There were endless things he wanted to say, but the words were caught behind gritted teeth. However, the realm was an unfortunate place. The anger of a father did not go against the word of a king. He couldn’t go against Daeron's word, no matter how much he might disagree with it. Instead, he was forced to swallow his vitriol, and it burned his throat and bunched his fingers into fists. And his father sat there, unwavering. He left without another word.
The rest of his visit to King's Landing was tainted in the aftermath of his meeting with the king. He sent a raven to Summerhall ahead of his departure to inform Maester Melaquin of the situation involving Aemon. Perhaps he could prepare the boy in some way before he got the news. It would lighten the blow, and he wouldn’t feel as blindsided as Maekar felt.
Tired of scowling at his brothers, he used his last day in the capital to search Grand Maester Malleon’s chambers for a book to bring home with him. Aemon spent his days with his nose buried in the pages of books, though Maekar wasn’t quite sure of what he liked. The Grand Maester’s tomes were dusty and old, and just looking through them made Maekar’s nose itch. There wasn’t much that was suitable for a ten year old’s tastes, there were historical works, or books on the mystics, and ones on the lineage of great houses and sigils. Malleon was able to produce book after book, each more obscure than the last. There were too many to choose from, and so Maekar decided to trust Malleon’s judgment.
The book was carefully wrapped and set in the bottom of his trunk to be brought back with him to Summerhall. Perhaps it would occupy some of Aemon’s time during his journey to the Citadel, and when he opened it he would be reminded of home.
4) Aegon
“Father please-”
“No. I have told you no a hundred times, Aegon, and I will not say it again.”
One of the cats that lingered around the stables had given birth to kittens and since that day Aegon had not stopped pestering him to take one as a pet. He insisted that it needed somewhere warm to sleep, that it had purred sweetly when he had pet it and tried to slip in through the castle door after him. It could sleep in the straw and purr at the stable boys for all he cared, but he wasn’t going to entertain the notion of an oversized rodent roaming the castle halls.
Yet, Aegon didn’t share such sentiments. When Maekar turned around, he was still standing there, arms ram-rod straight by his side. He was a stubborn boy, too stubborn for his own good, and his opinion was not easily swayed.
“I will take care of it myself, I swear it. You won’t even notice it’s there. Please, father.”
His eyes were big and round and imploring, as if it was the only thing he wanted in the entire realm. Maekar knew that wasn’t the case. Aegon made that face when he had asked to be a squire, and when he wanted to take part in a hunt, and even when he wanted something in particular for supper. He had never been denied any of it.
Maekar groaned and cursed the old gods and the new for giving him such a hardheaded son. They had been discussing this for too long already, and there were still other matters he must attend to. Aegon was eating into time he didn’t have to spare. One side had to give. “You will be solely responsible for it,” He declared, fixing the boy with a stern glare. “You will feed it every day and clean up after it yourself, and I will hear no whining if you tire of it.”
Aegon lit up at once. The smile that spread across his face was so bright that Maekar wondered why he had tried to deny him at all. “Thank you! I promise that you won’t regret it.” He knew it was true. Aegon was better behaved than his elder brothers, one of which was allergic to responsibility and the other who had no love for creatures big or small. With that, the boy hurried out of the room in search of his new pet.
The cat followed him everywhere. It chased after his heels when he ran across the yard, and curled around his ankles during feasts, and most infuriatingly of all it slept at the foot of his bed no matter how often Maekar forbade it. They were inseparable, and as Aegon had promised he took full responsibility for it. He never complained about the work. Not only that, but his sisters fawned over it as well. They had a collar made for it by their next sewing class, a sash of dark purple silk embroidered with red stars, and made a plush bed for it which it never used. The kitten had wormed its way well and truly into the family, and he had caught even the servants greeting it as it passed.
So when one afternoon Aegon flung open the door to his chambers all a blunder, Maekar knew at once that the cat was the source of the matter. The boy was panting, his round face red with exertion and his purple eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Aerion threw my cat down the well!” Burst out forth from his lips, and for a second Maekar was caught unawares.
“Excuse me?”
“My cat! Aerion flung it into the well!”
Maekar blinked, bewildered. It didn’t sound at all like Aerion. It was like brothers to fight, he knew that well enough himself being born the youngest of four, but a cat had no place in a dispute between brothers. “Calm yourself, Aegon. I will not have you besmirching your brother’s name with lies just because he has upset you.”
“It’s the truth!” Aegon cried, his voice shrill with emotion. “He hated the cat! Hated it! It would hiss at him and run from him whenever he came near. He said it needed to be punished because it tore up his boots. He has plenty of boots! It shouldn’t matter!”
The boy was working himself up more and more with every word, and his breathing came in quick, shallow bursts as he tried in vain to calm himself down. Maybe the cat really did sit at the bottom of the well in the yard. It was near where the boys trained during the day, and where Aegon went the kitten was close at hand.
“Take a breath, boy. You are getting too old to cry over a pet.”
Despite the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him, Aegon listened. He took a shuddering breath, so deep his chest shook with the effort, and closed his eyes until the tears subsided. When he opened them again, he was calmer. There was still a wobble in his chin, but he held himself a little straighter and was more visibly composed.
Maekar drew closer to him. “I told you before that the cat would be your sole responsibility, did I not?”
“You did, father,” Aegon didn’t meet his gaze, staring instead at the patterns in the stones beneath their feet. On another day it would have frustrated him, but Maekar said nothing on the matter. It was not worth it to upset him further.
“And you allowed it to tatter Aerion’s things and expected for there to be no consequences?”
The boy shuffled his feet. His bottom lip jutted out, and he mumbled in a small voice a simple, “I’m sorry father.”
Maekar sighed. I am too lenient on them, he thought, as he placed a hand on one of Aegon’s narrow shoulders. How could he not be? They were his life. He gave a gentle squeeze. “You are a good boy, Aegon. You could not have known how Aerion would react.”
Aegon’s pale eyebrows pinched, and he looked up to meet his eye, “Will you speak to him? He always does this. It’s not fair.”
No. He knew the answer before he replied, but it was not one that Aegon would be happy with. “I will not deign to resolve a dispute between brothers when there are other matters to attend. Resolve this with him yourself. You are both old enough.”
“But-”
Maekar’s patience was threadbare, and he lifted his hand to quiet him. “I will hear no more of this, Aegon. Go.”
The boy gave a stiff, curt nod, turned on his heel and left. As his footsteps receded, Maekar glanced out the window and into the yard. The master-at-arms still remained, though Aerion and Aegon had both abandoned their training. Daeron was leaning against a stout stone well, next to a stable boy who was hauling up a bucket. Maekar turned away before he could see the contents.
5) Daella & Rhae
Daella was the first girl amongst a litter of boys. When Maekar saw her first, bundled in Dyanna's arms, it was hard to believe that a child could be so small. She was a pale face amongst soft blankets, with sparse hairs on her crown almost as dark as her mother's.
He didn't know what to do with a girl, but Dyanna did. She didn't love them more than she did the boys, but the girls were always hers. When Daella cried endlessly as a babe, she only quietened when placed in her mother's arms.
Rhae resembled her mother little, and knew her not at all.
In the aftermath of Dyanna's death, the girl's care passed into the hands of septas and wet nurses, and those who had more of an interest in their upbringing than Maekar did. He couldn't bring himself to. They reminded him too much of her.
Daella's hair fell in curls across her shoulders just like hers did.
Rhae's laughter was light and twinkling in just the same way.
Their voices, harmonising as one during hymns in the sept, almost sounded like hers.
It was too much to bear. They were content in the company of their septas, and revelled in seeing their cousins in the capital.
They should know better, then, than to burst into his chambers past evenfall. It was long past the time they should have been asleep, and they were dressed in their night gowns.
Maekar looked up from his ledger, squinting at the pair that stood like ghosts in the doorway.
"Father," Rhae started sweetly, stepping forward infront of her sister. A doll was cradled beneath her arm, and it wore a dress similar to her own.
He could tell already that they wanted something. Daella's eyes were wide and she fluttered her eyelashes to make them seem even bigger. Rhae's bottom lip was jutted out, and her eyebrows were pulled up in a theatrical frown.
"What are you two here for?" Maekar grunted, trying to discern what it was that they didn't already have. He was overtly aware of the sheets spread out before him, waiting to be checked. Summerhall's expenses did not cease because of two little girls.
Daella stepped up next. Had they planned this in advance? "We know you're very busy," She said, as courteous as her septas had taught her to be. They had most certainly been practicing this in the hall. "But would you read us a story before we go to bed?"
"Daeron doesn't want to," Rhae piped up, already answering his unspoken question as to why it must be him.
He chewed on it for a moment. Perhaps Daeron was too deep in his cups to care for his sisters. Another failure that wasn't to be overlooked, but he was not the one sulking and asking for a story.
"Ask Aerion," Maekar suggested, flipping a page in a vain attempt to continue to work.
He could practically hear the girls exchanging glances between them. There was a beat of silence, followed by them shaking their little heads so profusely they risked falling off of their necks.
"Aerion's stories are too scary!" Rhae cried.
"He always says dragons will eat us when we sleep!"
"Aemon's stories were the best, but you sent him away."
Maekar's eyebrows twitched. For a second, he thought about sending the pair of them away for their insolence. It was not his doing. If his wishes had been listened to at all, the girls would still have their stories, and Aemon's room would not sit as barren as it did. He curled his lip, closing the book before him. "What about Aegon?"
They weren't happy with that suggestion either. When he looked up, he saw only frowns.
"Egg only talks about knights, it's so boring," Daella complained.
"And they always end the same too," Rhae added, and they nodded at one another in mutual agreement. He was their last port of call it seemed, as they had otherwise exhausted all of the stories that Summerhall had to offer.
Once, Dyanna sang all of the children to sleep. Rhae would have no experience of it, and Daella likely did not remember it at all, but Maekar could still hear the softness of her voice. She made each nursery rhyme sound like a gift from the Seven. She would tell them tales, as well. Stories of Aegon the Conqueror and great warriors and ladies of House Dayne. When they tired of that, she would move on to stories about her own childhood, the wonders of Starfall, and all that Dorne had to offer.
Daella used to beg to see beyond the red mountains, so all the wonderful stories her mother told would come true. He had heard little of such requests as of late. He heard little from the two at all.
"I have no stories to tell you."
"The boys say you tell them all about the Blackfyre Rebellion," Daella protested, to which Rhae nodded enthusiastically.
"Yeah, the Hammer and the Anvil!"
Maekar frowned, "Those are not stories for the ears of little girls."
Disheartened though they were, the girls were nothing if not stubborn. They caught one another's eye, and an invisible conversation passed between them. They regrouped as one might on a battlefield, needing but a nod of the head to incite action.
It was almost impressive how, as one, they began to cry. The tears flowed on command, welling up in each of their eyes with well-practiced ease.
"Please, father," It was hard to tell whose voice it was, distorted by the sadness of a spoilt little girl.
"We won't be able to sleep at all," A second voice argued, higher-pitched and pleading. Rhae, most like.
They continued like that, begging until he couldn't bear it any longer. "That's enough!" Maekar snapped, rising to his feet. The tears ceased as soon as he stood, and there was no sign of their little act aside from the redness still in their cheeks. A pair of mummers dressed in nightgowns. "I will read you one story. One. And you two will never waste my time with this nonsense again, do I make myself clear?"
"Thank you!"
"You're the best!"
They all but skipped out of the room, chattering between themselves in excited tones. Maekar was begrudging to follow, though he made his way down the hall after them. They were camped out in Daella's chambers, and by the time Maekar reached the room they were already huddled beneath the covers of the feather bed.
He picked a book from one of the shelves, selecting whichever his fingers caught on first.
"We've heard that one before," Rhae complained, kicking her feet beneath the blanket.
"I don't care," Maekar replied, moving towards the bed.
"Sit in the middle. That's what Daeron does," Daella nodded towards the space between them, a spot left clear just for him. Maekar ignored it, sitting at the edge of the mattress and opening the book to the first page.
"Once upon a time-"
It was a dull story, with a boring, predictable ending and some moral the girls were meant to learn from. When he finished, and let the book close, he looked up to see their sleeping faces. They looked as peaceful as they had when they were babes, still swaddled in blankets and innocent to the world. In the blink of an eye, they had grown up. The dolls at their sides wouldn't remain there for much longer. He got up slowly, careful not to let the bed creak as his weight shifted off of it.
He couldn't say what compelled him to draw the blankets up around their shoulders, or to smooth a hand over the top of their heads, but he was glad he had.
+1) Maekar
Father's nameday was approaching. An otherwise unremarkable occasion, save for the sour humour he'd be in if it wasn't accompanied by some gift or another. The girls had piled into his room first, babbling about how Maekar had been so good to them and they had to make him happy. They had taken over his bed, barely noticing the stains, and snuggled against his side while expecting him to have all the answers. Aegon had joined next. He always stuck his head in in the evening to see how he was doing, and seeing his sisters he had let himself in without needing to be told twice.
"What are we talking about?" He asked. Egg was small enough to fit on the sliver of mattress still left, so the four of them lay in a row and Daeron's arms barely fit around all of them.
"The girls want us to get something nice for father for his name day," Daeron explained, and he was unable to keep the disinterest fully out of his voice. "An impossible task. He has everything he could possibly wish for."
"I'm sure he wants something. Everybody does."
"Oh, sure. Not that any of us would know."
The door opened, and for a moment Daeron wondered if it was the man himself coming to deliver them an answer. It was only his shadow, loathe to be omitted from anything.
"What's going on in here?" Aerion cast an eye over each of them, already stepping further into the room.
"Why are you here?" Egg's lip curled, and Aerion's gaze narrowed to a glare.
"I heard voices from the hallway. Am I not allowed to spend time with my own family?" His voice was light, and he hopped up onto the bed and settled with his back against the baseboard. He made faces at the wine that was long sunk into the blanket, and he refused to let his hands touch it.
"We're discussing what to get father," Daeron answered for what would hopefully be the last time. He had to draw up his legs to give Aerion room, and all the space he offered was taken immediately. Spoilt brat.
"A new morningstar?" Aerion threw out.
"How many morningstars does he need? He has one already."
"One for each of us," Aerion's smile was sharp, though he gave half a shrug when no one else seemed to find it as funny as he did.
"What does father like?" Daella wondered out loud. They all fell into a ponderous silence, each sifting through all they knew about him to try and find an answer.
Eventually, Rhae spoke up, her voice wary and uncertain, "Being angry..?"
Aerion kicked his foot, "Something not even you could fuck up, Daeron. Perhaps we could make you his jester for the day and see just how angry you can make him."
Daeron replied with a sardonic smile. There was no sense in answering seriously. They would end up bickering until dawn, and end up no closer to an answer than when they started. Besides, it was the truth. No one seemed to get on Maekar's nerves as much as he did. He would make himself scarce on the day. A tavern far beyond Summerhall's walls was calling his name.
"Is he having a feast?" Rhae hummed, no doubt thinking of the lords and ladies that would pass through the castle if that was the case. She got to wear her best dresses during feasts, and at times there were other children her own age.
"No," Daeron shook his head, "He's not fond of most of his vassal lords." Considering they weren't going to King's Landing, Maekar would likely spend the day in his solar.
"We could get him a ring?" Egg suggested.
"The jewellers nearby aren't to his standards. We'd have to go to King's Landing, and we'd miss the big day entirely. Shame."
"Use one of mother's," Aerion shrugged, saying it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Daeron couldn't tell if he was joking at first, but his expression didn't change. When he realised he was being serious, only then did he start to consider it.
"It wouldn't fit," Daella scoffed like it was the stupidest thing she had ever heard.
She was only half right. "I can bring it to be resized," Daeron mumbled, still thinking about the logistics of it. One of them would have to get the ring, and make sure it was a good one. One he'd like. Egg and the girls were too young. They'd leave something out of place and get them caught. He met Aerion's gaze, "I'll be joining father for an audience in two days. You can grab one then and bring it to me afterwards. I can take it to a jewellers in town."
"How do I know you're not going to sell it and drink it?" He shot back, tilting his head to one side like it was the most innocent question in the world.
"You don't."
—
He didn't.
The ring sat heavy in his pocket as he flipped the blunted sword in his grip. "You should let me win," Daeron muttered, keeping his voice low, "It would make father happy."
Aerion looked at him as if he had grown three heads and started breathing fire. "No," He answered flatly, crossing his arms across his chest. He looked petulant as a child. "You don't deserve it, and father will know that you didn't earn it. Besides, the dragon ought never lose."
"We're both dragons, idiot."
Aerion didn't spare him in the end. Even blunted, the spikes on his morning star hit hard, and as they sat at the table for dinner Daeron's ribs ached with every movement. It was just the six of them, all seated around the table in Maekar's solar. Daella and Rhae were wearing new gowns, Egg was minding his tongue, Aerion could do no wrong, and Daeron had bothered to do the top button of his doublet. They were all on their best behaviour.
Just when he was wondering when he should give out the gift, Egg started up, sparing him the effort, "Father," He said, though his eyes slid towards Daeron. A not-so-subtle hint that he didn't need. "We got you a gift. For your nameday."
Smooth. Daeron reached into his pocket, setting the ring box on the table and sliding it towards Maekar.
"What is this?" He scoffed, picking up the box and opening it.
It was hard to discern from his expression, but he didn't look happy. His eyebrows furrowed, and his lips pulled into what could only be described as a grimace. He had to have the ring changed some. It was resized to fit a man's hand, with extra width added to the band to give it a more masculine appearance. To make it into something he could wear often.
"It was my idea," Aerion boasted to the silent room. Daeron nearly cringed.
The sound of Maekar's seat scraping against the floor was almost as grating. He closed the box, turning away and leaving the room without another word.
"Did he like it?" Rhae asked, looking disappointed.
"No idea," Daeron shrugged, reaching across the table for the flagon of wine.