Chapter Text
Valarr exhales deeply as the familiar walls of Summerhall appear in view, and he feels the tension leaving his shoulders. They've been travelling from King's Landing for ten days now, and they were planning to rest for a day or two in Summerhall before heading to Ashford together with Maekar and his sons.
It's been around two years since Valarr saw his cousins last. It was his wedding, he recalls, but he had been so absorbed in being the groom and having all eyes on him that he barely interacted with them. Moving to Dragonstone shortly after didn't help either, the distance seeming almost insurmountable. In hindsight, he can't help but feel a twinge of guilt mixed with regret at allowing them to become so estranged, but there's nothing he can do about it now besides trying to reconnect with his cousins.
His father leads his horse so that they ride side by side. “What are you thinking about, tresy?”
“That leaving Dragonstone and coming here was a good idea,” he answers honestly. “I've missed my cousins.”
Baelor regards him carefully. “It is better not to get your hopes up. The picture painted by my brother suggests that while his daughters are quite agreeable, all his sons are troubled, each in their own way.”
“In that case I will need to find a way past their troubles,” he decides.
“And if you fail?” His father asks, his voice gentle and kind, even though his words are less so.
Valarr gazes back at Summerhall's walls. “Then at least I will be comforted by the knowledge that I have tried.”
All too soon - and in his mind not soon enough - they reach the castle and ride through the heavy iron gates that were already opened wide for their arrival. The inside yard is vast and they need to ride some more before reaching the castle proper.
Baelor dismounts first and is approached by his brother.
“Took you long enough,” Maekar says gruffly in lieu of a greeting. They clasp forearms in a way warriors tend to do, before Baelor pulls him into a one-arm hug, earning himself a huff and rolled eyes.
Valarr envies their bond, forged in their childhood and then hardened in multiple hardships and battles of the Blackfyre rebellion. His relationship with Matarys is warm and cordial enough, but his brother is still a child, not yet an equal. He hopes that in a few years they will be able to deepen their bond, and he shall keep that in mind as Matarys grows up.
He dismounts, then greets his uncle politely. He has never been particularly close with Maekar, the man's upbringing methods not sitting well with him, but they are family, and that is enough for him.
Then, his father and he are greeted by Maekar's children: Aerion with his trademark smirk, although it looks now more arrogant than playful, while in the past it was the exact opposite; Aegon, positively bouncing with excitement; and two daughters, Daella and Rhae, who are blushing brightly at the attention.
His shoulders sag once he realizes that Daeron isn't there to greet them.
“Is Daeron ill or indisposed, uncle? I have hoped to see him,” he inquires, trying not to show his disappointment too openly, but he has a suspicion that he didn't make a good job of it.
“Indisposed is a good word for it,” Maekar grumbles. “He better manage to show up for dinner, or else he's going to be riding to Ashford with his feet flogged.”
Valarr frowns, but doesn't comment; it is not his place, and besides, he doesn't know the full story. Still, he hopes that dinner comes soon enough and he can see his cousin. For now, he settles for talking with the girls, asking them if they plan to join their escort to Ashford.
“Unfortunately, father doesn't wish us to steal attention from Lady Gwin,” Daella explains, while Rhae nods with a solemn expression, which looks quite cute on her; a child trying to pass as an adult and seeming even younger for it.
“Indeed, a young lady deserves to shine on her nameday,” he agrees easily, then offers one arm to each girl and leads them inside, chatting idly.
***
At dinner, he finds himself seated beside his father and opposite Aerion, while the seat on the other side of him remains empty. They are starting the main course when the door to the dining chamber opens and Daeron joins them, looking ruffled and unkept, his tunic rumpled and stained with sweat smudges under the armpits.
“Finally you grace us with your presence, son, and not a moment too soon,” Maekar scoffs. “Not very welcoming behavior, I must say.”
Daeron looks around with unfocused eyes, and when he finally manages to spot Baelor and Valarr, his expression crumbles. “I– I didn't expect–”
Valarr doesn't care to hear apologies or excuses, he's just happy to see his cousin, so he stands up and crosses the space between them in a few quick strides. Daeron watches his approach with something akin to apprehension, as if he's uncertain of his welcome, so Valarr decides to make it quite clear.
He hugs his cousin, and he doesn't hold back. It's not a manly embrace with lots of back thumping, or a friendly side-hug similar to the one Baelor shared earlier with Maekar. No, this is a full-on hug with two bodies pressed against one another, as with that single gesture Valarr tries to tell Daeron how much he's missed him. He must be quite successful in his endeavour, since after the initial shock, Daeron relaxes and returns his embrace.
All too soon, Aerion's voice invades their little bubble: “That's quite excessive, don't you think, cousin? I don't recall being embraced as I have greeted you, much less with such enthusiasm.”
Valarr considers his choices: he could admit that Daeron is his favorite, most beloved cousin (which he is, but he honestly has a great amount of affection for each and every one of them), risking that Aerion will take offense, or… give Aerion what he asked for.
“Why, dear cousin, if you wish to be hugged, you only ever need to say it,” his eyes twinkle with amusement as he approaches Aerion from behind, then leans down to wrap his arms around him. It's less intimate than the embrace he shared earlier with Daeron, considering that the back of Aerion's chair separates their bodies, so he plants a quick peck on his cousin's cheek for good measure, causing him to splutter indignantly.
“Whoa– Stay away, you heathen, and keep your hands off me,” Aerion swats at his arms but it's half-hearted at best, a bright blush staining his cheeks. He does not appear offended, more like secretly pleased, although if asked he would probably vehemently deny it and threaten to cut off a tongue of the person who would even dare to suggest it.
Valarr laughs brightly, sits down back on his chair, then pats the empty chair beside him, while sending Daeron an encouraging look. “Please, cousin, I have missed you earlier, so you must grant me the pleasure of your company.”
Daeron sits down obediently and mutters under his breath: “I'm afraid that you'll be disappointed, then. I'm not much of a good company as of late.”
“Nonsense. I always treasure your presence,” he says honestly.
Before Daeron can say anything in response, Maekar interrupts their conversation, asking with that booming voice of his: “And how is your lady wife, nephew?”
Valarr straightens, knowing perfectly well what his uncle is doing. Once, Maekar caught them kissing. It was quite innocent, all things considered, Daeron and he were both young, curious, and trying to figure out why kissing was such a big deal in the first place, and yet Maekar turned a vicious shade of purple at the sight and forcefully dragged Daeron away. It seems that no matter how many years have passed, his uncle still can't accept their closeness.
“Kiera is… grieving still, as am I,” he answers honestly. “She has travelled from Dragonstone to King's Landing with me, but decided to stay at the Red Keep for the time being. Perhaps being surrounded by other ladies will cheer her up.”
“You seem cheerful enough to me,” Maekar sends another jab at him, and Valarr reddens. “Is that how you show grief?”
“Tread carefully, brother,” Baelor warns in a quiet but sharp tone that is his trademark, one that the court has long since learned to be wary of. However, while Valarr is grateful for his intervention, he is old enough to fight his own battles.
He looks Maekar in the eye. “I have lost two sons before I even had the chance to greet them in this world, uncle, so please do not lecture me on grief. The reason why I am so cheerful is because seeing my cousins gives me more joy than I can properly express. Would you truly begrudge me the chance to show them my friendship and my appreciation?”
His uncle seems taken aback by his response, and Valarr wonders why. Did Maekar really think that he would allow himself to be bullied? He is a grown man, young as he might be, and he doesn't back down when his feelings towards his family are put in question.
“Fine,” Maekar grumbles. “Carry on, I guess, gods know that my older sons don't inspire friendship even on their best days.”
“I truly don't know why that would be,” he says evenly. “They seem perfectly likable to me.”
To his surprise, it is Aegon who speaks up next. “Aerion killed my cat! He threw it in the well!”
The boy's accusation hangs in the air for a moment, and Valarr turns towards Aerion. “Did you really?”
He sees the hesitance in his cousin, the wish to paint himself in the best possible way, and hopes for the truth, instead.
Aerion looks away, as if unable to meet his gaze, then addresses Aegon: “It was supposed to be a prank, to make you look for it. I didn't think that the beast would actually drown. I am sorry.”
Aegon opens his mouth and closes it. “You owe me a new pet, brother,” he finally says with a wounded pout. “And you better stay far away from it!”
Aerion inclines his head, “Very well, I shall get you a pet and I promise I won't be going anywhere near it.”
That sounds like progress, Valarr thinks to himself, and wishes he could pat himself on the back for a job well done.
“How about we meet tomorrow morning in the yard and train together?” He suggests, instead.
“Are you that eager to have your ass kicked?” Aerion waggles his eyebrows and puffs up his chest arrogantly.
Valarr responds to the bragging with a good-natured chuckle. “If you manage to actually do it, I shall humbly accept the defeat. Don't think of me as an easy prey, though, cousin. After ten days of travel, I'm quite eager to flex my muscles and get back into shape.”
“Challenge accepted,” Aerion says with gleaming eyes and a smile that is all teeth, but Valarr doesn't sense any real viciousness in it, only the thrill of a person who enjoys competition and a chance to prove himself.
“What about you, Daeron, would you like to join us?” He asks, not wanting his favorite cousin to feel excluded from family activities. “Perhaps to cheer us on, if you do not wish to participate yourself.”
Daeron looks at his plate and plays with the food for a moment. “Forgive me, but I must decline, I am not much of a morning person as I usually stay up quite late. In fact, I must warn you not to have high expectations regarding my person, for I'm frequently told what a disappointment I am.”
Valarr frowns and suppresses the urge to glare at his uncle, whom he blames for Daeron's apparent low self-esteem. He keeps his eyes on his cousin, instead, trying to convince him of his sincerity.
“Then maybe the expectations have not been tailored to your circumstances as they should have been,” he says firmly. “If you are not a morning person, then perhaps we could spend evenings together?”
Daeron regards him with something akin to wonder, although his eyes are still glassy. “I would like that very much.”
It is Valarr's time to blush. He tries to hide it behind his cup, though he's quite sure that he fooled no one. He also has the sudden urge to envelop Daeron in a tight hug, but he refrains from acting on it, not wanting to test Maekar's patience even more than he already has.