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“Be careful!” Myriah called out, laughing.
“I’m being careful!” Baelor insisted, clutching his brother close. The bundle in his arms mewled unhappily, but settled once Baelor pressed kisses to his splotchy apple cheeks. All morning, her son had marched about, showing his newest brother their home.
First was the fragrant kitchens, then the litter of puppies in the kennels, then the sweet old mare in the stables, who mouthed at Maekar’s swaddle with velvety lips. Last was the godswood, where Baelor introduced his brother to every flower and spring strawberry.
Maekar was three moons old, a red-faced beet of a prince with only the thinnest wisps of silver hair clinging to his pale head. “He looks like an old man,” Aerys had observed. He was only four, but gifted with all the solemnity of a maester. Rhaegel had burbled in agreement, flopping about in her lap like a fish.
“He’s perfect,” Baelor beamed. “Look at him!”
“I see him, my love,” Myriah promised, hopelessly fond. All of her children were perfect—ten fingers and ten toes. Bright, curious eyes and laughing, screaming mouths. Maekar was no different, holding tight to the honeysuckle blossoms his brother tucked into his chubby little fist.
Though Maekar wailed with the wetnurse, he cooed contentedly in Baelor’s arms. Baelor would have carried him around all day like a doll, she had no doubt, but babes wanted for the breast and a nap. Myriah reached out to take the bundle, but Baelor darted away.
“Can’t I have him for a while longer?” he begged. “I’ll be good, I promise. He likes me, see?” When he waggled his fingers in his brother’s face, Maekar let out a giggle. “Did you hear that?” Baelor gasped. “He laughed!”
“I heard.” Myriah tried to be stern, but her voice was brimming with affection. “You may have him for another hour, but only because he loves you best.”
Baelor grinned with pride and bounded deeper into the godswood. She followed him past groves of ash and alder, beds of soft green moss, and murmuring creeks to the great oak at its center. The heart tree’s trunk was wreathed in smokeberry vines, dark and ripe with the season.
“These are berries,” Baelor told his brother, very seriously. “Some are sweet and some are sour, but you never know till you try them. We’ll eat berries together when you’re older.” For now, Maekar was glad just to gum on his brother’s fingertip.
Baelor found them a seat atop an ironwood stump, his legs dangling. For a long while, he gazed down at his brother, carefully stroking his cornsilk hair. “He looks like father,” he said at last.
Myriah’s heart gave a pang, but she made herself smile. “He does.”
“What about his eyes?” Baelor frowned. “Will they be blue forever? Or will they turn brown like ours?”
“We cannot know, my love, not until he’s a year old. They could be brown, like yours and mine and Aerys, or purple, like Father and Rhaegel.”
Baelor’s brows furrowed. He thought on it for a moment, then he asked, “When Maekar’s bigger, can we train in the yard together?”
That made her laugh. “Of course, but you must be careful. He’ll be much littler than you.”
Baelor puffed out his chest. “I’ll protect him. I’m the oldest.”
Her heart gave another pang. “And he will protect you. Brothers must always protect each other.”
“We will,” Baelor vowed, with all the sincerity of a child. “We’ll ride horses and swim in the Blackwater and play in the godswood together. We’ll fight with swords and say sorry if we hurt each other.” He looked back down at Maekar, his eyes full of wonder. “You’ll be brothers with me, won’t you?”
Maekar let out a howl of agreement, waving his pudgy fist.
“Be careful,” implored the princess. Queen, Myriah reminded herself. Gods. Even years after the crown had passed to her, it felt absurd. She went to bed with the ghost of it squeezing her temples, but with all the realm looking on, she was helpless.
“It is only a tourney, Mother,” Baelor soothed with a smile. “With but one foe left.”
He had prevailed in a dozen matches already, but every time the lances struck, her heart leapt into her throat. Aegor Rivers had been the first, then his cousin, Otho Bracken, both of them huge atop their warhorses. Next was Gormon Peake, the young Lord of Starpike; Ser Gawen Swann, heir of Stonehelm; Princess Elaena’s son, Ser Jon Waters; and more.
The fire was in Baelor’s eyes now, a fierceness that frightened her worse than any show of nerves. Boys, she thought in dismay. Boys always imagined themselves invincible. At seven-and-ten, Baelor was no different, sitting proud in his shining scarlet plate. The mother in her could think only of the bruises beneath.
At the far end of the yard, Daemon had already mounted his courser—a fearsome black stallion barded all in bloody crimson. It pawed at the ground, carving gouges in the mud. The field had been all green grass that the morn, since churned to muck by the hooves of horses and the bodies of the vanquished.
Only Daemon and Baelor had yet to fall. There was not a speck of dirt on either of them, their surcoats unsoiled. Daemon’s scaled armor was dark and shiny as pitch, his winged visor raised to show his thin, handsome smile. Not a few of the lords cheered for Daemon Blackfyre—the old king’s most beloved son.
Maekar glared at his bastard uncle from the far end of the lists. He claimed to be too old to squire, but he would let anyone lesser fetch his brother’s lance. In the weeks before Princess Daenerys’ wedding tourney, Maekar had trained relentlessly, tilting at quintains from dawn till dusk.
Were he any other boy, he might’ve been dreaming of the day he’d be the one to joust for a princess. Myriah knew better. Her youngest son was not given to such callow fantasies. Maekar rode with a single-minded fury, battering painted shields and turning lances to splinters.
After one unlucky strike, a sliver of lance as long and thick as a finger had punched through Maekar’s gambeson and into the meat of his shoulder. With hardly a glance, he wrenched it free and wheeled around for another tilt.
No, Myriah thought, watching the bloodstain grow from a cherry to a ripe, red apple. He does not dream of a maiden’s kiss.
For a selfish moment, she wished it were him ahorse. Baelor was quicksilver, bright and clever, but Maekar was iron. He seldom cried as a child, and the cusp of manhood found him with a clenched jaw and white-knuckled fists. Myriah did not allow herself to feel guilty for wanting him in his brother’s place. Not when Maekar clearly wished the same. His narrow chest was thrust out, like he meant for it to be his brother’s shield. Maekar had never welcomed her hugs or kisses, but she loved him for that.
Up in the stands, the crowd had grown restless. The excited murmurs had turned to a deafening, demanding roar. Her youngest son’s angry eyes were on them, as if he could pry Baelor away with just a look. The lance in his hands reached up to pierce the heavens, black as midnight.
Myriah fought the urge to clutch at Baelor’s hand, to draw him to her bosom and never let him go. But he was a man now, and she must be more than a mother. “Beat him,” she commanded. “Knock him off his horse.”
Baelor laughed and put his heels into his destrier. “I will.”
Maekar met him at the muddy mouth of the lists. Eyes fierce and full of pride, he shoved the lance into his brother’s hands.
“Be careful,” the queen begged.
“Always,” Baelor vowed, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles. “I swear we will come back to you.”
That was no comfort. Nightmares had plagued her for months—dreams of her sons returned in a wagon, their eyes shut and their arms folded carefully over their swords. Gone from her forever, fluttered away like mourning doves. Not a few morns she woke sick, and there was no cure but the feel of Baelor’s hand in hers.
Sometimes she even went to Maekar, and he suffered her grasping as he did all touches—grudgingly. Once he even kissed her cheek, his lips dry and chapped. There was never any fear in him, only cold, furious resolve. That settled her near so well as Baelor’s warmth.
Aerys and Rhaegel would be safe within the castle’s walls, but the first and last princes were called to the battlefield. The realm was littered with dead; dead fathers and dead brothers and dead sons. The Honeywine was sour with bloated bodies and the stormlands were a charnel pit. Everywhere flared the black dragon’s fire, and it crept closer to the Red Keep each day.
“You must,” the queen insisted. She grasped for her son’s knee, but found only hard steel plate. “You must come home.”
“We will,” Baelor promised.
Maekar had already mounted his horse, so he would not have to suffer her embrace. He gave her a nod, his eyes so fierce that even she fought not to flinch. Myriah found herself studying him. Would it have been any different if Baelor had his coloring?
She feared it would have made all the difference in the world. She feared it would have made no difference at all. The lords had never loved her, and they had never loved her firstborn. From the moment he left her womb, Baelor had been hers and hers alone. He had his grandfather’s dark eyes and his grandmother’s fine brown hair and the best of her. Her son, hers.
Myriah could not care for Daemon, could not care for any of the old kings’ bastards. She had only enough room in her heart for her own children, with nothing left for the ones the old king left behind like stains. Daeron had loved them, in his way, had played the father in a way their sire never did. Gifted them all the finest things, pampered the girls and trained the boys and made for them all a home. And this is how we are repaid.
It had made her furious at first, but as the months wore on, all that was left was fear. It rose a lump in her throat—the unfairness, the needlessness of it all. Was one castle not enough? One wife? How far did Daemon intend to reach, how high must his star rise?
For all that he and Maekar shared the silvery hair and purple eyes of the dragonlords, they could not have been more different. Daemon was a prince of light and laughter, who collected friends like halfpennies. Maekar had no use of friends, not when he had his brothers.
He stood alone amongst the gathered lordlings and knights, the serjeants and soldiers. A shadow, awaiting the body to cast it. Baelor would return to him, as he always did, but not for some time. Maekar was to remain as the crownlands’ stalwart shield, not three days to the south, whilst Baelor rode on, raising the stormlords and Dornish.
The Arryns were flying down their mountain on falcon’s wings, but the black dragon was clawing its way up the Reach to swallow the Red Keep whole. She felt its teeth as Baelor climbed into the saddle. He seemed more than a man in all his plate, closer to the Warrior himself. Only his eyes remained, soft and sad. Maekar had no such softness, nor sadness.
Protect him, she thought, knowing that he could not. No more than she could.
All Myriah could do was take in the sight of them as they rode away, the sun and the moon against a cold blue sky.
“Be careful,” Myriah implored.
“Always.” Baelor’s smile was a bright thing, shining in his warm dark eyes. There were wrinkles at the corners now, and more etched into his cheeks. Gods, he looks old. When did he get so old? Suddenly, there were tears in her eyes.
“Mother,” her son teased. “What’s the matter? Am I so hideous?”
“You look old,” she admitted with a wet laugh.
Baelor’s smile only deepened. “I am positively ancient, and how cruel of you to remind me. It’s strange—at twenty, I thought I would be young forever. Now I am near forty, going on a hundred.” His grin gentled into something soft and fond. “Valarr accuses me of coddling him, of treating him like a boy and not a man, and I’m afraid he has the right of it. I wish he were a boy still, so I might keep him safe. Tell me, Mother, will it feel this way forever?”
“Forever,” she whispered. Valarr stood amongst the men in his black plate, but she could see only the child, the plump-cheeked boy who begged his grandmother for sweets. It was the same with Baelor. In her heart, he had no grey in his hair, and his nose was yet unbroken. “Baelor—”
They were interrupted by barking in the yard. Maekar had emerged at last, driving Daeron before him like a whipped cur. There was a crust in Daeron’s lank hair that one hoped was drool, but was surely sick. He and Maekar were of a height, but Daeron was as thin and reedy as Aerys. He wilted under his father’s attentions, his hazy, red-rimmed eyes cast down at his unlaced boots.
Baelor frowned, but he had ever been a light touch where his brother was concerned. Myriah, too, knew better than to meddle with Maekar’s sons. Her husband liked to pretend the matter was neatly healed, but Aemon remained an open wound. Just the name rose a fury in Maekar like she hadn’t seen since the rebellion. A raw grief that saw the king and his youngest son scarcely able to share a castle, much less a meal.
Daeron was bullied onto his mount first, then Maekar lifted Aegon bodily into the saddle. Though they were too far away to hear, Myriah knew the boy was chattering away as he always did. Maekar listened to none of it, reaching up with his rough mitt of a hand to brush the hay out of his son’s hair. Aegon was oft in the stables, speaking with the horses and tussling with the stableboys.
With his more troublesome sons secured, Maekar turned to them. The father was forced to become the son again, which she knew Maekar liked not at all. He marched toward her as a soldier to the battlefield, resigned to the unpleasantness to follow.
She fumbled for Baelor’s hand. It never got any easier, saying goodbye, watching him disappear. “Be safe.”
“Be kind to him,” Baelor said in farewell, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
I have always been kind to him, she thought, stung, it is Maekar who spurns it. Sometimes, it hurt just to look at him. She could see the boy in him as she could Baelor—the fussy, ferocious child who wanted nothing so much as to be feared by his enemies and loved by his brothers.
Maekar had not grown so tall as they did, not even Rhaegel, and she could meet his eyes squarely. Not that Maekar oft met her gaze. His eyes flitted past her, cold and purple as polished amethyst. His own sons were raised thusly, held at arm’s length. Daeron drooped over his mount like a melting candlestick, whilst Aerion sat the saddle impatient and imperious. Aegon had mosied his pony over to a group of guardsmen, begging a story.
Baelor had wanted to take the boy on as a squire, but Maekar would not have it. The business with his eldest son had been affront enough. For all the swordmasters Daeron had endured, none were foolish enough to knight the boy undeserving. Maekar had no love of lickspittles, that was well-known.
The only fool great enough to go against him was Baelor. It was his sword that came down on his nephew’s shoulders, charging him to go forth and do right. Daeron went nowhere and did nothing. In the end, Daeron was cursed with a knighthood he did not want, and Maekar condemned Aegon to squire for a drunken wastrel.
See? she thought, looking into her son’s frigid face. Sometimes what is meant as a kindness can become a cruelty.
Her husband had grown just as cold since the rebellion. King Daeron was not the prince with soft eyes and soft hands she’d known as a girl. He was a man, a king, with a king’s burdens. Must it be Aemon? she’d asked, to no avail.
He and Aegon were still only boys, sweet in a way Maekar had never been, not even at his youngest. Maekar could be shy, painfully so, but never sweet. There was more of him in his elder sons, in Aerion’s pride and Daeron’s distance.
As they watched the gathering in silence, Myriah worried the only part of her she’d given Maekar was her solitude. The royal party would be feasted in every castle they passed, but there would be more days ahorse than holdfasts to host them. Accompanying their horses were wagons stuffed with wheels of cheese and cured meats, crates of turnips and crocks of butter, furnishings for their tents and furs to keep out the spring chill.
“I do not see the reason for all this bother,” Maekar said at last. “It is only a girl’s nameday.”
Maekar had never loved tourneys, not as Baelor did. He despised the pageantry. Mayhaps he simply did not understand it. All that ever brought Maekar joy was a foe well fought, another healthy babe, and his brother’s regard.
Measuredly, she replied, “The realm’s princes ought to make themselves beloved.”
But the realm had never loved Maekar. And never would, she knew. Not as she loved him, and certainly not as Baelor did. At times she feared Baelor beheld his brother the same way he did Valarr, forever a boy, a petulant look on his face and a wooden sword in his hands.
Maekar scoffed. “They love him already. And I have no need of their affection.”
With that, he was gone. Myriah watched her son go, the silver studs of his black brigandine glittering in the dawn. There was a stiffness to his gait that had waxed and waned since the rebellion, an old wound that worsened with the years. Maekar hid it well, but he was her son, and she knew him. Loved him, when he let her.
“Be careful,” Myriah whispered, letting the wind carry it to the gods’ ears.