Work Text:
The sound of metal clattering to the ground echoed against the stone wall of Summerhall’s solar like thunder in the sky. A finely made glass goblet shattered on the ground, giving way into a thousand splinters where previously a fine lyensi product had been. Its contents- Dornish Red that had been brought here specifically for this conversation -stained the floor scarlet as blood.
Maekar heaved.
“I will not allow this.” The man bit out, “I will not. Not my youngest. Not Aegon.”
Baelor looked at him with sympathy and resignation both. “Brother…”
“He hasn’t even cooled from the womb!” The prince roared. His voice was akin to that of an animal, scared and pushed into a corner. Whatever adrenaline had worn off from the battles of rebellion was rushing back in, as though he once again stood opposed to a foe threatening to tear his family apart all over again. Wretchedly, Baelor thought, he may well be right.
“Dyanna hasn’t even recovered from her birthing bed! I may tolerate father demanding my eldest issue, but I will not allow you to rob me of my infant son. His cradle has barely been used.”
Maekar would not listen to reason. He knew it wouldn’t be easy; none of his brothers would truly be. But the youngest of them would always be the hardest with it.
“Have we not won this gods damned war!?” He hissed, “Have you and I not defeated the Blackfyre bastards!? Why bother grovelling at the feet of nobles and selling our own for their pleasure!?”
“You and I both know it's more difficult than that.”
“I ought not to.”
“This rebellion has gone on longer than it should've,” Baelor began to explain, carefully trying to school his voice into gentle understanding. “We are no longer the dragonlords of old, brother. If we wish to keep the throne we have fought to keep, we will need to work with the people of this realm. The houses need an assurance of our goodwill. And a promise that our dynasty will not drag them into another war for our own succession crisis.”
“So we send our children as hostages?”
“As wards. We send them as honoured guests and wards. To be raised and educated as the lords’ own, so we may reforge the connection that has been damaged.”
Maekar scoffed. “They are hostages in all but name then. Which means I have all the more reason to refuse this madness.”
“You are acting as though you are the only one to make this sacrifice."
"Sacrifice? Sacrifice!?” He growled, “Don’t come to talk to me about sacrifice, Baelor. Not when your own sons—”
“Matarys is also being sent away,” Baelor spoke up. “And Valarr was only saved by virtue of him being my heir and intended for the throne. Please, Maekar, please do not put such things on me.”
There was a plea in that. A desperate, ragged plea.
It fell upon deaf ears.
“Matarys has been sent to your wife's family.” His brother seethed. “It is not the same.”
“And Aerion is being sent to Starfall to stay with Dyanna's family.” Baelor brought up. “Daeron is set to depart for Highgarden together with a flurry of servants, and Daella is well on her way to Storm's End where you can visit her as often as you wish. Our father has done his best to make this as comfortable as possible for all of us.”
“And I decided to see reason and accept, against my will, the decision he made for them.” The prince conceded with a clenched jaw. “But I draw the line at sending a babe up North.”
“He will be well protected while travelling. The caravan will take only the safest of roads while a knight of the Kingsguard will see to him personally. Spring will allow them a quick enough travel, not to mention that Lord Stark has already informed us that he'll meet them halfway with a party of his own.”
“Just how fucking gracious he is! I see he is more than excited enough to get his hand on my boy.”
"Maekar.” Baelor repeated his brother's name once more. As though the word was a mantra that could somehow make him see the world from his eye. He grabbed his arm. “Maekar. Lord Stark is a good man. He will do right by your son.”
“Lord Stark is no man" Maekar exclaimed, ripping himself free. “He is a child of barely six-and-ten! And you expect me to send my own infant son to be raised as a ward to him!!?”
Baelor gazed upon him with indignation. He knew that his brother was grasping for reason to deny their sire's plan. He had been since the rumour mill of the Red Keep leaked even the slightest hint. “He may be young, but all the tales say that he is good and honest. Aegon will be safe with him, Maekar. The fact that our father has allowed him to rule in his own stead without a regent should be evidence enough.”
“Only because he had no one fit to be a proper regent–”
“And isn't that exactly why father needs to do this?” Cut the older in,”The Starks have lost both the head of their house and their heir in this war, brother. As well as the spare and the spare of the spare. Which says nothing about the losses all the other northern houses faced. Do you not think that Lord Duncan Stark may come to blame our family for that? For taking his own father and three elder brothers from him? Or that the North won't blame us for that? We ought to show them our goodwill while we still can.”
“And take my son from me for it?” The way in which Maekar's voice broke hit Baelor like a lance. Painful as it dug deep into his flesh, piercing cloth and skin and muscle alike. Grief coloured the words in ways that would make you think he had asked for the little boy's head, instead of merely attempting to reconcile his brother with a reality that had been decided upon.
“Not forever, Maekar.” The elder of the two princes tried to comfort him. “It'll only be for a while. You'll be able to write to him, ask for visits, and he'll return when he has become a man grown himself”
The younger man's eyes shook with indignation and betrayal. “As a stranger. My son will return to me a stranger, Baelor. The other children will at least remember my face. Aegon will be brought up in some icy wasteland with neither his mother nor I to have watched a single moment.”
XXX
By the time the year had begun, Summer was already beginning to wane to the steady onset of Autumn. Days were growing shorter and shorter, ever more slowly; blistering heat gave way to soothing warmth and odd bouts of rain wormed their way in between weeks.
Maekar found it horribly annoying and satisfying at the same time. At least, he thought, the boy would not be forced to see the North in winter. Even if in his letters he'd complained about being unable to see the feet-deep snow his guardian had promised would have come in the North sometime soon.
It was absurd. His own blood, his son, whom he only knew from the occasional letter he'd sent to his father, arguing to stay away from home longer. Five-and-ten years it had been. And yet Aegon was dragging his feet upon being finally, blessedly, called to join his father at Summerhall for a season.
Dyanna never even got to see him again, the prince thought bitterly as he watched the caravan of horses and wheelhouses; she died before I was allowed to demand our child. She only held him once. I don’t even know how he reacted when he heard the news.
It was a cruel joke of fate. Maekar knew well why he'd refused to speak to any of his brothers or his father for moons on end. His own blood, the fruit of his and sweet Dyanna’s union, and he had to wait over a decade and a half just for it to be proper to demand the child at least visit him.
Visit.
Not even stay. Only a short visit for a single winter, after which the boy would travel back towards Winterfell and stay there until he married. Most likely to some northern noble he met there if Lord Stark was smart enough to arrange a match.
He felt his nails dig into his skin from how hard he balled his fists. The trek from Winterfell to Summerhall was long and arduous; the realm constantly demanded attention, and it would have been unbecoming for any lord to send their ward away just as it would have been unbecoming for Maekar to seem clingy. Especially so when the only thing the crown ever seemed to hear from the pair was high praise and assurances of contentment. Rhaegel had his twin children returned to him from Riverrun the day they wed at six-and-ten. His own eldest sons returned upon their twentieth birthdays. Daella would spend the last few years of her youth with him before she’d need to marry, and Rhae had been spared her sibling’s fate entirely.
Only his youngest still insisted on staying far from his father. Insisted, out of his own free will, to remain ripped from his very blood.
The only reason Maekar stayed where he stood was for the sake of his servants who were already busy swooning around to welcome the travelling party from Winterfell. The last thing they needed was a missing prince behaving like a child. Trumpets blew to announce the entry of Lord Stark into Summerhall’s courtyard, filing in behind him a litany of guards he had brought for the journey. The neighs of horses filled the air, while quiet chatter piped up all around.
A pair of overlarge boots his the ground.
If the tales said that Lord Stark was a giant, then in reality he must have been the size of a castle wall. He must’ve been over seven feet at least, perhaps even reaching eight, and had strapped to his back what Maekar assumed to be his family’s Valyrian steel sword, Ice. The man had soft strawberry blonde hair and clear blue eyes. Alongside an utterly idiotic smile on his face as he received the traditional bread and salt the prince was forced to offer him.
Besides him, riding up on a brown steed, rode his son.
Maekar’s world stopped.
Aegon took after him in his colouring entirely, the man realised, but his face took the shape of his mother. For a split moment, it felt like he was outside the birthing chamber all over again. With the midwives hurrying in and out to care for his wife, all while the oldest of them presented to him the tiny wrinkled face of a babe whose brow he had kissed and called his own.
For a moment.
His son’s eyes were of a purple dark enough to be able to pass as black. The last vestiges of baby fat left his face in that odd spot between childhood and adulthood. His silvery white hair fell to his shoulders, grown out and kept in a simple half-up half-down twist like most northerners liked to keep it. It matched the hairstyle of Lord Stark exactly, so much so that it made the prince think that it had to be a deliberate choice. His lips were thin like Dyanna's, but his nose was a little wider than hers. The boy's limbs were spindly; Maekar did not know if he truly was small or just looked tiny compared to the giant that was his guardian. He seemed to have been fed well. Aegon filled out the leather and wool clothes he wore nicely. They had the sense to dress him in the reds and black of his house, which meant that the boy had been given heavy cloaks and costly furs to wear. Undoubtedly northern, even if it lacked the usual colours prevalent. He did not miss the wolf engraved on the leather straps that held his cloak together, nor did he miss the dagger at his belt whose handle looked distinctively made of weirwood.
Whatever trance Maekar was put in ended abruptly when Lord Stark’s voice cut through the air, his hand coming to rest against Aegon’s chest to halt him from where he was about to take some of the bread himself. “Those are for the guests, lad.” The lord informed his charge in a gentle tone, “This is the house of your father. That should make it your home, and you not a guest.”
“Oh,” spoke the boy. He glanced towards the offered food, slowly retreating his hand and letting it fall to the side. “I’m sorry, Ser.”
It felt like he had witnessed a catastrophe worse than the Doom itself.
A pair of violet and blue eyes alike turned to gaze upon the Prince of Summerhall, his feet moving to approach them on pure instinct from years of court. Lord Stark lowered his head; Aegon copied him.
Maekar frowned. “Do not bow to your father, boy.” He snapped, and because it had always come easiest to him to point out flaws when angry, he added, “And stop addressing your guardian as Ser. Have they not taught you any proper manners!?”
He had wanted to ask him how he had feared away from home.
Aegon immediately frowned back at him, bearing his teeth in open defiance. He was feisty, the elder realised. Good, that would mean he could survive at court.
“I will address my Ser however I want to ad-”
“I have told Prince Aegon to address me as such, my prince.” Lord Stark cut the child off mid-sentence. “As you must have read in my letters, I have taken him to squire since he was nine. I ought to teach him properly, thus I found it more appropriate to have him address me as Ser instead of with my usual title.”
Maekar raised a single eyebrow in his direction.
Lord Stark sighed. “My apologies. It's just- well, your son and I have spent much time together. It would have been cruel to insist on formalities where there are none required.”
“Oh?”
“Ser Duncan wanted to offer you the same, father,” Aegon spoke up, infuriatingly in tune with Lord Stark all of a sudden. “He's very kind. A true knight of the realm whom I am honoured to serve. Most of his friends call him with a variation of his first name.”
“I was not aware that he and I were friends.”
“I had not thought you to be so unkind, father.”
“Egg-”
Maekar scoffed. At the Stark, or the ridiculous nickname he used for his son, he did not know.
“What I meant to say is that Ser Duncan only wants for everyone to get along. It is not very nice to be so mean to him. Especially since he'll be staying for a while.”
Somehow it felt less like he was talking to his son and more like he was talking to the heir of another hound. A bitter film coated his tongue.
“It would not be becoming for us to keep him in the South for longer than necessary, Aegon.” The prince bit out. “There always needs to be a Stark at Winterfell. Right, Lord Duncan?”
The name Duncan felt wrong on his tongue. Whatever animosity he tried to hide in the drawn-out vowels flew over the barbarian's head like an arrow shot to high. It landed for Aegon, however, who bristled and stepped close to the man who had supplanted him entirely.
The northerner blinked in surprise, then coughed awkwardly. “Ah- yes. Of course. Though I can assure you that Lady Rafe- my sister -is more than capable of handling the matters of the North while I am here. I intend to see my ward settled well before returning.”
“And leaving me here,” mumbled Aegon. Both men decided to ignore it.
“I will take good care of my child, Lord Stark. The south is much different from the North. His family will happily see to his needs, so there is no need to burden yourself with things you would not understand.”
“Ah- I thank you, my prince.” The other nodded. “I trust that the lad will be safe in your hands.”
“The boy is going to need other clothes. Ones that are fit better to the climate. You may take the northern attire you've clothed him in with you when you depart.”
At that, Aegon's eyes widened. Just as quickly as they returned to their normal size.
“It is alright, father. Ser Duncan.” He nodded towards both men overly hastily, “You needn't worry about my clothes. I am more than happy to continue those I brought from the North.”
Maekar's nostrils flared, before he could reply he was cut off by the hearty laugh of Lord Duncan. “You've never worn southern clothes before, lad. So you ought to give it a try first. Though I suppose it would be rather crude to strip you of your preferred clothing. Won't you agree, my prince?”
Aegon looked at him with expectation; he turned his head away. “Suit yourself.”
The lord's smile cracked at the harsh response.
“Aegon is a good lad, my prince.” The Stark offered, as though it made what had happened- what they were and what Maekar wasn't -any less of the crime it truly was. Lord Duncan's hand came to lay heavy upon his son's shoulder, who looked at the man as though he'd just hung the stars before his eyes. “He’s gracious and honourable, but more so he is smart and quick on his feet. Not a single being alive in Winterfell is better than him at tracking game and man alike, not to mention that he has grown up into a fine warrior’s build. His talent with the sword was inherited from you, though I suspect that his bowmanship is something entirely his own. At times he will be stubborn, but he chooses his battles wisely. That alone should tell you that he is no bad leader, either. I could not have wished for a better squire or ward. And you will see that you could not wish for a better son.”
Maekar frowned in little more than open contempt. “I can see that you have raised the boy with all the comforts your home has to offer.” He sneered, “He’s become more wolf than dragon.”
XXX
Two days after the arrival of the Stark party, the prince was going through some correspondence when it happened.
To my most beloved brother,
Maekar, mine own blood, you and I have not talked much at all ever since Father died. Not that we had much conversation for moonturns before, that is. I know that you are receiving these letters, brother. And I know that you are reading them. It is alright if you do not wish to write me back, my desires will not change for it. Just as the past between us will never change.
When they first made the decision to send our children as wards across Westeros, I spoke in defence of the decision. For that you have never quite forgiven me. I understand. It was a cruel decision then, and it remains a cruel decision even now. I can only defend myself with the knowledge that we all had assumed it was for the best. There was not a single moment where I ever wished to put you or your boy in harm's way when I stood behind Father in his decree. I love as much as I love my nephews, and while you may not believe it- I beg you to at least listen to me.
Kingslanding has been as dreary as ever. The small council has been especially annoying; I was barely able to withstand their endless tirades if it weren’t for Valarr, who is keeping me company. Bloodraven makes for a fine hand, though I can not help but think of what we have promised each other as boys in our youth. Do you remember it too, Maekar? Back then in the gardens of the Red Keep, when we were but children playing together with wooden swords and pretend armour made from leather and cloth? Where I was king only in our imagination, and you held my hand, and I promised that upon my ascension, I’d make you my most trusted advisor? How we had shared our plans for the future with eachother, built around this promise from our childhood?
I would offer it to you yet again. All you’d need to do is agree, and I’d pen the letter this very second. I would call you and your family back to the palace, give you the highest offices I could offer, and the two of us could rule together as partners like we always-
Maekar stopped reading the letter after that, cussing as he crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it into the fire lit within the hearth of the room. In the past, he would have responded, or at least bothered to read through all of it before dismissing. He’d quickly learned that it would do nothing but to encourage his brother, who seemed to have an endless supply of paper and ink and ravens and time to keep on bothering him about the matter of the Hand. As though he did not have a realm to look after himself.
There would be another bird with another message in a fortnight; what did it matter if this one ended up destroyed? Whatever dreams Baelor had decided to indulge himself in were killed the moment he sent his newborn son away to the North. Maekar had half a mind to travel to Kingslanding purely to throw the decision into his face. To show him what his son had become- a Stark in all but name, when he should have been a Targaryen prince- so he might understand what he had done to his own brother.
Mayhaps the gods were punishing him for that thought, for thinking of such disrespect that it would have cost anyone else’s head; for the moment he finished the idea, a servant burst into the room. Words tumbled from his mouth.
Some incident in the courtyard, some fight. By the time he arrived, all he saw was Aegon crouching in the dirt beside some overlarge hound and Aerion standing above him, pulling back a bleeding hand. Lord Stark ran up behind him, obviously having been called to the scene of the crime much like Maekar himself had. Unlike the prince, he rushed forward almost immediately to stand beside the youngest prince, scrambling to pull him up and ask for what has happened.
His second eldest son turned to gaze at him as soon as he heard his father’s approach. He looked between him and Aegon. Then, with his injured hand, he pointed towards the hound sitting at his brother’s feet and spoke “That mutt attacked me!”
“He didn’t!” Retorted Aegon, “Please, Ser! You have to believe me! Dragon wouldn’t do anything like that!”
The mutt in question, a grey animal that looked more wolf than dog, pulled his teeth back to growl. Not aggressively, but in warning. No doubt reacting once more to the emotions of his owner as Aegon attempted to plead his innocence to Lord Duncan, who held the boy at the side of his arms and did not mind when the hound curled around their legs in a stride.
Any other man may have seen that there was more to what Aerion had said. Most in the castle would have known better than to believe a boy who had proven himself nothing but cruel in all he did.
But Maekar was only a man. More than that, he was only a father. And all he could see in the moment was one son bleeding and another son stolen and a great beast with a red snout at the feet of them all.
He rushed over to Aerion in little more than three or four steps, face crunching up in rage and disgust and fear at his boy’s injuries. “Then who else would have done it!? What is the matter of this!?”
“Aerion attacked my dog!” Replied Aegon, “He- He pulled at him! Said that brothers are supposed to share their toys! When I- When I told him that he wasn’t a toy, he still tried to take him by force! And then Dragon bit him! He didn’t attack anyone, please!”
“It mauled me without any reason-”
“No, he didn’t!”
There was desperation in his voice, almost as though he could feel the fact that his own father had long since made a decision already. He clutched at the Lord across from him, who only tried to soothe over his back. Lord Duncan sighed, “Dragon- the dog, that is -has been a faithful companion to your son since childhood. I am certain that he would not–”
“So you are saying you put your mutt onto your own brother!?” Cut Maekar in, voice raising in tone as he spoke. “Or how else am I supposed to take this? Bringing a wild animal into the courtyard!”
“Dragon isn’t wild!” Aegon insisted. “He’s- He was a nameday gift from my Ser! He’s not a mutt! And he’s not wild! And he wouldn’t– I didn’t put him on anyone!”
“Liar!”
“Am not!”
“QUIET!” Maekar’s voice boomed across the courtyard, echoing off the walls and buildings in an eerie repeat of the order. “I will not have my sons fight like children.”
“B-But father!”
Aegon flinched when Maekar turned his stony face towards him. “I do not know what they taught you in Winterfell, but anyone with half a mind can see that your brother has been harmed by an animal you brought. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I didn't-”
“I am not here to listen to your excuses, boy. Aerion?”
His elder son seemed more than happy to repeat his story once more to everyone present. “I only wanted to greet my sweet younger brother after he returned back home for the season. He was training in the yard with his beast, so I thought to join. That was when it went wild and bit me.”
“You're lying!” Aegon cried, “He is lying.”
“He is your brother.” Responded Maekar, “And he has been harmed by your animal. I should have you whipped-”
Lord Stark snapped his head towards him like a whip.
“-though I shall be kind, seeing where you have been raised. Apologise to your brother and kill the mutt; we shall forget the rest of this incident”
His son wailed in alarm, sinking back down to hang around the neck of the dog. Before Maekar could tell him to calm down, his Ser had already stepped in front of his squire. Keeping a hand stretched out protectively between the pair and the rest.
“I am sorry, my princes, but I cannot allow that to happen.”
Aerion roared. “You heard what Father said! That impudent little rat is to see his stupid animal dead for what it did to me! Or has the snow you people get in Winterfell frozen off your ears, Starks!?”
“Please refrain from speaking of Aegon in such a way, my prince.”
Maekar looked at him with open detestation. “My son has been mauled”
“And your other son is in obvious distress. I had thought that The Anvil himself would know to conduct himself more fairly.”
At that, the man blinked. “Excuse me?”
“My ward,” retorted the Stark, stone cold and icy like winter winds, “would never order for anyone to come into harm’s way out of simple cruelty. Nor would Dragon attack unprovoked, as Aegon has told you multiple times by now. You ought to listen to both of your sons, Prince Maekar, instead of placing blind faith in one and condemning the other.
“Aegon is as much of your house's blood as Aerion is. No one else witnessed the event for all we know, which makes this one word against the other. Prince Aerion has no proof to back his claim, yet you want to punish Aegon with the death of a companion I have gifted him when he was but a boy? Where is the justice in that?”
“That changes nothing about the fact that this thing-” he pointed towards the dog “-had bitten my son. It certainly can't remain at Summerhall.”
Lord Stark seemed utterly unimpressed. Aegon stared at him from behind the older's back. Maekar was devastated to find that he took after him in his anger. “I will send some of my men to stay in an inn together with Dragon, so he will be removed from the castle grounds.” The northerner announced, “But the dog will stay alive. And you will not punish my squire for the crime of defending himself against his brother. I did not ride over a moonturn long to see Aegon beaten by his own father days after our arrival.”
XXX
“Please,” a youth's voice begged, “Please, Ser Duncan, you have to take me back to the North with you. I can't– I can't stand the thought of spending a whole season here.”
The castle was quiet. Night had fallen some time ago, with only the night guard remaining awake in shifts while the rest of the castle slept. Dim light from the moon and stars cast long shadows across the castle, leaving but a torch or lamp to illuminate one’s way, while silence stretched across the land like a blanket thrown over one’s body for sleep.
It was not the first time that Maekar had found himself unable to sleep. Ever since the Stranger had taken his Dyanna from him, the prince found the bed he used to share with her less and less comfortable on his lonesome. Still he refused to replace it, perhaps out of sentimentality- if anyone asked, out of pure practicality. He supposed it did not matter. Rest simply evaded him on some nights, which left him painfully aware of every second passing by in his darkened chambers. Wandering, embarrassingly, helped the most in these sorts of times.
He had taken to doing so, even if it was rather unbecoming of a man of his age.
His footsteps halted, frozen in place, the second he heard the voice. He turned around, following the sound until he stood opposite a door with but a thin slit left open. The man hadn’t even noticed how close he’d wandered to the guest wing.
How the boy had not heard him, the prince did not know.
“I promised your father that you would stay over the winter,” came the reply of a hauntingly familiar voice. Ser Duncan was gentle, reassuring even, but ever firm in what he said. “I know that you wanted to see the snow. It’s not as grand as you think it is, Winterfell can be a dreary place in the colder seasons. You’ll find it much more comfortable here in Summerhall.”
“But I do not want comfortable!”
His son shook his head. His hair hung completely open over his shoulder, making the movement a flurry of silver from where the man was barely able to see him. Maekar had half a mind to scold himself for eavesdropping on someone else’s conversation like a misbehaved child. Yet he found himself far too enraptured by the conversation at hand to do any of that.
“You’ve seen what happened today.” The prince stated. “First Aerion, then the Prince of Summerhall-”
“You mean your father?”
Aegon’s face darkened. “Yes, the prince. You have witnessed for yourself how he acts; how can I ever be expected to stay here!? We’ve barely even arrived, and it already feels like I’m being punished for something.”
Lord Duncan laid his arm upon Aegon’s shoulder. The notion had not been too dissimilar to what Maekar witnessed when they arrived; it made the man think that it may well be a common gesture between the two. “I am not punishing you for anything, lad.” The older man insisted, “But this is still your father. He has asked for you to come visit him. That has got to mean at least something.”
“He barely even knows me.”
“Because he never got to know you, just as you never got to know him”
“I do not care. I don’t know him, Ser. Not like I know you or Lady Rafe or Ser Arlan or our people as a whole. This whole place is a stranger to me.”
Maekar did not know any of these names. Aegon, however, spoke them with familiarity, as though they belonged on his tongue as fish belonged in water. It made his heart squeeze as though someone had reached his heart into his chest and curled around it. It should have been their names, Maekar thought, that he spoke of so easily. It should have been the names of his sisters, brothers, cousins, uncles and grandparents. He should not have been a stranger to them.
“What happened to you and your father was cruel, Aegon.” Lord Duncan finally decided to settle on, “Do you understand that? You were taken as a babe from the arms of your parents and sent to a foreign castle. I know that you do not like him- for good reason, even -but your father has suffered too, lad. And he has missed you so terribly. Imagine being forced to give up your youngest son only to see him again when he is on the very cusp of adulthood, raised by another man in another keep. Would you not also be desperate to see him return even for a tiny bit? Even if it is just one season?”
Oh, the elder realised. Oh, Lord Duncan is defending me. Against his own son, no less. By all means, he had every right to join Aegon in a chorus of complaints after what happened in the yard and before. And yet he was defending him. His words, like a shield of blankets, he offered for someone who had been nothing but unkind to him.
A shield which, once he had stopped speaking, earned him a betrayed look from Aegon. One of the boy’s own arms rose so he could clench at his Ser’s wrist, though he made no effort to get rid of the hand at all. “He nearly killed Dragon. He has never once offered me a soft word since we arrived. All he has to say whenever we meet are comments about my manners or my education or how northern my clothes are. Does that sound like someone who missed me?”
“Sometimes parents can be strange. My own father-”
“I do not care about any of that!” Replied the boy all of a sudden, his voice becoming shrill with force. Kept in check barely enough to make sure that it didn’t wake anyone else.
“I want to go home, Ser.” Aegon pleaded, “I want to go home with you. Don't abandon me with- with these people, please. I wouldn't survive another day spent in this hellhole of a castle. I know I’m not a Stark. I know I don’t share your blood or the blood of the North. And I know that I will have to see the rest of my birth family eventually, but please, Ser. Even if this visit won’t be permanent, the next one may well be! Or the one after that! Let me stay in the North with you, by your side. Winterfell has been more mine than any of this ever was! I could be your guard, or your advisor; I’ll even work in the kitchens or the stables. I’ll do anything, anything, to stay with you. I will beg my Uncle Baelor, or I’ll run away and become a hedge knight to swear myself to you. I do not care. I don’t– don’t abandon me, Ser. Please! Don’t force me into the south. I don’t– I wouldn’t—”
Aegon had begun crying halfway through the speech. Crystalline teardrops ran down his cheek and fell onto the floor, the sounds of his sobs accompanying the ragged breaths he took between them. Part of Maekar twitched forward as if trying to soothe the youth, despite the fact that it would have given him away and revealed his witnessing of the private conversation. He was beaten to it by Lord Duncan pulling the boy towards himself, hand moving from his shoulder to the back of his head as he allowed him to wail.
“I’m sorry, lad. I’m sorry. You will come to love this place too, I am certain. Just give it some more time, I promise. It’ll become easier.”
It was the wrong choice of words. Aegon only cried harder.
Maekar left.
XXX
Aerion had ravaged and raved after the incident yesterday, the servants report. So much so that he’d dragged some poor, unsuspecting guards to the training ground and beat on them so long until the master-at-arms had put an end to his ‘training’. A gruesome event, though it did serve to keep him down. There were rumours about him stalking the kennels with a dagger later that night of which Maekar was unsure what to believe. Lord Duncan had made work of his promise regardless of their truth, which meant that the dog he had been searching for most like was well away in the next closest village by that point anyway.
The man tried his best to focus on his breakfast. An array of dried foods, freshly baked bread, jam, butter, porridge, honey, tea and milk was spread on the table before them. He’d made sure to stock up on plenty of food in anticipation of his guests. Originally the prince had hoped to welcome Aegon that way- with a feast of delicacies for each of the meals they were supposed to take together -but the boy had refused to show.
Lord Duncan had not spoken a single word of the conversation he had had with the boy yesterday. Neither had Maekar. When the former left to inquire about his squire’s whereabouts, the prince would have been made a liar if he had said that it didn’t lift his mood at least a little. Or at the very least made it easier to keep his treacherous mind from wandering to topics neither he or it truly enjoyed.
His sour mood must have been noticed by the servants. Someone set down a goblet of watered-down wine beside him. Too early in the day for him usually, yet he still drank it down to its final sip. He could use the pleasant buzz of being drunk to drown out the rest of it all.
Maekar had never wanted to be cruel to Aegon.
He knew that he wasn’t an affectionate man. Dyanna had always been his soft, emotional side. Before her, it had been Baelor who smoothed over his edges. But Dyanna had died in his youngest’s childbed, and he’d tried his best to speak as little as humanly possible to his family for years now. He didn’t think too much of it.
His children would understand, he thought. How could they not? It seemed strange to Maekar that he could love them with all of his heart, only for them to not notice any of it. Sure, he had been mad when Aegon arrived. And yes- he would have preferred the boy to act, well, differently. The prince was never shy about sharing his endless criticisms of all of that. He wanted his children to succeed, to be the best. Who could ever blame a father for wanting to see his children shine? Only because he spoke to them harshly every so often. It did not mean that he did not love his son.
Foolishly, Maekar found, he had not thought about how it might mean that his son did not love him.
As with most bad things in his life, the tragedy began with a frantic man carrying a message with him to share. It was how he’d found out about Daemon’s treachery, about his father’s plan to send away his children, about his wife’s passing, about the Great Spring Sickness….
….It was how he found out about Aegon’s childish escape, brought by a Stark guard clutching a piece of paper addressed not to him but to his guest. His guest whom had ridden out already, leaving the prince to find out the situation from another mouth.
He read the letter with shaking hands, receiving a horrible dejavu of things that had already happened.
Ser Duncan,
I’m sorry for scaring you like this, but I’ve decided to take my horse and my sword and to return to Winterfell on my own. I know that you made me promise not to run away again after that incident with the Karstarks when I was twelve, and I promise that I will not argue or cry for any punishment you give me for having done this, but please understand that I have no other choice but to take matters into my own hands.
I know that you only want what is best for me. So I am most certain that you will understand this decision of mine well. I do not want to stay South. Not now, not forever. Whatever blood ties I have to these people in this place- wherever my rightful place is supposed to be -I reject it all. I only know one home, Ser, and that home is called the North. You have always taught me to value loyalty and honour above all. Well, I have decided to follow your teachings. It was you and the people of Winterfell who have raised me for all of my life, and it is them I choose to be my home.
Please tell the Prince of Summerhall that he won’t need to worry about me at all ever again. He can go focus on Aerion or whomever else I have for brothers and sisters. The blood of the dragon may flow through my veins, but I would gladly replace it with yours, if I only could. I’ll happily renounce any inheritance or claim I may have, should it be a concern. I swear by the old gods and the new that I will never come to challenge anyone else’s claims ever again. Not to Summerhall, not to the throne should it come to that, not even to the name Targaryen or the title of a prince should it come down to it.
I belong with you. Not in some castle I don’t know.
Please don’t be too worried about me. I have taken plenty of provisions and all the coin of my allowance as well as a map of the Kingsroad, with me. I also took Thunder, for which I am also very sorry, so I can make the trek back as fast as I can. The maesters always said that I was a good rider and could find my way perfectly fine on my own, so rest be assured that I will arrive safely. I even wrote Lady Rafe back home so she wouldn’t be surprised- since she was so cross with me the last time I did something like this -just as you told me I should do whenever we took a detour when travelling.
I beg of you, let me do this for myself.
In the most faithful of love towards you,
Egg, Ward of Lord Duncan Stark
XXX
There were a few times when Maekar would say that he'd ever been scared down to his very bones. He could count them on one hand.
First, when he roughhoused with Rhaegel after pestering him about it as a child and accidentally broke his arm with an unpracticed tumble.
Second, at Redgrass Field when he lost sight of the battle happenings and, for just a split second, had come to fear the possibility of their fight being lost, forsaking the lives of his brother and family alongside.
Third, when the septa had taken his infant son from his very arms to vanish into a wheelhouse, hearing his cries of discontent even as the caravan departed from his sight across the hill.
Fourth, when he heard Dyanna's screams of agony subside and saw the maester who pulled his youngest daughter from her hurry to present the child, as if hoping to glimpse but a final moment of consciousness from the woman to gaze upon the product of her love.
Fifth, right now. Riding desperately to catch up with his son attempting to travel the Kingsroad on his own.
His own flesh and blood who had run away from him. Who had said, over and over to everyone but him, that he did not view it as his own home. That he hated it here. That he was afraid of spending even a singular season locked in what to him must seem like a golden cage. Leaving nothing but a letter in his wake to explain his absence, addressed not to Maekar but to Lord Stark. The man who had already ridden ahead of them all in an even more desperate attempt to return home.
The cool wind stung against his face. The sound of hooves hitting the gravel ground blended into a single rush of sound in his ear. Maekar barely took the time to retrieve a proper cloak, a decision that made itself known when he felt wet morning mist seep through his layers and into his skin. Still, the man could not find it within himself to care.
Why, he wanted to ask. Why did my own son detest him so?
Surely he had made his mistakes already. Mistakes he would apologise for, if given the chance. But the boy had been hesitant from the start. Had not wished to return at all, if any of the things he had found out the past few days held true. Why would Aegon elect to stay in a frozen desert over Summerhall?
And, perhaps more selfishly, what did that northern brute have that I did not?
The iron scent of blood lay heavy in the air. It made Maekar think of things he would have rather exiled from his mind entirely.
Faster. He had to go faster. They were already at a disadvantage - by the gods, that scent - the Kingsroad was dangerous. No matter who you were, it was a foolish plan to try and travel it alone. Even more so if you bore the silvery hair of a prince.
His boy could be hurt.
His boy could be dead.
His boy, slain on the side of the road. For his coin or his horse or for the crime of his blood by their enemies who were still aplenty. He could starve or die from sickness or the cold. He could fall from his horse. He could lose track of his direction and get lost. He could—
He could—
Aegon could—--
In the end, he arrived late.
By the time the prince had caught up to the one he had chased, he walked into a massacre. Five men, robbers most likely, lay strewn about. One with a slit throat, the rest with cleaved limbs and cut-off heads. It all felt surreal. How had he not come in time?
He had thought he could save the boy.
Lord Duncan Stark heaved heavily, ripping the blood-splattered blade from the corpse of one of the men. Aegon sat on the ground, ruffled but luckily mostly seeming uninjured. His horse had run; the evildoers before them must have thought it easiest to scare the poor steed, so it threw him off. Then they could take their fill and their loot off him.
Lord Stark didn’t even acknowledge him. Suddenly he was thankful for how little the man had deigned to delay once he discovered the letter. When had he arrived? How had they not heard the sounds of a fight?
He had come too late to save his son. Someone else had taken his place there already.
Maekar watched, like a visitor to a theatre, how Aegon looked at his guardian before scrambling up. He was a cloud in the sky, a star or the sun, peering down upon the earth's surface. Present but ever distant, unable to intervene. An existence on the periphery of it all. Witness to tales not his own.
His son, desperate and bloodied, stumbled past him into the arms of Lord Duncan. The elder didn’t even hesitate to open his grasp, pressing the boy into his side and hiding him from the world with his cloak. “It's fine,” he comforted, “it's fine. I'm here now. You're safe. You're safe now. I've got you.”
Their bodies slotted together in an easy familiarity he'd only ever known with his own sire. It did not matter, he realised, that his son wept like a five-year-old boy instead of the five-and-ten-year-old youth he truly was, into the arms of the Stark. It never did. Not truly.
It did not matter if he preferred northern clothes. It did not matter if he wore the sigil of a wolf instead of a three-headed dragon. It did not matter that he knew how to track animals across open terrain, or that he called Lord Stark simply by his knight title, or that he sought out his arms over those of Maekar.
His boy was horribly, terribly loved. And that alone ought to be enough.
“I'm sorry,” the younger sobbed, “I- I didn't want to— I- I was just so scared that they'd force me to stay, and—”
“And I won't leave you, Aegon.” Lord Duncan finished for him, “I'm sorry for scaring you. I won't allow anyone to take you against your will. I promise. I'll never abandon you.”
Some of the guards who had ridden with them came over. He ordered the men to clean the mess of bodies and secure whatever they could. Chances are they were simple robbers, though one could never be too sure. He did not approach his weeping child, nor did he order them separated. The few Stark men Lord Duncan had brought with him were busy fussing over their liege and his squire.
Still, his eyes found those of the younger noble. Silent understanding passed between them.
That evening, Maekar sat down in his solar and penned a letter to his brother.