Chapter Text
He has always been the eldest son.
When they lived in Flea Bottom, he was the eldest son. When his father was gone for weeks at a time, Dale was the one who kept peace among his brothers, the one who assured them that Father was fine, Father would be home soon.
He was the only one who truly understood why he was gone so often; it was the only way to keep them afloat.
Dale understood responsibility.
When his father told them to pack what little things they had, Dale was the eldest son. He made sure they got everything, that they said what goodbyes were needed to be said. He helped little Maric carefully pack the small wooden knight that Dale coerced a craftsman into giving him.
When Allard was constantly complaining on the trip to Dragonstone, Dale pulled him aside, far enough away that no one could hear them.
“You have to stop complaining,” Dale said, trying to sound as authoritative and stern as possible. “Matthos and Maric will imitate whatever you do, you know that. And it’s rude to Father to be so ungrateful; he worked so hard to get us here.”
“You’re being dull,” Allard said flatly. “Dull Dale.”
But Dale bore the title with dignity; he was the eldest son, after all.
“We’re not in Flea Bottom anymore,” he continued, refusing to let Allard’s comments get to him. “We’re in the castle of the king’s brother. Be polite.”
Dale was the first of his brothers who learned to sail. Father took him out in a small, dark boat and quite literally showed him the ropes. He claimed that Dale was a natural, but he wasn’t so sure. His skill came from hard work, nights spent in Blackwater Bay swimming and sailing and tying knots. Even after moving away from King’s Landing, he kept up his regiment. It was easy on Dragonstone, but when he was at their keep on Cape Wrath he had to walk at least an hour in any given direction to reach the sea. It made him feel trapped.
He spent most of his time on Dragonstone. His mother disapproved of his constant absence from what should have been their home, but Dale had to watch over his brothers whenever they were on that dreary island.
Besides, Father spent nearly all his time on Dragonstone. And the eldest son took after his father.
When Devan was born, Dale was the eldest son. His father moved faster in the waters by himself, so Dale was the one who took his brothers to Cape Wrath. All four of them had varying degrees of sailing ability, but Dale was not only the best of them but the eldest as well. It was his responsibility.
It was strange to Dale that Devan would never know life in Flea Bottom. He would never feel pangs of hunger, he would never worry for weeks on end whether or not his father was coming home. Would Devan even learn to sail?
It was a strange sort of panic that settled within him: what if he had absolutely nothing in common with his youngest brother?
He took to voicing his thoughts out loud to Devan, for he was only a babe and couldn’t actually hear him. At times when his mother and father were simply too tired, Dale jumped at the chance to care for his little brother if only to have someone to talk to.
“I want to go back to Dragonstone,” he said one night, a storm raging outside. “It doesn’t rain as much, and I can swim more. And Lady Selyse will have her babe soon! The two of you will be such good friends. And if not… you’ll always have us. Don’t worry about it.”
Devan, of course, didn’t reply.
“One day I’ll show you around King’s Landing,” Dale continued. “And I can actually buy you a present instead of spending hours convincing a merchant to give it to me. Or stealing it.” At that, he flushed red with embarrassment even though there was no one to hear his confession. “I know it’s wrong, Dev, but I couldn’t do nothing in our worst times.”
Years later, Devan claimed to remember Dale talking to him when he was little. And Dale’s fears of being distanced from him never came to pass.
When the Iron Islands rebelled, Dale was the eldest son. And as the eldest son, he was the one Father chose to accompany him to battle on the Black Betha, a beautiful galley that Dale would give anything to sail. Allard, Matthos, and Maric all looked on with a mix of jealously and nervousness as they departed; they all wished they were in his place, yet worried for his safety.
Dale accepted that, as the eldest son.
“This is not a game, Dale,” Father warned him as the fleet made its way to Fair Isle, Stannis Baratheon at the helm. “This is a real war, with very real consequences.”
Dale nodded along, but he didn’t truly understand what his father is telling him until the battle itself, until he experienced carnage and chaos that he wouldn’t have been able to comprehend before.
Still, he kept a cool head and a steady rhythm, and when the battle was over he was still standing.
He attended the celebration feast in Lannisport, the entire time in awe of the lavishness of the Westerlands. So much gold, so much finery. And yet, he couldn’t help but resent it all; these nobles were able to live rich, extravagant lifestyles while just a few years ago, Dale and his family were starving on the streets of King’s Landing. It wasn’t fair.
But he did not voice such opinions, for they were seated in Lord Stannis’ retinue and Dale refused to bring any sort of embarrassment to the man who raised his family up from nothing.
Father spent most of the night quietly talking with Lord Stannis. Dale didn’t mind, as he found himself excitedly chatting with squires from all around Westeros, the Vale and the Reach and even the North!
Only, it didn’t take long for Dale to realize that he wasn’t quite like the rest of them.
“Who do you squire for?” The flashy, well-scented Loras Tyrell asked him. A Lord Paramount’s son - a far cry from the son of a smuggler.
“I… I don’t,” said Dale. “I aid my father in sailing.”
“You don’t fight with a sword?” A Redfort squire laughed. “What’s the point of battle if you don’t have a sword?”
“How are you gonna get to the battlefield if you don’t have a ship?” Dale snapped, and immediately regretted it. He couldn’t speak to lordlings like this, not even with his family having come so far from that hovel in Flea Bottom.
The squires he had been japing with mere moments ago turned the laughter on him and swiftly left, leaving him feeling more alone than ever.
Dale hoped no one noticed his short-lived fraternization with the highborn squires. But his father always noticed.
“Were they kind?” He inquired as they sailed back to Dragonstone.
“Until they saw I wasn’t one of them,” Dale said glumly. “Once they found out I’m not a squire, they couldn’t get away from me fast enough. No, that wasn’t even it. Once they realized I was lowborn.”
His father put an arm around his shoulder as they stared out into the open ocean. Yet it felt somewhat soured now, knowing what everyone else thought of the sailing he loved so greatly. It would always pale in comparison to knighthood.
“You are ten times the man any of those boys will ever be,” his father said. “They were all born in castles; they’ve never known hardship in their lives. Remember that. Remember where you came from - it isn’t a weakness, Dale. It’s one of your greatest strengths.”
As Dale got older, he began to believe his father more and more. He outgrew his desperation to please those squires, his jealousy of the highborns. The truth was, he loved the sea. He loved his family.
He even loved being the eldest son.
He fulfilled his responsibilities once more when Stannis Baratheon closed off Dragonstone. He sent little Stanny and Steff back to Cape Wrath, where they would be safe from the seemingly inevitable war. He ensured his brothers’ places in the navy were secure: himself and Allard as captains, Matthos as a second, Maric as an oarmaster. Even Devan had a place among the forces as Lord Stannis’ squire. Many lords were aghast at his decision to take a smuggler’s son on as a squire, but he stood firm in his choice. It was no wonder Dale’s father admired him so much.
As the island bustled with chaos, Dale sat his brothers down and gave them the very same talk his father had given him all those years ago, before they set sail to Fair Isle.
“I know how exciting this may seem,” he said, speaking to young Devan especially. “But this is war. It’s real. People will get hurt. People will die. By the gods, don’t treat this as a game.”
At that Devan perked up. “By god, Dale.”
The four older Seaworths eyed each other uncomfortably at the mention of the Lord of Light. None of them had actually spoken with the Red Woman, but they were all wary of her and her strange ways. But Devan was entirely enamored with her and the religion she preached, almost uncomfortably so.
After the brothers dispersed, Matthos lingered behind, eyes full of concern.
“I’m worried about Devan,” he confessed once sure no one else was around. “He’s so invested in this strange religion. That Red Woman has him completely fooled, him and everyone else.”
“Careful now,” Dale said sharply. “I trust Lord- er, King Stannis. No one agreed with him when he made Father a knight, either. And Devan is still a boy; he’ll come to his senses soon enough.”
However, despite what he told Matthos, Dale did not have the time to worry about his brother’s religious beliefs, dangerous as they may be. There was a battle to be fought, after all.
He was the eldest son when he, his father, and his brothers were placed on the starboard wing in the battle, a perilous place. Allard spoke of it excitedly, believing they could earn honor and glory. Clearly, everything Dale said to him about war had gone right over his head.
Father knew the danger they had been forced into. So did Dale.
Still, just as he did at the Battle of Fair Isle, Dale kept a cool head. He managed his crew well. He faced the battle with dignity.
But when wildfire ravaged Blackwater Bay, nothing Dale did could stop it.
He accepted his fate, letting the green flames consume him. And in his last moments, he did as the eldest son ought to: he prayed for his brothers.