Chapter Text
In his childhood, Father always bid him to be patient. To be calm. To allow others the benefit of doubt. How his father expected Maekar to develop this gift to this day, as he stood on the cusp of becoming a man, confound him.
While his father asked Maekar to develop patience, his mother, instead, worked tirelessly to test it.
As a young boy, he had not known better. But as he grew older, he came to notice the disdain and distance with which his mother treated him with.
In her eyes, in her voice, in her absence. Her neglect of him could have been reasonable. She was a busy woman. The queen of a realm. But the way she treated Maekar’s elder brothers was so obvious in its favor that on Maekar’s thirteenth nameday he learned his mother ensured she would be away every year, not because she was called away on some queenly duties, but rather because she could simply not stand the sight of him on that day.
“I am barren, now, because of you.” These cruel words had been Maekar’s gift the morning of his sixth nameday. It had meant little to him then. He had absorbed her words as perhaps a little secret she wanted to share with him.
Maekar chuckled to himself at recalling the memory. He was so pitiful. He had been so naïve.
On his fifteenth nameday, his father had managed the task of gathering the family for the celebration. A tourney was held at Dragonstone, and along with it, all its accompanying festivities.
Maekar had just unhorsed some middling knight with a red apple on his chest for a crest. Sweaty and eager for the next joust, he made the trek to his tent to prepare for his next ride. As he drew near, the scent of caramel sweets lingered at the entrance.
His mother was here.
He entered his tent, and there she stood. The proud woman that she was, she often refused to wear the blacks and reds of the Targaryen house, opting for the golds and yellows she wore today. From her ears and hair hung golden trinkets, twinkling in the soft candlelight of his quarters.
“Congratulations, Maekar.” She said with a courteous, placid smile on her lips.
Maekar respectfully bowed his head but kept his distance.
“Thank you, Mother.”
She flinched at the title, not bothering to hide her displeasure. Maekar pretended not to notice as he walked closer to where she waited for him.
Beside her, a young boy stood dressed in the drab uniform those that worked in the forge often wore, and in his hands, there was a covered parcel wrapped in a fine, red velvet cloth.
“Observant, boy,” his mother followed his gaze, the words lacking the warmth of praise, instead her tone took a sarcastic and dry cadence, “Just as a fourth son should know, his place is a precarious one, so, my gift to you as you reach the age of five and ten is this.”
She turned and took the parcel from the boy’s hands, undid the tie that held the fabric together and pulled from it the hilt of a sword, the blade sheathed in black leather, the pommel a smooth ivory, bone white.
It was small. A thin ceremonial thing. When he unsheathed the blade, it was obvious it was too thin to survive the weight of battle. On closer inspection, it almost appeared blunt, like something you’d give a child.
She’d meant to insult him. A small weapon for a small boy, came the unspoken words that glinted in her hazel eyes.
Maekar understood her intention was to anger him. To rankle a reaction to dampen his mood. His father’s voice echoed in his head, begging him for patience.
Unfortunately, for his father, Maekar never bothered to learn and put to practice the meaning of that word.
“Why give me this?” He foolishly took the bait. To hell with it.
“For you, to take into battle one day.”
“Mother, it would be a death sentence.”
She knew this.
“As you know, Maekar, second sons earn their worth in the battlefield. Fourth sons like you should know their glory only lies in an honorable death.” There was girlish mirth in her eyes, as if she’d just said a naughty jest.
“You wish for me to die?”
“Stupid, foolish boy, I wish for you to know your place.” She stalked closer, her sweet scent turning his stomach, “I wish for you to know your duty. To know that you are not your own. That you must swear yourself, body, mind, and soul to the realm.”
“Is Your Grace questioning my loyalties?”
“I see the way you look at your brother, Maekar,” his eyes nearly bulged out of his head, “I know exactly where your loyalties lie, my boy.”
Maekar’s throat had gone dry, yet bile rose and burned, the taste of his morning meal itched, eager to come up and out. He said nothing and stayed silent, too afraid he would be sick where he stood.
“I only need you to promise me one thing, my son. Promise me you will know your place and swear to protect your family, no matter the cost.”
He met her eyes, the warm honeyed green brown of them so jarring when worn by this cold, spiteful woman. Nonetheless, Maekar knew trouble was on the horizon with the passing of his grandfather, he knew soon he would be called to serve. The answer he would give his mother was one he’d known from the moment he was born.
“I swear I will protect the realm and our family with my life, mother.”
For the first time in a long time, the smile she gave him was genuine.
**
The days and the moons and the time pass, already he had reached the age of six and ten. The time had passed with one goal in his mind: Become the human incarnation of The Warrior.
At his age, he would soon become a man.
Tall, broad, and bulky with muscle, finally he’d grown to the point where he could taunt the King’s Guard to true anger. To taunt them into driving brutal blows against him, to bloody and bruise him as any other common, mortal man.
During the day’s training, the guard he sparred with had dealt him a savage blow. The blade had been a dull, wooden sword, yet nonetheless it had split the tender skin of his face open and had nearly gouged his eye out of its socket.
There was a bloody gash across his left cheek, up and over his temple. His eye had swollen shut. The maester had had to take needle and thread to close the wound, staunch the bleeding and encourage the skin to seal shut once more.
Maekar sat in front of the polished slab of silver in his rooms. He stared at his reflection and pressed at the reddened skin where a scab had begun to form. The skin was so tender it drove a sharp shard of pain across his head, over his scalp, that tingled down his spine.
The pain made him giddy. Excitedly he thought surely the wound would scar, a testament not only to his survival, but to his strength too. The Warrior existed within him, and one day he should live up to the promise he made to his mother.
Lost in thought, Maekar had not noticed the banging at the door.
“Maekar, it is your brother, open the door.” Baelor continued to knock at the door, twisting the knob.
Maekar bristled at his demands, at his audacity to think he could barge in to his rooms.
“Which brother is it?” Maekar shouted, “I have three of those and none of which I’d entertain at this moment.”
There was a huff behind the door.
“Maekar, enough of your games,” the smacks against the door became louder, Baelor twisted the knob again as if it would magically open now, “Why is this door locked? Maekar!”
Maekar stood. He knew his brother well, knew that Baelor would not relent and stand vigil at his door until it deigned Maekar to exit. He turned the lock but pressed his weight against the door, only allowing a small crack of space to open.
On the other side of the door, Baelor pushed, attempting to pry and force himself in, but it would be futile. Maekar had grown, coming of age had favored him. He was much larger than his elder brother now. Baelor already was on the eve of turning five and twenty, yet Maekar could easily see over his head.
On any other given day, Baelor would have heaped great praises on him for it. Would, in jest, call him his Little Big Brother. But behind the door, on this day, his brother’s irritation was only grew the more he struggled against Maekar’s weight pushing at the door.
“Maekar,” came Baelor’s voice, “Maekar I am aware of has transpired. The guard’s man has told me of the incident. Open this door this instant or I shall tell father the guard meant to cut you down with the intention to kill.”
“That is a lie.” Maekar went lax at his shock and the weight pressing against him gave way. Baelor came crashing in but swiftly regained his balance. Maekar rolled his eyes. The least his brother could do right now is fall flat on his face and amuse, but it would not come to be as Baelor stood and made to examine the damage marring his face.
“Why would you lie to father? The guard and I were merely training. Accidents happen. You have your own scars as testament to that.”
“It does not matter, I bear no scars as severe as your current wound,” Baelor moved closer, eyeing the great gash, “My gods Maekar, I would scarcely believe father would doubt me, look at the state of your face.”
“I would deny your claim and call it for the lie it is.”
“Maekar, it would be my word against that of a guard, and who do you believe father would be inclined to believe.”
“I would imagine father would see through your treachery.”
Baelor waved his hand, “And if he did? The rogue would nonetheless be punished for what he did to you.”
“Get out.”
“No, let me examine your eye.”
Maekar slapped his hand away.
“You’ve had your chance to ogle, I’m sure you’ve had your fill, now take it and leave.”
“Seven above,” Baelor profaned below his breath, “Maekar, you could have lost your eye!”
“But I did not, did I?” Maekar moved back, unable to tolerate how close he’d gotten, “This shall never happen again. I’ve spoken to father, and as I’ve said to him, I’ll say to you. This is my lesson and my burden to bear. It serves me right for my idiocy.”
“And what lesson could possibly be worth you nearly losing half your face!”
“Never underestimate your opponent, the battle is not over until the winner declares it so.”
Baelor sighed out, exasperated, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was obvious he’d heard Maekar’s words already from their father, and from the twist of his brow, he was recalling something else they’d discussed that troubled him far more.
“Father also said you plan to leave Dragonstone. That you plan to take up residence in Summerhall to prepare to live there once Lady Dyanna and you are wed.”
It was odd. The distant, forlorn tone he took. His gaze almost empty as he repeated their father’s words.
“Yes,” Maekar answered, “I leave on the morrow to make the trip.”
“You will not.”
Maekar scoffed at his brother’s indignant response.
“You do not command me, brother. I am no child.”
“And yet you are not a man, either.”
“I will be wed two moons from now and expected to produce an heir before year ends. I would dare to say that makes me man enough.” The words sound petulant to his own ears and it irritated Maekar how easily his brother could get under his skin.
At being reminded of the marriage, Baelor’s fury blazed. Maekar knew well his brother had initially balked at his father allowing him to marry so young. When their father had declined Baelor’s advice to allow the courting of other prospects, Baelor had thrown a childish fit.
It was obvious Baelor despised not being in control. Not getting the last word. His beloved brother forgot himself. Too lost being mother’s favorite. Too lost being father’s heir. He often forgot the world did not revolve around him.
And yet…Maekar took notice Baelor always seem to find ways for it to do so.
“Father will be naming me Hand before the court during tonight’s banquet.”
“What do you wish for me to do with that news? It is hardly a surprise.” Maekar lazily began to clap, “Do you wish for me to clap?”
“I wish for you to stay. Do not leave, stay and be my advisor.” If Maekar allowed himself to dream, perhaps he would say his brother was almost pleading, with the way Baelor asked.
Maekar had stopped dreaming long ago.
“I am grateful for the consideration, brother. But you have Aerys and Rhaegel and mother for whatever help you might need. Do not worry, I will write to you from Summerhall when it deigns me to do so.”
Maekar moved to walk away, but Baelor wrapped his palm around his arm, his grip tight, holding him in place.
“Maekar, you do not understand. It was not a question. The decision has been made. I have spoken to father and received his consent. You will not depart for Summerhall. Your belongings have already been boarded with mine. You will be traveling with my party to King’s Landing two days from now.”
Maekar ripped his arm away and spat, “What have you done?”
Baelor said nothing, turned on his heel, and left.