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The crown was heavy. Maekar knew this from birth: he saw its weight on his grandfather’s head, on his father’s, saw how it weighed on his brothers even before it touched their brows.
It never touched Baelor’s, and more’s the pity. Maekar flexed his hand, stretching out aging tendons. He recalled the first lessons in anatomy: skin, meat, ligament, bone; learning where to strike and what those strikes would do. It was one of the first things he learned, as nobody ever expected the fourth son to take the throne. He would exist to support his betters, on the battlefield, on the small council, in matters of heart and state.
Instead, he sat in Summerhall, shrouded in black for sweet Rhaegel, his usual foul mood even fouler. He longed for another rebellion to come ringing, that Aerys and his pet bastard might ring for him, that he might be useful, and hated himself for that treasonous longing in the same measure. But Maekar was a poor father, a worse brother, unworthy of being a Hand, seemingly only good for being an anvil.
Even now, in a rare time with his sons around him, his authority was, as ever, disregarded.
The crown was heavy, aye, but heavier was the disgust that lived in Maekar’s breast.
Rhaegel was dead and burnt, his ashes layed to rest in Summerhall, and the children had gathered out of filial duty more than love. Even Aegon deigned to visit, and yet spent all his time running about with his hedge knight: pestering Daeron, showing off in the courtyard for Daella and Rhae, and always going on about Ser Duncan, Ser Duncan, Ser Duncan.
To his father, Aegon gave dutiful reports, back straight and proud where out of Maekar’s sight it was slouching and uncouth, but all his affection was reserved for his Ser.
Even when he was not singing the peasant’s praises or telling stories that made Maekar’s very blood boil of hardship and cold nights and the liberties taken by the smallfolk, Maekar saw it: he had a father’s eye, and was a man grown besides, and knew what it meant when Aegon’s head turned as if towards the sun whenever the lunk entered the room. He knew how to read the feigned casualness of his posture, how to interpret the particular attention that was granted.
“What a dutiful squire you make, Egg,” Daeron slurred, eyes keen even as the boy pickled. “You never worked half as hard for me.”
“You’re a shit knight,” Aegon retorted, tossing back his hair. He had let it grow, out of boyish vanity perhaps, but hid its silver colour with tinctures and dyes as was the fashion among young people.
Maekar found it garish, but it delighted Lady Kiera to no end. She had done her own curls up in vibrant rose of late, and shared it with Aegon upon his arrival in Summerhall, and now Maekar had to endure his son’s arrogance and attitude from under a riot of pink. He peacocked about in a manner so like Aerion that Maekar was sick with nostalgia and regret, but he kept this information to himself in the name of peace.
Baelor would have found it hilarious, he knew, and flexed his hand again at the thought.
Maekar was too lenient with the boy, but so, too, was Ser Duncan. For all he was quick to threaten a clout on the ear or a tanning, he never struck the boy, instead clapping brotherly hands on his back, ruffling his hair, picking him up bodily and throwing him in the air whenever Aegon succeeded a tricky maneuver in the yard.
Perhaps his own hedge knight, Ser Homeless of Wherever The Fuck who had unhorsed Damon Lannister and struck Baelor with four spears, had done the same with him. Maekar rather thought the both of them could have done with being struck more.
His own Ser had been quick to correct with a backhand or belt, and nevermind that his squire was a prince.
Arthor Celtigar had been stern, demanding, foul-mouthed, and a menace on the training field. Maekar trained with Ser Quentyn Ball, aye, but it was Ser Arthor who watched Maekar tend his arms with a critical eye and sent the entire set clashing to the ground upon finding an errant fingerprint on the breastplate: again, my prince, and this time it had better be spotless.
He was of the blood of Valyria thrice over, a Celtigar by his father, a Velaryon by his mother, and through young Laena the blood of the dragon itself. He had inherited from his mother her silver-gold hair and eyes that shone violet in the sun; from his great-uncle Laenor, he inherited a taste in boy-flesh.
Polish my lance, boy, Ser Arthor would say, and Maekar would sit in the armory for hours until every arm and blade was shining, until his knees were sore and his shoulders aching. And then his Ser would come back for inspection, and Maekar would stand as tall as he could as a weedy boy of ten-and-five, pox-scarred and half-Dornish and called ugly by everyone he had ever known, and he would look his Ser in the eye, defiant.
Sufficient, would drawl the knight, and then, again: now come here and polish my lance, boy.
When Maekar raged about it to his brothers, they would laugh and say: just put up with it, besides, you will enjoy it when you have a squire of your own, won’t you? As if Maekar would deny the faith of his wife, when he had one. As if Maekar would touch another man’s son as he had been touched—he, himself, only a few years older than poor Clement and Eddard Celtigar.
Only Baelor had watched him with mismatched eyes and asked, lightly, Shall I have him killed? To which Maekar could but huff a denial, because a shy and shriveled part of him loved it: the attention, the doing well, the recognition of a task accomplished, the pride. He had earned his spurs, every drop of sweat and blood, every tear, every release.
He saw that same hunger reflected in Aegon now, and it revolted him.
He should have kept Aegon at home, squired him to Daeron, or even himself. Aegon would have grown petty and cruel, more like his brothers than he ever wanted to acknowledge, but at least he would not be panting after an idiot the size of a wall, who was pure of heart and honourable to wit, but who Maekar would never forgive for the sin of stealing his son.
Maekar wondered if Ser Duncan had fucked the boy yet. He wondered how the man would react if Maekar asked. He wondered if his Ser Dead In a Ditch had done the same to him.
He watched Aegon, flushed and growing and so close to manhood, make cow eyes out the window, and slammed a hand on his desk. His brother was dead, his brothers were dead, and his sons were too drunk and too far and too high on adventure to care, his daughters too quiet, all of them eager to leave him.
Maekar was a widower, and was outliving brothers in droves, and his children would leave him the same just as eagerly if they could.
“Enough of your lovesickness,” he barked when he could not take the admiration in Aegon’s tone any longer. “The day you are knighted and we are free of your Ser Duncan cannot come soon enough.”
Aegon watched him with a mulish expression and dull eyes and said a bored, practiced, “As you say, Your Grace.”
The title held none of the affection of Aegon’s reverent Ser.
Maekar wondered when the love drained away. Wondered if Ser Duncan the Tall knew he held Aegon’s heart in his dumb, enormous hands.