Chapter Text
Valarr.
Matarys’ laughing squeals could be heard down the hall as Valarr made his way to his little brother’s chambers. There was soft barking and little yaps accompanying the laughter. Valarr felt his chest swell as the grin on his own face grew wider. He gave a short nod to Ser Roland Crakehall at the door before entering inside, leaving Ser Oskar alongside his Sworn Brother.
Valarr’s brother was on the floor, with two dogs barking and tugging on his clothes. It was clearly play, a large bone from some beast in the boys hands, and he was still laughing as they yanked on him.
“No, Dawn!” Matarys squealed, as the dog licked over his face, yapping.
They were months older than they’d been at the wedding, when Matarys had gifted them to Valarr and Daeron, and Valarr had entrusted their training to his brother. The training was meant to be as hunting dogs, and should have been trusted over to the Kennelmaster, but Matarys had kept the puppies with the promise to shape them.
“I thought you were training them?” Valarr said, alerting his brother to his presence. He smiled wide as Matarys’ head whipped to see him. “They don’t look very trained.”
“They are, brother!” Matarys said, untangling himself from the other dog’s legs. The dog gave an affectionate nip at the boys hand, but neither stopped the young omega from standing on his own feet, seeming to know the limits of play. “We are only playing, you understand.”
“Do hunting dogs play?”
“These ones do,” Matarys said, smiling wider. He still had the bone in his hand, and gave it a little pap against the palm of his hand. “Do you want to see a trick?”
“Show me.”
“Alright,” Matarys turned. Dawn and Vēlos were still moving, having turned their attention to one another instead of the Even Younger Prince. “Alright. Eyes!”
The dogs did not alert to the word. Valarr stifled a laugh behind his hand, his eyes amused as he watched Matarys turn a bit red beneath his freckles.
“Dawn! Vēlos!” Matarys said, more conviction in his voice. Both dogs ears turned back and their heads turned up to look at him. “Sit. Sit!”
Dawn sat, but Vēlos took a moment longer to do so. Soon both dogs were sitting, and Matarys looked quite proud. Valarr almost thought that was the end of it, but apparently not for a moment later his brother held the bone up.
“Dawn,” his brother said. “Spin!”
Valarr did not know what he thought the dog would do. For her to rise up onto her hind legs and spin in a funny circle had him laughing so hard he almost missed the bright grin on his brother’s face. Dawn gave a short bark, and Matarys presented her with the bone. Vēlos whimpered, a sad whine, and Matarys hurried to the table where another bone lay waiting and got it while the dogs sister scampered off to eat her prize in peace.
“Alright, now, Vēlos,” Matarys said, grinning brightly with pride that his trick had worked. “Vēlos, up!”
The dog rose, on his hind legs as well. He barked, and was given the bone. Vēlos scampered as well, off to find Dawn, and perhaps to enjoy their treats together.
“Does he not spin?” Valarr asked, with a grin. He reached for Matarys and pulled him close, ruffling his hair with means to mess it up. His brother’s clothes needed straightening after his romp on the floor, so messing up his hair did not bother the elder much.
“Stop!” Matarys said, as he appeared bothered that his hair was being jostled. “No, Vēlos does not spin. He doesn’t understand it, and the last time I bid him to do so he wet on my rug.”
“Perhaps you should turn them over to the Kennelmaster, if they are so misbehaved,” Valarr teased. Matarys slapped his hand away again, but the alpha only ruffled further before finally releasing him.
“Not yet,” Matarys said, and Valarr knew he’d have no hunting dogs from the pair. It was alright. He did not grieve the loss of the wedding gift, and knew Daeron would not either, if it made Matarys happy.
“Are you ready to go?” Valarr asked. He stopped messing with Matarys’ hair, and assisted in righting the unruly ruddy brown strands while Matarys fixed his own clothing. “Father sent me to fetch you.”
“Where’s Daeron?” Matarys wondered, once he adjusted his fine raiment. He was dressed very properly, despite his play on the ground of his chamber. He was just a boy, and if any noticed, it would be excused.
“He’s with Uncle,” Valarr said. Matarys’ hair was righted, and the elder brother took but a moment to fix the Targaryen crested pin on the boys shoulder before deeming him sorted. “They’ve moved for the Great Hall ahead of us. I’ve come to collect our guest of honor.”
Matarys was two-and-ten today.
He had spent the morning with Baelor and Valarr, before Daeron and the girls joined him. They’d done things of interest to the boy, and Valarr promised that next year they could arrange a hunt in celebration instead when Matarys expressed interest in it.
A tournament would be held after the start of the new year to celebrate the crowning of King Baelor II, but the feast in celebration of his youngest sons name day was the first occasion since the coronation. It pained Valarr a bit to know how many came just to see the new King, and not in joy of his brother. It was why the morning had been taken for family. The feast would last seven days, tonight only the start of it.
Valarr had never felt so proud, or afraid, when his father was crowned.
Even Daeron’s kidnapping, and the kidnapping of his brother, which had been such a frightful occasion, did not instill the lingering dread of seeing his father crowned. As a boy, when he could ignore that his father becoming King meant his Grandfather was dead, he’d been excited one day to see Baelor sit the Iron Throne.
Now, as he was older, he knew the responsibility that the throne brought. With Baelor crowned, Valarr was next in line. The Heir, the successor.
He knew Daeron was dealing as well as he could with the fact that, since being named the Hand of the King, Valarr had been busier than before. And now, after Matarys’ name day celebrations were concluded, Daeron’s father and sisters would leave for Dorne. Fear, uncertainty, it lingered but Valarr did his best to work with it and not against it.
He wanted to be strong for his wife, his family, and his unborn child.
Valarr took his hand to the upper part of Matarys’ back and led him from his chambers. Ser Oskar, who had waited the door, followed along with Ser Roland. Together the group came down to join what was only the start of seven days of food, performers, and noise.
Though both Baelor and Daeron still had plastered casts on their bodies, they sat at the elevated table on the dias alongside the other Targaryen’s. Matarys joined their father with a firm hug, kissing his cheeks as Valarr surveyed the reactions upon their arrival.
News of Matarys’ presentation as an omega had spread throughout the Realm after the funeral of King Daeron the Good. Valarr knew that some would look with critical eyes when he was treated so different from Maekar and his brood. Valarr saw the looks on the faces of the guests at his brother’s own celebrations, and how they followed the Even Younger Prince carefully and with judgement.
“Valarr,” Daeron’s voice called him from his musing. He looked to his wife with a smile, feeling happiness reenter his heart where lingering thought of fear and uncertainty had been taking root.
He had already seen Daeron, of course, but he was beautiful. His hair was clean and tied back, and while Valarr preferred it down he did enjoy the unobstructed view it gave of his neck — and bite — poking beyond the high collar of his tunic. His face was shaven and clean, and his skin looked as soft as Valarr knew it to be from kissing it earlier, before the feast.
Since the confirmation of his pregnancy, Valarr had been unable to keep his hands off Daeron. It did not help that with every passing day, his wife’s scent grew stronger and sweeter. Daeron did not typically have an overly sweet scent, but now it was like cream on fruit. He wanted it on his tongue.
Valarr cleared his throat and moved to sit beside his wife. He took his hand and placed a kiss to the finger that bore their matching rings. His brother’s name day feast was not a place to think about how he could get his wife on his tongue. Such thoughts were better saved for later, when action could be taken.
The feast was as grand as any other Valarr had attended. The food was catered to their wealth, but also Matarys’ taste. There were enough desserts when it was time for their rounds to blacken the teeth of even the sweetest babe, and Valarr watched with glee as his brother devoured cake after pie.
Valarr sat beside his wife, who sat beside Maekar and his girls. To Valarr’s side was Matarys, and then his father and their Grandmother. The Queen Dowager had been scarce since the passing of King Daeron the Good, but neither Valarr nor Baelor wished to let her simply slip away into her grief. It was good, in a way, to have such celebrations of life after death.
The young alpha still held upset and anger in his heart for his Grandfather, but he could not sully the thought too much after his passing. It was true, that death did make the heart grow fonder. He wondered if it was a betrayal to his family to wish the previous King had held on a bit longer.
He watched as his Grandmother laughed behind quiet, and sad, eyes as she held her plate out to collect the candied lemon rinds off the cakes that Matarys did not want.
Daeron gave his hand a squeeze and Valarr looked over to him. He gestured, with his eyes, down the table where Maekar was smiling fondly at his two daughters as they cut open a small pie and cherry fruit fell out alongside the freshly poured sweet cream.
“Are you having a good time?” Daeron asked, leaning in to whisper in Valarr’s ear, in order to be heard over the entertainment that was singing a song of glory and roses.
“I’m glad we’re all together,” Valarr answered, because it was the sole reason for any happiness in his heart. “Matarys is enjoying himself.”
“Let us see how much joy he feels after seven days of indulgence,” Daeron laughed. He took up his wineglass, the only cup he was allowed a day without too much watering down, and sipped from it slowly with shaking fingers.
Valarr watched, and drank from his own, a small smile on his lips as announcements for a puppet show were called, and a tall Dornish girl dressed as a flower came along with puppets for all to see.
“Do you think he liked his gifts?” Daeron asked, as the maid removed his delicate clothing. He was tired, Valarr could see that plainly on his face.
Valarr, who typically changed in the other room but could not bring himself to leave Daeron of late, nodded his head.
“Yours more than mine,” Valarr sighed. He shook his head when the maid asked if he’d like a bath. “And father’s more than ours.”
“Yes, that was quite skillful of him, was it not?” Daeron grinned. “To give him such a fine warhorse implies much cunning. Matarys was very taken with it.”
“He’s growing fonder of animals as he grows taller,” Valarr watched as the maid servicing Daeron finished and soon both women escaped beyond the servant passage. “I was shocked he wanted a hunt next year. Perhaps he’ll change his mind.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t understand a hunt means death?” Daeron wondered. “Though I doubt that’d be the case. Maybe he thinks the suggestion makes him a man. He will be three-and-ten next year, and some men are married by then.”
“Do not remind me of the prospects of marriage regarding my brother,” Valarr groaned. He walked to his wife, and took him in his arms. Daeron and he might have spoken, but not before Valarr tipped and caused them to fall upon the feather mattress, bouncing lightly with no harm done from the fall. “I cannot begin to think of such heartbreak and peril. He’s too young.”
“He has flowered,” Daeron teased.
Valarr felt his wife’s mouth on his neck, kissing as his broad nose drug up the pulse of him before chasing each heartbeat with another kiss.
“Do not say such terrible things,” Valarr complained. “Ugh, you’ve turned my stomach, my love.”
“I think you’re just bitter he did not enjoy your name day gift to him.”
“He liked it,” Valarr said, pulling back with a frown. “It is a fine chest.”
“But it is only a trunk.”
Valarr laughed. He sat up and moved to help Daeron properly into the bed. While the fall had given no hurt, he perhaps should have been more careful of his plastered foot. But it looked like Daeron was well aware, as the lump of hardened bandage was propped up and seemed in no pain as he got properly into the bed. Valarr made a show of tucking Daeron in, up to his chin, and enjoyed the bemused look on his wife’s face.
“The dagger you gave him is a match for your own,” Valarr reminded him. “My gift was original. You only copied your brother.”
“That offense demands action, Valarr,” Daeron teased. He moved to get free, but with how tightly he was tucked he struggled. The blond frowned with a pout, and hurried to get his arms out — but Valarr only grinned and held the coverlets to keep him there.
“Such action as?” Valarr said, his mouth wide in a grin.
“Release me and I will show you.”
“Free yourself, my love, and then show me.” Valarr leaned in to kiss him.
Daeron did not return the kiss, which only made Valarr laugh, as he knew Daeron was doing it only to be difficult. He could work with difficult. Turning his head slightly, he kissed him a bit sweeter. While Daeron did not return the kiss, he was not actively denying it either. It was easy to part his lips with his own and press his tongue inside. He felt the moment Daeron gave in, for he kissed him back with a soft sigh.
“You are maddening,” Daeron whispered, against his mouth. Valarr only laughed again.
“Me?” Valarr asked, licking back when Daeron clicked his teeth at him. He released his grip on the covers and kissed Daeron with barely hidden amusement as his wife clawed himself free of his coverlet confinement.
Valarr rolled when Daeron rolled them. He put his hands in his omega’s hair to keep his mouth against his. He didn’t know how much strain leaning over him put on Daeron’s foot, but he trusted his wife to be wary of it as they kissed. Daeron pushed up the hem of Valarr’s nightshirt, and he felt his hand go over his torso to run through the hair on the alphas chest.
“Curse my foot,” Daeron said, a bit breathy against his mouth.
“Why?” Valarr wondered. They’d had sex since his injury, and while he was in no way pleased Daeron had it — it had only made them a bit more careful, not hindered their coupling.
“I cannot ride you with it,” Daeron said, pulling back enough to pout. Valarr felt his cock jolt at the thought of Daeron on his lap once more. It was a good thought, and perhaps a thought that would not come true until long after their child was born.
“I can still make love to you,” Valarr reminded him.
“Yes, but I want to sit on your lap and watch you writhe for me,” Daeron sighed. He leaned away from Valarr to fall onto his back. The alpha pushed himself up, and shucked off his nightshirt for favor of nudity and more enjoyable activities.
“I’ll writhe above you,” Valarr teased. He helped Daeron be free of his own clothing, tossing it somewhere beyond the bed to be found by a maid on the morrow.
“It is not the same,” Daeron complained.
Valarr paid the complaint no mind.
He leaned in and pressed his lips against one dusky nipple, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. Be it the pregnancy or learned behavior, Daeron was growing more receptive to his chest being the object of affection each time. Valarr felt the shiver run through him at the sweet sound he was rewarded with as he took the nipple between his lips and suckled softly. His hands ran down the length of his wife’s flank to push inside his smallclothes, deft fingers wrapping around his hardening cock with little thought past pleasuring him.
“Valarr,” Daeron purred. The sound was sweet and home to him. He nuzzled into his slight breast and nipped softly at a mark he’d left there previously. “Gods, you’re mouth is going to leave me looking sick with the pox.”
Valarr laughed around the flesh in his mouth. He had nothing to say to that, and only teased his fingers up Daeron’s shaft instead. His wife bucked his hips with a breathy sound, and Valarr twisted to move his biting mouth down Daeron’s body. He licked along his ribs, tasting the soft marks on his skin until he was at his navel.
His hand worked over his cock as quick as it could with the dry friction, though he could smell the slick leaking from him. He licked his navel gently, teasing with his tongue to hear the shuddering breaths Daeron always drew in. His tongue traced circles along the coarse hair beneath, and Valarr paused at the soft swell there.
It wasn’t anything really, the curve of his belly. Barely a thought to mention, and nothing to notice. But it was there. He pressed his face against the gentle swell and kissed softly, licking over his skin before peppering the wet flesh with his lips. He didn’t realized he’s stopped stroking Daeron’s cock until he felt the blond run a hand through his hair, caressing the pale streak along the side as he often did.
“What is it?” Daeron asked, and Valarr looked up to see his face. His hair was undone, soft and beautiful, framing him in the moonlight. Valarr’s chest tightened with how much he adored him. The obsession he called love had only grown stronger, especially as the sweet scent of his wife grew thicker.
“Do you think it’ll be a boy?” Valarr asked, despite the fact he didn’t want to derail too much from his course of action. He slipped his hand away from Daeron’s cock, still inside his smallclothes, to get between the cleft of his arse. It was not enough room to finger him properly, but he could still trace the soft wet opening of his body and press one finger inside before Daeron even answered him.
Daeron tipped his head back and yanked hard on Valarr’s hair with a gasp.
“Maybe,” he groaned, feeling the exploratory finger inside him. Valarr liked all the stages of Daeron’s arousal. “Maybe it’s a girl. Would that displease you?”
“No,” Valarr said. He rested his cheek against Daeron’s belly, as if he could hear the babe inside. He pressed his finger deeper, then pulled back a bit to crook it shallowly and find the bump that made his wife’s toes curl. “A girl would be ours just the same. But a boy would quiet any contesting words.”
“Fuck —!” Daeron whimpered. His hips jerked, and Valarr’s head bounced on his belly. Valarr grinned and paid greater attention, until the pleasure had Daeron whimpering and whining for more in a different way.
“I don’t care,” Daeron gasped, continuing their conversation. Valarr shifted as best he could to try and yank Daeron’s smallclothes off as well now, but without removing his finger. He was blessed with the help of his wife, who wiggled and managed to kick the fabric off his feet past the end of the bed without too much disruption.
“About what?”
Valarr pressed a second finger inside his mate as Daeron spread his legs for him. He peppered soft kisses on his belly, pointedly ignoring his cock as he stretched the blond open with scissoring fingers.
“The sex of the babe,” Daeron said, his voice breathy. “Right now I care only about your fingers inside me.”
“It is a more pressing matter …” Valarr purred. He scraped his teeth over the jutting bone of Daeron’s hip. He hoped as the pregnancy progressed, there’d be more meat on his wife’s body and health in his cheeks.
“Please, Valarr,” the omega begged as he tried to roll his hips back towards the fingers inside him. “Gods, you’re teasing me and it is unfair, love.”
“How is it unfair?” Valarr asked. He pressed a third finger inside as Daeron arched, heady breaths leaving him, quick and heavy. He knew how Daeron enjoyed being filled, but he was never one to rush too terribly fast through this process.
“I cannot take what I want from you,” Daeron whined.
He whined and moaned as Valarr’s fingers went from simply stretching to slowly fucking inside him in earnest. The movement of his wrists was so second nature to him now, there was no hesitation in his rhythm. He twisted his hand as he worked three fingers in and out of his wet wife, purring with pleasure at the slick sound it made in the night air.
“Yes, your foot,” Valarr said, his voice entirely too controlled for the moment. He pressed another kiss to Daeron’s stomach. “How terrible to be at your husbands mercy.”
“Oh,” Daeron whimpered, seemingly having forgotten he was asking for more. Valarr’s touch was enough at the moment, he could tell. His wife dug the heel of his good foot into the bed, attempting to cant back against Valarr’s touch, as the wet sounds of his fingers inside him grew louder with his increasing tempo.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” Valarr whispered, though he was not sure Daeron could hear him. “Spread out, bare, just for me.”
“Just you —” Daeron moaned. His hands were gripping uselessly at the sheets by his hips, bearing his weight there now and then to lift his middle and arch with each thrust. “Gods, love, your cock, please.”
“My cock?” The brunet asked, teasing in the little finger on his hand as he spread Daeron wide with a scissoring stretch of all three. Daeron groaned at the feeling, and nodded, his hair was sure to be in knots on the morrow from how he was grinding his head against his pillow.
“Your cock, inside me,” Daeron’s words were barely a sentence. But Valarr grinned regardless at the way he begged, how he pleaded. It was sweet, it was salacious, it was his wife.
He pulled his fingers free with a bit of a wet noise, pressing his hand against the bed as he pushed himself back up to kiss Daeron on the mouth. The blond’s grasping hands took up their grip in his hair now, tugging to keep him against him. He licked into Valarr’s mouth, tasting his tongue, as he tried to get any type of friction on his cock.
His wife was typically wanton like this, when in the midst of pleasure, and Valarr would have him no other way. He hated to part from him, but he needed to in order to satisfy him. Their lips left one another with a slightly less wet sound, as Valarr made quick work of his own smallclothes, and tossed them to join Daeron’s.
“On your back, or your knees?” Valarr asked, stroking his own leaking cock with his still-slicked fingers. He spread his wife’s wetness across the shaft, pressing his scent into every grove and vein. Daeron’s eyes watched him, blown and heated. “Daeron.”
“Back,” Daeron said, when the question finally registered with him. “I’d tell you, if not.”
“I know,” Valarr said. He spread Daeron’s thighs apart, stepping forward on his knees to be between them. “And yet I’ll ask to be sure.”
“You’re too courteous sometimes,” Daeron teased, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. “Take what you want of me without so much affectionate preamble.”
“I could never take you without affection,” Valarr leaned in to kiss his mouth again. He gripped Daeron’s hips and gave them a gentle yank to bring his arse closer. Daeron laughed a little bit as he was tugged, but shifted to get comfortable on his back as he let his arms splay above his head, against the pillows. “Look at you. And you ask me to take you without affection.”
“I only meant with more passion,” Daeron grinned. Valarr jerked one eyebrow up, questioningly. He gripped his own cock and rubbed it against the wet slick still leaking out from the omega, his chest rumbling with arousal at the way Daeron whimpered.
“I’m not passionate enough, now?” Valarr challenged. He knew the words were teasing, only a jest, and it was confirmed from the squinted grin Daeron gave him. His wife gave a half-hearted shrug of his shoulders, and wiggled once more when the head of Valarr’s cock caught on the rim of his hole.
“Prove me wrong,” Daeron said, fluttering his lashes at him.
Valarr couldn’t help his laugh. He shook his head and bore back on his haunches. He tilted his head as he watched his cock grow slick as he teased the opening of the omega’s body. Daeron’s breathing was still pitchy, but when Valarr finally began to press inside he heard it hitch into a deep moan.
“Yes,” Daeron sighed, and Valarr watched himself slowly sink into his body as opposed to viewing his face. His own breathing grew slow and low, mesmerized with the sight before him. It was never not enchanting, to see his large cock slip deep inside his wife’s willingly body. His tight wet hole swallowed him eagerly, and rarely with any resistance.
“You’re beautiful,” Valarr said, his voice thick with lust.
His throat was tight, and he went too slow for his wife’s liking. He knew Daeron preferred it quick and hard, but he also was not so uncaring of a husband to not know he also enjoyed it slow and deep on occasion. So long as Valarr was inside him, Daeron rarely complained.
“In?” Daeron whispered, and Valarr looked to his face as he bottomed out. Daeron’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes barely purple for how wide his pupils had grown. His lips were swollen and glossy from Valarr’s own, shining in the moonlight.
“Yes, my love,” Valarr groaned. He leaned in, unable not to kiss him. Daeron’s hands came up; one to his hair, and one to his shoulder. He gripped tightly upon his skin, and held with a firm grip to the brown hair he so enjoyed tugging on.
Valarr would have sat longer inside him without moving, but he was just as compelled by selfish desire as he was to tease. He slowly withdrew, drinking in the sound Daeron made against his mouth as he pressed back in. The thrusts were slow, but deep. There was nothing shallow about it as he began a steady pace, the sweet wet sound of his cock sinking in each time paired beautifully with Daeron’s whimpers.
“Valarr,” Daeron said against his husbands mouth, but nothing else followed the word.
He was pleading for him, his nails biting into the Young Prince’s shoulder. Valarr tilted his head and tasted the backs of his teeth for how deeply he kissed him. The measured movement of his hips grew quicker when Daeron nipped at his lips.
The alpha moaned into his mouth, never one to hold back his sounds for he knew his omega enjoyed hearing them. A particularly slow extraction caused the tip of his cock to catch, and almost miss, entering back inside Daeron, and it caused both of them to gasp with sensitive need.
“Harder,” Daeron asked, his voice hitching a little once more. “Please, love, fuck me.”
Valarr groaned, grinding his forehead against the blond’s. He nodded, and kissed him as he nodded again. The cadence grew quicker, faster, the slapping sound of flesh upon flesh echoing in the room. Daeron was so wet upon his cock that Valarr glided inside him without any resistance.
He longed for louder sounds from Daeron, one hand leaving his hip to grip at his chest. The keening cry that left his wife when he took a nipple between two fingers and thrust inside him deeper was what he wanted.
Daeron broke from the kiss, his head back upon the pillow in writhing pleasure. Valarr gasped for breath as he gripped the one hip still in his hand firmer. He was trying to school himself of late to not be so rough with his body, despite how Daeron insisted he enjoyed seeing a hand shaped bruise or two upon his body.
He was with child, after all.
His child.
Daeron was pregnant with his babe.
A low growling moan left Valarr as he tucked his face between the crook of Daeron’s neck. He released the nipple he’d only just gotten to grip Daeron’s hip again and arch him up higher to better meet his thrusts. There was no slow gentle lovemaking once he remembered, at the front of his mind, that his wife was pregnant by him. He’d swell with his issue, he’d give birth to their child, and all the realm would look upon their creation and bear witness to Valarr’s obsessive love of his wife.
“Valarr!” Daeron sobbed as the pace increased. Both hands were now back upon his shoulders, clawing down his back. The steady slap of Valarr’s thighs upon Daeron’s arse grew louder, reverberating across the room. He could feel Daeron shaking beneath him, his moans and cries of pleasure getting higher in pitch with each thrust.
“Fuck — Yes, yes,” Daeron seemed to weep. Valarr didn’t realize he was licking and suckling at Daeron’s neck until he felt Daeron’s own teeth catch upon his shoulder. Both their heads were tucked into one another’s necks.
“Daeron,” Valarr moaned, his teeth biting down on the mating bond between them. He felt his wife heavier than ever before between the bond. He loved him, he adored him. He had so many plans in his head on ways to make Daeron’s life smooth and easy, and somehow the thought of what he’d do for him spurred on his arousal.
He felt when Daeron began to clench down upon him harder. There was one foot swung around his hips, the plastered one hanging awkwardly upon the bed. Daeron ground it into his back, but Valarr did not care about the pain.
“Valarr —” Daeron gasped, he keened, he moaned. His nails bit harder, and his mouth followed in suit. Valarr smelt the copper smell of blood as Daeron broke skin before he felt the pain of his wife’s teeth in his own mating bond. He was sure he’d spend there with how emotion flooded through him, but Daeron beat him by minutes.
His wife sobbed his name once more, wet with blood and saliva. His cock spent between them as his climax had his body shuddering with pleasure. Valarr bit down upon Daeron’s neck, despite telling himself not to, and lapped at the blood of his bond before suckling the mark sweetly.
Valarr could hear Daeron saying something, declarations of love perhaps, but the alpha was chasing his own peak having brought his wife to his. It took only moments after Daeron’s for his climax to hit him, feeling his own knot beginning to catch upon the rim of his wife’s willing hole. Daeron was carding his hands through Valarr’s hair, breathless words reaching him as he talked to him as he knotted.
“Yes,” Daeron’s words purred, his voice tired but sultry sweet. “That’s it, inside me, my love. Spend inside me, fill me —”
“Daeron,” Valarr tore his mouth from his wife’s neck to kiss him. Their mouths, sticky with blood, tasted one another as they mingled. Valarr’s hips stilling from the knot connecting them together, gasping little moans escaping as they could not help but grind upon one another despite their peaks being reached.
Valarr paused a moment as he looked over the seven men assembled. He tilted his head in consideration. It had taken some time, his request, but he hoped they were all the better for it.
Some men were of his father’s household. Some had come from Maekar’s, and the City Guard, but all were loyal and here to join him. Their past deeds were scrutinized, their actions heavily examined. Valarr did not wish to make the mistake of taking in the wrong man. He wanted loyal dogs who’d die before failing the Blood of the Dragon, not weak wanna-be heroes.
Ser Joar, despite his failure, was still the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He had taken the kidnapping of the princes personally, as he deserved to, and when Valarr called upon him for advice and council — he had been more than willing.
Valarr wanted a complete restructure of the guards of the Red Keep. With his father still mending, his wife pregnant and in plaster, he wanted no opportunity for another tragedy to befall them so close to home. He was, of course, not a man who did not listen to council. A complete restructuring would only invite mistakes, he was told, leave blindspots and possibly miss information previously known. The men who were responsible for slacking at their posts had been stripped of service and banished from King’s Landing, the ones who remained did no true wrong.
Instead, Valarr moved to double the guard.
A complete restructure, no. But with more guards on every access point, and wandering the many halls and corridors of the holdfast, he hoped it would prove to be ran better than before. He hoped it to be safer for his family.
And yet still he had felt lacking.
The guards of the Red Keep were one thing, but there were only so many Kingsguards. He wanted men of his own, men he could command and trust, men he could hold accountable.
And so, he’d looked for men who had proved themselves loyal. A good many names stood out, and while he was careful not to deprive his father or uncle’s households, he also was not shy with the seven he selected. He took, what he hoped to be, good men.
He hoped they’d prove to be good men.
“Ser Armand,” Valarr said, nodding at the man who’d take command of the newly appointed guard. “Begin today, if you would, with Ser Cuthbert.”
Valarr had been pleased to learn of little to no resistance from the master-at-arms when it came to shaping, training, and examining, the skills of the appointed men. He opened his mouth to say something else, with a gleeful cry of Brother! came from high above the yard. Valarr turned to see Matarys, running down a hall with Ser Roland at his heels, waving a bit of paper in his hand.
“Follow Ser Cuthbert’s instruction, I’ll be checking in later,” Valarr waved Ser Armand off and moved to meet his brother halfway. He almost needed to catch Matarys with how he dove off the last step as he bounded down the stairs to him, his cheeks were red with happiness and his eyes shone brightly.
“What’s happened?” Valarr asked, unable to keep his own smile at bay, matching his brother’s. “You could have fallen, dear brother.”
“I would have flown!” Matarys said, giving Valarr a tight hold. He then extended the paper in his hand as his guard, Ser Roland, observed them from above. “Oh, brother, look!”
Valarr looked.
It was a scrap of paper, a raven scroll. He took it from Matarys and read it over, his eyebrows going up on his forehead as he got through the hastily scrawled lines.
Matarys, the scroll began. Please know I am well. I have written to Father, and Daeron. We are well. I am sorry it took long to write. Please, if you would, keep Rhae company. She’s afraid of thunderstorms still. I will not tell you where we are, but my belly is full and the air is good. Much love, your dear cousin, Aegon.
“It’s Egg!” Matarys was bouncing on his feet. “Brother, Aegon wrote to us — he’s alright, he’s fine!”
“Thank the gods he’s kind enough to write,” Valarr murmured, his brows knitting.
The disappearance of two princes and a knight of Baelor’s house had been a point of contention between Valarr and his wife.
It had been one of the few arguments they’d had of late. Daeron seemed to be of the opinion that, since Aerion chose to leave, it was fine. Valarr did not agree. They’d argued, but decided to agree to disagree since neither of them had heard news of Maekar’s sons since their hasty escape, after little Visenya had been laid to rest in her small urn.
“Shall we go see what he wrote to Daeron?” Matarys asked, almost rocking back with how he still bounced.
“It is likely to be much of the same,” Valarr tried to say, but his brother took his hand and tugged.
Matarys had been rather gleeful and bold with his affection of late.
There was a sad period, after Aegon left, where Valarr wondered if he’d get over the heartbreak of losing all his playmates at once. But then Daeron had come to keep him company, and his little brother’s name day festivities had unlatched wherever he held his joy to let it be free once more with them. Valarr could not help but wonder if part of the reason his brother seemed so free with his happiness was that there was no longer a snake of a Septa in his ear, whispering poison.
Septa Lully had been apprehended.
She’d been caught before boarding a ship, dressed like a fishwife and pretending to be a woman of the Old Gods. It was a fanciful farce, and the men who’d taken her in had not treated her with much care. When she arrived, in common clothes, she was ostracized by members of the Faith for rebuking the Seven in her attempts to escape.
It still had been a bit of a scandal when she died in the Black Cells.
A trial had occurred, with all members of Lord Royce’s House in attendance. Even Lord Royce’s great father had attended, having come to collect his sons body. It was a crime to go against the crown, and all knew they would be judged guilty, but the trial had been held regardless. There were no cries for champions and combat, no pleas to take the Black.
When verdicts were met and judgement held, most were granted a form of leniency, to be carried out in due time.
Derk, one of the few men who’d survived to go to trial, alongside the handless man named Broth, had given up many names for such leniency. Derk asked for a swift death, and Broth begged that he had already paid his dues with his hands. Even Septa Lully, when her trial was held, pleaded that she’d lose her tongue and join the Silent Sisters if it meant keeping her life. They’d spoken of others involved in the plot, and the further trials that would commence caused a stir throughout King’s Landing that was only overshadowed when prisoners started to die.
It began slowly, with Septa Lully. She was the first to die, and perhaps went the most painfully as they did not see it until she was in the depths of it. The guards of the Black Cells had called for a maester when she was found covered in blood and vomit. The food allowed to her untouched, and horrible sores found around her mouth and face. She’d died with the maester’s insisting she was plagued by some horrible sickness.
A horrible sickness that spread throughout the Black Cells, and touched all of those who’d gone — or were yet to go — to trial. Some died swiftly, having taken to hanging themselves with their own clothes upon the bars as opposed to dying from the plague.
In the end, only two had survived.
A maid and a serving boy were left untouched, pulled from the cells when their crimes were deemed less enough to be saved from the horror beneath the Red Keep. They had only delivered a few notes, after all. Their confident had kept them far enough away to not be touched by foul air, but they had heard the screams of the dying. They had been sent home with Lord Royce’s great father, to speak of what had happened in fear and terror.
With Septa Lully’s renouncement of the faith for her escape, the crimes against children, and all the peril brought down upon the royal house — some spoke that the sickness was the Father’s judgement upon those wicked outlaws.
Valarr knew better, of course. And the men he sent through the passageway that connected the Tower of the Hand to the Black Cells would never confess what they’d known either.
A gold dragon was good for keeping a loyal man quiet. But a vile man who knew the way of poison and treachery could not be kept quiet with anything less than a dragons flames.
The Young Prince had missed his wild cousin for the first time since Aerion left, as he sent Ser Oskar and a few men of his choosing out to clean up any loose ends. Aerion would have happily helped him in his endeavor.
The Black Cells, along with dungeon level above them, had been strategically burned and cleansed to rid any sickness from spreading above to the Red Keep. It had quelled any fears, and the fact none beside those found guilty, or suspected, of crime had suffered only added confirmation to the Gods judgement and a proper cleansing.
Valarr followed Matarys as he mused to himself. They’d made it to his solar, opening the door to find Daeron at the small table near the windows, with a smile on his face, holding his own bit of paper.
“He said he’d written to you,” Daeron said, his voice gentle as he greeted Matarys. “Come, let me read what he’s said.”
Matarys broke free from Valarr’s hand and ran to his cousin. He sat on the chair next to him and they compared the messages from Aegon. Valarr stood nearby and watched with a smile, enjoying the way they compared every stroke of the ink and smelt the paper to conspire to where they’d been, and where they’d gone.
When Matarys was pleased enough, Daeron having given him hold both bits of paper to read, Valarr made his way to his wife. He touched the back of his shoulder and leaned down to kiss his temple, gently. He nuzzled into his hair, breathing him in with a slow inhale.
“How do you feel today?” Valarr asked, as if he had not already asked him more than once during the early hours.
“As sick as earlier,” Daeron admitted. He leaned into Valarr’s touch, and Valarr felt when he scented him in return. “But your smell makes it a bit better. Come, kiss me on my mouth and chase away the upset in my stomach.”
Valarr did as he was asked.
He leaned down further to press his lips against Daeron’s, but he did not deepen the kiss as he wished, due to Matarys’ presence. Instead, he pressed his hand against the slight swell of Daeron’s stomach. It had grown in the past few weeks, enough that — when bare — it was obvious he was with child. Valarr felt such fierce protection when he laid hands upon him, and nuzzled their foreheads together to calm his own raging instinct.
“Father wants to dine with us tonight,” Daeron told him, tilting his head to let Valarr kiss his neck. Matarys was distracted enough, the Hand felt he could get away with this. “Without the King, though, or Matarys. He wishes it to be something of a goodbye dinner for us and the girls.”
“He does not leave for another three days?” Valarr wondered.
“Yes, and he’ll take those other meals with us, Grandmother, your father, as well as Matarys. He said tonight will be just for us.”
“It is a wonder he includes me in this precious dinner. I would think I’d be forgotten until we were all gathered.”
“He has grown rather fond of you,” Daeron said. It wasn’t untrue, though Valarr did have a quick desire to deny him. His relationship with his uncle Maekar was an interesting one, and not one he’d call technically good. The stress of the last few months had strengthened them beyond the hurt of the past, but Valarr would not call it fond.
“If anything, he most likely knows you would not be pleased to dine without me.”
“If anything.” Daeron grinned, a cheeky smile that Valarr could not help but kiss.
“Are you two done kissing?” Matarys asked, and both spouses turned to him with bemused looks.
“I thought you were studying your paper,” Valarr said, giving the younger boy a look. He stood tall once more, but carded his hand through Daeron’s soft blond hair. “When you are older and married, you’ll understand how hard it is not to kiss the one you love.”
“Do you think Father will allow me a love match?” Matarys asked, surprising Valarr. “Or will it be arranged?”
“Daeron and I’s marriage was arranged.”
“Well, yes,” Matarys began to fiddle with his paper. He left the one addressed to Daeron on the table, but toyed with the edges of his own. “But, not all fall in love so quickly as you two did. I do have eyes, brother, I see other marriages.”
“Any who would wed you will love you, Matarys,” Daeron assured before Valarr could speak. “And your lord father, the King, would not dare to match you with someone you could not stand.”
“Do you think he’d let me pick?” Matarys asked. His fingers continued to fiddle with the paper, anxious eyes glancing down at the inked words, then back at his brother and wife. Valarr’s mouth parted in understanding at the same time Matarys went red in the face. “I must be off, I surely have some type of lessons I’m neglecting!”
“Matarys — Matarys, who do you want to marry?” Valarr asked, eyes wide in horror at the idea of his sweet brother dreaming of marriage so closely he’d already picked someone out. “Matarys!”
But Matarys was quick on his feet, as all children were. He darted out the door as Daeron roared with laughter, the solar slamming shut behind him and Valarr left feeling a bit weak in the knees.
“He doesn’t mean —” Valarr looked down at the raven scroll on the table. “Surely, he doesn’t mean —”
“Children often find themselves wrapped up in such affection, when they cannot see the difference between love and camaraderie,” Daeron said, grinning low and wide as he took his scroll back for safe keeping. “We cannot judge him too closely.”
“Someone must marry outside our house, Daeron. He cannot marry Aegon.”
“Can’t he?” Daeron was smiling, looking terribly amused and like egging Valarr on was great fun for him, as it surely was. “I was not aware he would suffer the same constraints as our father’s.”
“Oh —” Valarr flushed a bit. “I am not meaning something so dire. I merely mean, if … there are alliances to be made with marriage.”
“Matarys cannot marry for love, as his dear older brother is already planning his betrothal for the good of the Realm? And you say it is not something so dire.”
“Do not twist my words,” Valarr groaned. He leaned down to kiss Daeron again, cupping his face. “Gods, I feel as if he is my own child and I’m talking of sending him off to slaughter or letting him roam to his death.”
“You speak of marriage with such positive affection,” Daeron said dryly, pulling back from Valarr to quirk a brow. “Am I to take this pessimistic viewpoint as testament to our own marriage? Is this how you truly feel, that our union is a version of death?”
“I beg you not to twist, and yet you still do.”
“I hardly contorted.”
“You’re distorting.”
“You’re simply being difficult, because I’m calling you on hypocrisy.”
“Perhaps,” Valarr said, and he leaned down to lift Daeron from his chair. He was gaining weight with the pregnancy, but Valarr was spending every morning after he left his bed — and before his duty began in true — working on his strength. He never wanted to be in a position where lifting his wife was a chore, or a difficulty.
Daeron laughed as Valarr held him, having no real destination save for the settee more towards the middle of the room.
“I was sitting there,” Daeron said, draping his arms around Valarr’s shoulders with a pleased face. He complained, and yet looked like a child caught snitching sugar. Pleased and guilty of his indulgence.
“Yes, but I feel you’d be much more comfortable over here,” Valarr said, as they walked. He got Daeron to the settee and laid him down, length wise, on the soft cushion. He reached to adjust his injured foot, it having just recently been re-plastered when Septa Nohemi checked on the healing.
“Oh, you feel I’d be more comfortable. And who are you to know so much great wisdom?” Daeron did not remove his arms from around his neck. If anything, he held on and smiled up at him as Valarr knelt beside him.
“Your husband,” Valarr said. He leaned in, peppering kisses across his wife’s face and neck. “Who loves you dearly.”
“Mm,” Daeron purred, his head tipping back. “This husband of mine is lucky I indulge in his whims.”
“I do not believe wishing to see you comfortable is a whim.”
“Hush and kiss me,” Daeron reached up to give a little yank to Valarr’s hair. “Do not contradict your wife.”
Maekar paused on his way from Daeron and Valarr’s chambers.
Daeron was exhausted, having barely been able to stomach even poultry which he typically ate with no qualms. With the lingering fear of Aerion’s sweet Visenya in their hearts, dinner had been a less than lovely affair. Daella had held Daeron’s hand when Septa Nohemi was summoned alongside Grand Maester Aleryc to examine him, and Maekar had taken little Rhae beyond the room to a side chamber during.
All was declared well, just the normal aches and pains of pregnancy, but they had agreed to call an end to their meal properly, regardless.
“Just a moment, Father,” Daella said, from where she sat on the edge of the bed next to Daeron. “If I braid his hair, it won’t be so tangled in the morrow.”
“Yes,” Rhae agreed, sitting beside him on the other-side. “And it’s awfully pretty.”
“And it’s awfully pretty,” Daella nodded.
Daeron was exhausted, but he did not ask for either girl to leave. He smiled where he lounged, and shrugged his shoulders at the imploring look Valarr gave him to ensure he truly was fine with the attention.
“That’s fine,” Maekar said. He had the same odd look he’d had since the kidnapping. Valarr did not wish for his uncle to go to Dorne, but part of him hoped that he’d come back with light in his eyes again. “Valarr, if I may speak to you in the other room for a private word while my daughters pester my son.”
“I am not pestering!” Rhae screeched, and Daeron flinched. She had been having a terribly difficult time since Aegon’s departure, and with her own merely days away, there was no ladylike decorum about her.
“Rhae, you are too loud in my ears,” Daeron said, rubbing his youngest sisters back.
“I’m sorry, Daeron,” the little girl apologized. “I will not be lied about.”
Both Daeron and Daella rolled their eyes, and Valarr felt a tug of amusing affection as he followed his uncle out and to the side room. The door was shut behind them, and as soon as it was he faintly thought he could hear someone singing in the bedchamber. Daeron had mentioned Daella liked to sing.
“Her mother used to sing that song,” Maekar said, and Valarr realized he’d heard it as well. He was watching the door they’d just shut and came through, a ghost of a smile on his lips beneath his beard. “I had not thought she knew it, but it appears she does.”
Valarr did not know what to say to that. He nodded a little, as the soft melody floated through the door, before his uncle began to speak once again.
“I’ve told Daeron I hope for us to return by the birth,” Maekar began. “But that is, perhaps, unrealistic. I’m sure he knows my words are false comfort, but I am confessing them to you regardless.”
“It is a great deal of travel, and if you are to have any reason for visiting it would not make sense to only spend a handful of days at Starfall.” Valarr cleared his throat slightly. He shifted on his feet and watched his uncle’s face. “You could stay, of course, Uncle. The girls were meant to go alone, none would judge you for staying back once you learned your son was heavy with child.”
“He is not so heavy yet that I fear some would,” Maekar shook his head. “I promised Lord Dayne, and I have caused enough issue to my children’s kin to not keep true of my word.”
Valarr pursed his lips.
“I will be of no comfort to him, regardless,” Maekar assured him. He seemed unsure of his own words. “I was not in the room for any of Dyanna’s births, and it would not make sense for me to be with him now. I am not his mother.”
Valarr chewed the inside of his cheek.
“And what comfort could I offer him if I was?” Maekar continued. “None. He is likely to be more upset at my presence during such a time.”
“Your presence offers him a great deal of comfort,” Valarr took a chance to say, between Maekar’s words. His uncle looked at him quickly, brows high up towards his pale hair. “It is true, Uncle. What has happened in the past has not shaped him as we might have thought. Never once have I found that he does not love you, nor does he long to not have you near when things are difficult.”
Maekar’s throat bobbed, and Valarr looked away once he noticed a certain sheen of wetness in his purple eyes. They were quiet for a moment, perhaps as Maekar controlled his emotions, and Valarr cleared his throat once more.
“You will write to me,” Maekar said, his voice strained. “At even the slightest issue. If the Septa says he looks pale, you are to write and tell me just how pale. I won’t be kept from this, even if I am away.”
“Of course, Uncle,” Valarr inclined his head. “I wouldn’t dream of such a thing. Visenya is a heavy topic for us all.”
His uncle nodded, and clasped his hands behind his back. He sighed, his jaw working anxiously.
“If I could get a raven to Aerion, I would think he’d return for Daeron,” Maekar said. “But perhaps that is the hopeful words of a father.”
“It might be too difficult for Aerion, to be around for a healthy birth.”
Maekar nodded again, more jerky than before. He took a moment longer, then Valarr felt his eyes on him again. He returned the look, and tilted his head a bit in question as to why his uncle was looking at him like that.
“I have not had a moment to offer my proper condolences, or congratulations,” Maekar began. “Or perhaps I have, but I waited until near the eve of my departure to give them, should they cause the tension I know they will.”
“I’d wonder on your condolences first,” the young alpha said with a frown. “For what, exactly, could you offer such sympathies?”
“It is not in your best interest to be named the Hand, so young and without the worldly experience needed.”
Valarr was struck a bit, confused and surprised. He had thought himself ill-suited the position, regardless of how he felt his father was trying to groom him for the Iron Throne. But to hear it so plainly from his Uncle made a bit of shameful pride color his cheeks.
“Peace, boy,” Maekar bid. “I do not say it to anger you. It is a fact. He was not right in his doing.”
“He’s the King,” Valarr said. “It is not wise to deny his request. Who am I to tell him no? I am not you.”
“No,” Maekar’s brow knitted further. “Perhaps I should have accepted the role to spare you the difficulties. But I did not think he’d name you as Hand, not truly, even when he mentioned it. I thought he loved you more than that.”
Valarr bristled again, and felt his jaw jump with upset.
“My father loves me,” Valarr declared.
“You should be touring the Realm with your wife,” Maekar seemed not to notice, or care, about Valarr’s upset. “You should be totting after toddlers in a few years time, not busy with council. I pity what a lot he has landed you in.”
Daeron had said something similar, on a night when he felt ill and tired like this one. That he wished Valarr was not so busy as to be unable to spend his days leisurely with him. Valarr glared off to the side, too loving of his own father to agree to such criticism.
“The congratulations are for the babe, I take it?” Valarr said, in a tight voice.
“They are.”
Neither spoke again. Maekar must have known he’d upset Valarr, as he thought he would, and made to leave, reaching for the handle of the door. Valarr would not let him leave just yet, however.
“Uncle,” Valarr said, perhaps a bit louder than he meant to. He cleared his throat once more. “You speak to me with such carelessness sometimes, and yet I hold my tongue. I feel it is unfair, given our new positions.”
“You think you are so powerful and above me as to no longer hold courtesy and politeness?”
“I know it,” Valarr insisted. Maekar was staring at him, his nostrils flaring a bit. “And yet I continue because you are my uncle, and there is much I can learn from you.”
Maekar’s anger turned to confusion. He dropped his hand from the door handle.
“Speak what you would have held back then, nephew. I am not so old or brittle I cannot handle your sharp tongue.”
“I will only ask if you swear to tell me the truth,” Valarr said. He was standing with squared shoulders and a tight jaw. His uncle looked at him a moment longer, as if he was weighing what he was asked. He sighed, a short huff through his nose, and made a dramatic gesture with his hand.
“Speak.”
“Why did you tell my father no?” Valarr asked. Maekar understood the question immediately for how his face paled. “I know of your feelings for him, and how Grandfather denied him your hand. Now he asks again, and now you deny him. Why won’t you marry him?”
Maekar’s jaw was jumping now. His pale face rose a bit in color at his cheeks, and a vein jumped in his forehead. It was nice to see such emotion on one who had been blank for so long, but as quickly as it came it faded away. Maekar’s eyes went dull and he looked to the side. He looked lost, as he’d looked when he came to tell Valarr that the King was dead. Valarr almost regretted asking, for he truly did not wish to cause his uncle pain.
His uncle said nothing for longer than Valarr thought. He was sure he’d ignore him, or perhaps just leave.
“You are upset he has named me Hand,” Valarr began, in a gentle voice. “And yet he only did so because you denied that as well. I’d like to understand, uncle.”
“I told him I planned to return to Summerhall,” Maekar began, in that lost voice that made Valarr frown. “I could not stand this castle a moment longer. Still, he begged me to stay. He begged me to be his Hand, to rule alongside him. I reminded him I had no interest in being his fucking Hand.”
Maekar’s hand seemed restless at his side. It clenched and unclenched before plucking at the belt around his waist.
“He said if marriage is what it’d take to keep me, he’d marry me, but he would not let me leave. As if it was a sacrifice he was willing to make, and not a choice he wanted.”
Valarr frowned at that, as it did not sound like his father.
“Perhaps you understood his words incorrectly,” Valarr offered. “He loves you, Uncle. I cannot see a world where a marriage to you is a sacrifice.”
“I told you before, Valarr. I am becoming aware what a wretched thing I am.”
“Uncle —”
Maekar turned to the door and opened it, not pausing for Valarr’s words. He walked through, leaving it open for his nephew to follow.
Daeron was not asleep in the bed, but his eyes were half lidded with a wish to be. Rhae was playing with a decorative pillow, tickling his face with the tassels, and the soft song Daella had been singing was finished when they entered. Daeron’s blond hair was gently braided out of the way, and it was interesting to see so much of his face exposed.
“It’s time to retire, girls,” Maekar said, as he walked to the bed. He sat beside his oldest daughter and leaned in to kiss Daeron’s forehead. “You will tell me on the morrow if the peppermint tea does not settle your stomach. There must be something that damn Septa can conjure up for you, if it fails.”
“Of course, Father,” Daeron said, with a smile. “I am feeling better already. More so when I am soon able to sleep. My dreams have been so light as of late.”
Maekar’s hand hesitated a moment, then placed down over Daeron’s stomach through the coverlets. Valarr watched how his hand splayed, then curled, and withdrew quickly as if touching his son burned his palm.
The Red Keep was never quiet.
There was always a visiting Lord or Lady, come to see the King or flaunt their wealth. There was always court to be had, council to be called, issues of the realm to see dealt with. It was never quiet.
But when Maekar and his daughter’s left, when they gave tearful goodbyes to Daeron at the docks, when they were gone — Valarr was reminded of how it’d been before them.
It had been almost quiet.
There was no juggling meals, before them. Valarr ate with his Father, or his brother, and once in a while the King and Queen. He only had one child to keep an eye on, and he cared very little for the happenings of others.
Without Maekar, without his children, Valarr felt a bit lost with where to lay his personal attention.
Matarys was still here, of course. He spent many a night with Daeron and Valarr, if not Baelor, as he had grown a bit adverse to sleeping alone since his ordeal. One night he’d even came in on Valarr and Daeron half naked, to the embarrassment of all. He was rowdier than he once was, perhaps from his cousins influence, and growing more every day now that Valarr had taken notice.
Daeron was here as well. His wife spent many hours either in the Solar of the Hand, or their chambers. He read from books, was carried down stairs, limped about with his crutch. Valarr was often busy, but he had not missed a single afternoon meal with his wife.
There were still two — three, if you count the babe in Daeron’s belly — to put his attentions on, but he felt a sense of longing.
Valarr would not have thought, previously, that he’d miss any of his cousins, save for his wife, but he did. He missed Aegon and his bold declarations, he missed Aemon and his heavy tomes, he missed Daella and Rhae and how Daeron smiled upon them. He even missed Aerion, as he found himself time and time again of late wishing he had another to share his less than savory thoughts with.
It was quieter, but not quiet.
His father, now that he was King, was a busier man than ever. Many came to pledge upon him, came to see him, and despite how he still sat in his wheeled chair with his plastered leg, they loved him. Valarr knew many would pretend to love him, with honeyed words and daggers behind their sleeves, as he had been warned long ago.
But when he saw the adoration and love in others eyes, as they gazed upon their new King, Valarr knew his father would be a great King. Perhaps the Greatest since Aegon the conqueror.
“Valarr, I can cut that myself,” Daeron said, amusement in his voice as Valarr cut up a piece of beef for his wife. The blond was never partial to red meat before, but his pregnancy was shaping his mouth in different, odd, ways. His most recent request come mealtime was for something that once mooed.
“I’ll ask them to make sure it is cut for you next time,” Valarr said, ignoring him. He also ignored the giggle from Matarys, and the chuckle from his father. “You should not waste the time you do not feel nauseous sawing meat.”
“You sound like my father,” Daeron said, still very amused.
“Yes, well, I find my uncle to be reasonable about some things.”
A raven had came from Maekar two days ago. It had been quieter with their absence, but Valarr was glad to learn that they had all arrived without too much of an issue. The short raven scroll had mentioned Rhae’s dislike of ships, but that was all.
Daeron was growing quite large. Valarr had never seen a pregnancy in true like this, none save for his lady mother who had taken most of her months laying down for fear of her weak heart. But Valarr did not recall her being quite as large as his wife was growing to be.
“I am in agreement with my son, sweet nephew,” Baelor spoke up, as he turned away from watching Matarys mash together his yams and potatoes. “But do not deny him the pleasure of servicing you. As your husband, and alpha, I can only feel sympathy for how he worries.”
“Surely there is some sympathy for me as well?” Daeron asked. He shifted in his seat, a hand on his belly. Valarr’s eyes were drawn to it, and he finished cutting the meat up into tiny cubes. “I am the one who bears the burden.”
“You have been feeling better, of course?” Baelor asked, as delicately as he could. It was not proper, nor common, for a man such as he to inquire too deeply about a pregnancy beyond his own wife’s. But, Valarr knew they were not common. “My son tells me you are no longer as sick in the mornings.”
“No,” Daeron shook his head. He took a bite of the meat alongside some raspberry jam, and chewed it thoughtfully. “Not truly. I have a bit of an upset now and again, but the most persistent thing of late is the awful jumping in my belly.”
“Jumping?” Valarr asked, surprised. Daeron had mentioned no jumping. “Surely we should see Septa Nohemi, or the midwife, about such things?”
“It’s nothing, really,” his wife waved him off as Matarys too looked at him with concern. “I ought not to have mentioned it. It feels odd, but not bad, my love.”
“Odd?” Baelor wondered, tilting his head. “Describe it to me, Daeron.”
“Father, I don’t think …” Valarr began. He was not sure if it was indigestion or something akin to it, and perhaps not the best thing to speak of at the dinner table.
“Bubbles,” Daeron said, not listening. Valarr flushed, wondering if he’d been right about the indigestion. “Or a flutter, I — oh, see, there it is now. It is not painful.”
“Now?” Baelor gestured for someone to push his chair. A servant walked around the table and held the ornate handles as they pushed Baelor to Daeron as directed, ignoring the quizzical looks he was given. “You’re feeling it now, Daeron?”
“Yes?” The blond said, scrunching up his face. “It’s not bad, uncle, I would not take a risk if it felt bad. It’s just odd.”
Baelor did not seem to feel shame. Valarr wondered if it was a new condition of being King, or if he had just never paid attention to his father if he’d behaved so brazen before. But Baelor was stopped beside the chair Daeron sat in, and held his hand towards his nephews swollen stomach.
“May I?” Baelor asked.
“Father, you are no maester,” Matarys chimed in, but Daeron shrugged and said; “As you please, Uncle.”
Baelor placed his hand on Daeron’s stomach. He was quiet for a moment, then Daeron took his hand and drew it lower.
“No, not there,” Daeron said, moving Baelor’s hand. Valarr felt an odd flush of confusion seeing his father paw upon his wife like so. “Yes, that’s where it was. Right there, Uncle.”
“And it is not occurring now?” Baelor prompted.
“No, it’s — Wait, yes. Just there.”
Daeron released Baelor, and Valarr saw his father’s broad hand pass over his stomach. It was only a second before Baelor was gesturing for Valarr to come closer, and Valarr did. He was already very close to his wife, so he only had to reach out. Baelor took his sons hand and placed it where his had been on Daeron’s stomach.
Valarr was immediately concerned that he felt the flutter Daeron mentioned. His eyebrows shot up before he saw the pleased look on his father’s face. He paused as he went to ask about it, understanding seeming to settle inside him. His father had put his hand there, and did not look concerned.
“What is it?” Daeron did ask, and Valarr felt a stinging in his eyes.
“How long have you been feeling this, Daeron?” Baelor asked.
Valarr went to his knees before Daeron’s stomach, both hands upon the mound now. He pressed against the thin tunic he’d taken to wearing, as his wife got too hot of late, and tried to will it to happen again.
“A few days,” Daeron sounded hesitant. “Is it so — Oh.”
Valarr looked up as Daeron gasped, and watched as his wife’s face flushed bright red with embarrassments.
“It’s the babe,” Daeron said, turning his face down to his own belly with wonder now as well. Matarys squeaked and hopped up, running to join the men on the floor before Daeron. “Gods — I’d felt Mother’s when she was pregnant, but I didn’t even think —”
“It is time for it,” Baelor said, his voice kind and soft.
“For what?” Matarys asked, clearly confused. “What do you mean it’s the babe?”
“The babe,” Valarr’s voice was tight. He took Matarys’ hand and placed it upon Daeron’s stomach as well, knowing his wife would not mind. “He’s moving in there. That’s what Daeron is feeling, the babe in his belly.”
“You can feel it?” Matarys gasped. There was another flutter against Valarr’s palm, and he moved Matarys to catch the end of it. “Oh, bless the Mother, Daeron, that’s your baby!”
“What wonderful news, Daeron,” Baelor was smiling at his nephew as if he’d just given him a ship of gold. “What a blessing indeed.”
“I feel so foolish for not realizing,” Daeron admitted again. His cheeks were still heated, but he said nothing as he held the sides of his stomach and Matarys felt around hoping to feel more. “I honestly thought it was gas.”
Valarr burst into laughter, as his wife freely spoke his own worries. Baelor chuckled alongside them, and Matarys rang out songlike giggles.
Valarr hung his head in shame as the room cleared out before him.
He couldn’t even remember at the moment at which man he’d snapped. Perhaps it had been a Lannister, with their golden hair and witty mouths. Whomever it had been, it was unbecoming, it must be. Not only as a Prince of the Blood, but as Hand of the King. He strived his entire life to grow into a man like his Father, and instead he still felt every bit the boy who’d sat on his knee.
The Young Prince could hear his father still speaking until the door shut. He knew he hadn’t left, that he still sat in his wheeled chair at the table, only offered pleasing words and kingly grace as he excused them and asked for a moment alone with his child.
Valarr wondered if he should have asked for the day off. He’d never done so before, not even since before his new title, he’d never bent in such a craven way as to shirk his duties — but he should have today.
He felt as though his skin was crawling today, when Daeron was not in his sights.
It’d started in the night. He wasn’t sure why, but he’d woken after a nightmare. The thunderous crash of a storm is what brought him from the dream, but the nightmare was what made his pulse quicken. In the dream, Daeron had been screaming. He’d been screaming and weeping, and there had been blood covering the bed. His wife had begged him to leave, to not see him like this, but Valarr had stayed in the dream and held him.
Maekar had been there as well. He’d been holding Daeron’s other hand and petting his hair as Daeron went paler, and paler. His lips turning an odd shade of purple until his breathing stopped. Valarr had shook him, so hard he’d surely snap his neck if he didn’t stop, but Daeron had not woken to stop him. His wife’s screams had stopped, and the soft wail of a baby echoed in whatever shapeless room they’d occupied.
Daeron had woken when Valarr did, rubbing his back and whispering soothing words. He’d never had a bad dream in front of Daeron, and he felt foolish for it. Save for this time during the pregnancy, Daeron always had terrible dreams. There must have been some type of godly grace occurring within him of late, for he did not dream now — but it did nothing to stop Valarr from feeling so foolish.
He hadn’t been able to get back to sleep, and Daeron wouldn’t sleep himself despite how his husband begged him to rest. Instead they’d called for their meal early, and eaten near the large windows at the long table. Valarr hadn’t been able to stop touching Daeron, and when he’d left for work he’d kissed him, near tears.
Daeron had asked him to stay with him, but only for Valarr’s sake and not his own. Had it been for his wife, had Daeron been feeling ill, he might have stayed. He should have stayed.
But he hadn’t, he’d come instead. All it had taken was a quick word from a lion and his tongue had betrayed him.
“Valarr,” his father’s voice said. Valarr lifted his gaze to look at him, pain in his own eyes as he stared. Baelor was not far from his son, but he was turned in his chair to see him properly. “Are you alright?”
“Yes,” the brunet said, and then winced. “I feel odd today. I’m sorry, Father. I’ll apologize to Lord Lannister’s son.”
“I believe Thessel Lannister will be just fine, his comment was completely uncalled for,” Baelor offered him a smile. “I would have corrected him differently, but to tell him his opinion on your marriage is not welcome at my table.”
Valarr’s brow knitted.
“Is that what he said?” Valarr wondered. “I don’t even recall. But if it was about Daeron, perhaps I should have struck him too.”
Baelor did not laugh, his smile grew a bit thin with worry.
“Are you ill?” Baelor asked. “Come closer, let me feel your head.”
“I am not ill,” Valarr said, shaking his head. “I had a bad night and I feel … I think I should have stayed in today. Perhaps I am ill and I don’t realize it.”
“Go by Grand Maester Aleryc, for me, won’t you?” Baelor implored of his son. “The last thing I’d want is for you to fall ill.”
“I truly don’t feel sick,” the Young Prince sat up a bit. He felt as though he could feel the blood rushing through his veins, wild and free like a river. “I feel off, that’s all —”
The door to the council room swung open. It would have reminded Valarr of how Maekar often tossed doors open, if his uncle was here. But it was not Maekar who came inside.
Daeron came in, supported lightly by Ser Donnel on his arm. His large belly was as covertly hidden as it could be by his dark robe, and his crutch thunked against the ground. The plaster on his foot had been removed, but he still could not walk unaided, especially with how large he’d gotten.
“Valarr?” Daeron’s voice called. Valarr sat up quickly, jumping from his seat to run to his wife. He snarled a bit at Ser Donnel, who simply backed up without offense, and took Daeron into his arms.
“What’s wrong?” Valarr asked, holding one arm around the blond to support him, the other cradling his face. “What’s the matter?”
“I was on my way to our chambers after seeing Matarys and I felt,” Daeron’s face looked odd for a moment. His gaze traveled over Valarr’s body. “Are you hurt?”
“Am I hurt?” Valarr asked, confused.
The omega lifted his hand to press his fingertips into the mating bond on Valarr’s neck. Valarr hissed a bit, but when Daeron leaned in and kissed it any pain from the pressure was gone. He almost moaned at the touch of his mouth, leaning in and scenting him gently as he rubbed his neck against his face.
“I don’t know,” Daeron admitted. His voice wavered, and Valarr felt a surge of something he could only call protectiveness wash over him. “I was walking and I thought you were in pain.”
“You shouldn’t even be walking,” Valarr whispered. He took Daeron’s face in his hand again and kissed him on the mouth. “Matarys should go to you. You’re, did you see Septa Nohemi today, after I left?”
“No, Midwife Rhoda,” Daeron said, and he hesitated to speak but did not follow through.
“Did she say something bad, about you, or the babe?” Valarr felt the terror of his dream sneaking back up on him. He was not a dragon dreamer, his dreams did not come true, he knew it was simply leftover fear from the loss of his own mother — but Daeron was his wife.
It terrified him, to think of losing him like this.
“No,” Daeron said, quietly. His hands were shaking, as they always did, but he only looked a little paler than usual. Nothing like the ghostly cast of the dream. “No, I. Can I sit down? Gods, I don’t know why I came, I felt that you were hurt and I …”
“He insisted,” Ser Donnel said, bringing attention to the fact that they were not alone. “I did try to plead him not to, Your Grace, but the prince would not listen.”
Valarr properly ignored Donnel of Duskendale as he helped Daeron over to sit. He heard his father say something to the Kingsguard, but did not care as he helped Daeron into a chair. He wished there was at least a cushion for his poor hips.
His father must have asked Ser Donnel to help him, in his chair, over to them. His father’s plaster too had been removed, but his leg was too weak to walk of yet.
“Perhaps it is your bond?” Baelor offered, when his chair came to rest by them. Valarr looked at his father and saw his crown was not on his head, instead on his lap. He’d been doing that too, of late, to show he was simply Baelor speaking and not The King.
“What?” Valarr asked, confused. He felt less off now that he was touching Daeron, his hands gently petting over the skin of his nape and the heavy swell of his belly. He was huge.
“You are a fully bonded pair,” Baelor reminded him. “If one of you is feeling such distress, it would make sense the other could sense it through your union.”
Valarr wanted to argue that he understood how bonds work. He understood the connection, but that wasn’t what this is — but then he realized it must be. Daeron’s touch, his scent, having his pregnant wife within his sights was all it took to calm his upset chest. There was even a flush of color coming back to Daeron’s cheeks now.
“I have put much stress on you, Valarr,” Baelor’s hand touched his back. “If you need a moment with Daeron, especially as close as we are to the birth, I will give you time. You need only ask.”
“I asked him to stay with me today,” Daeron said, betraying Valarr’s trust that was unspoken. “He was so upset after his dream.”
“Your dream?” Baelor wondered, frowning. Valarr stared down at Daeron’s stomach. He knelt before the chair, and rested his head on his wife’s lap, uncaring who could see. His forehead touched his large belly, and his hands palmed over it.
“He had a nightmare,” Daeron offered. Valarr said nothing, embarrassed but uncaring at the moment, now that he had his hands on Daeron again.
“It is only natural to grow wary,” Baelor said.
Valarr knew his father was trying to comfort him, and it was kind, but unnecessary. They stayed for a few moments, quiet. He wanted to tell Daeron about how he’d snapped at the Lannister son, or how he felt terrible without him near. But he couldn’t do so. He couldn’t speak at all. He closed his eyes and stayed where he was, feeling Daeron’s shaking hands carding through his hair, and listening to his father and wife speak about nothing for a few moments.
“That must be what I felt, when he was so angry,” Daeron said, and Valarr tried to pay attention again to what they were talking about. “Poor thing, he’s been so anxious all morning.”
“Is that why you went to the midwife?” Baelor asked Daeron. Neither were paying much attention to Valarr, who still had his eyes closed and was purring quietly on Daeron’s lap.
“It helps to ease his fears, and some of mine, if they at least check. She did have something she wanted to tell me, actually. She said she’d been waiting for a day where Grand Maester Aleryc could come as well, as it’d be more official …” Daeron trailed off. “I told her I was more than happy to do anything without him present, so I had her tell me.”
“Is it good news?” Baelor asked. Valarr felt Daeron rub small circles against the base of his neck, just beneath his hairline.
“I think so,” Daeron said, gently. “Valarr, you’ve not fallen asleep on us, have you? I am aware of the comfort my lap holds.”
“I am not asleep,” Valarr said, looking up from his spot. He rested his chin back against the omegas stomach, and pretended he could hear the little flutter of dragon wings amongst the sounds. It was like pressing ones ear to a shell on the beach, the imagination ran wild.
“That’s good,” Daeron said, still caressing his hair. “Uncle, you’re aware Valarr is certain it’s a boy?”
Baelor made a little appreciative noise.
“Most fathers are,” the King told them. “But surely there was no way for the midwife to tell, not until the child is born?”
“No, but she assured me we have a better chance of having a boy when there are two.”
Valarr went still. He pulled back from Daeron’s stomach, gaping, and stared up at him. Daeron had a barely concealed smile on his face, trying to bite it down with his teeth in his lip. Even Baelor had gone quiet at the words.
“Two?” Valarr whispered. “Two — no. No. Twins? You’re jesting, please tell me the truth, my love.”
“Would I play such a foul prank?”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Valarr’s hands were still on Daeron’s stomach but now he held it with much more wonder. “Twins. Twins, Father —!”
“I heard,” Baelor’s voice was a bit strangled, and when Valarr looked at him he saw love and pride echoed on it. “I am so happy for you both. Two is truly a blessing from the Mother.”
“That explains why you’re so big,” Valarr said, laughing a bit wet when Daeron tugged on his hair.
“It might explain why your bond is so strong right now,” Baelor’s voice was still tight with emotion. “Two pups. Perhaps you knew, somehow, and you’re worried twice fold now.”
“Do not tell him such things, Uncle,” Daeron said, though his voice was incredibly fond as he softly pet through Valarr’s hair. “He’ll never let me leave our chambers now.”
“You should be resting, dear nephew,” Baelor said, to which Daeron only groaned in reply.
The labor pains had started in the morning.
They had not known what they were until they called for the dear Septa, thinking it could be something terrible until she confirmed that it was only natural. Daeron had laughed, as he groaned, that the babies were excited to meet their Grandfather.
Maekar had only just returned, without the girls who would spend a few weeks longer amongst their kin before coming back, to be escorted by one of the late lady Dyanna Dayne’s brother’s. Valarr should have been excited for his uncle to return, as he wished to be back for the birth, but he thought of his dream, and how Maekar had been there in it alongside them.
He tried to put it from his mind.
Septa Nohemi was there, along with Midwife Rhoda and a few extra hands. Grand Maester Aleryc would not be summoned until the end, or unless something dire happened. They had not told Daeron about that, which felt cruel, but it would do no good to put stress upon him.
Valarr had originally been asked to leave. It had been an argument, and he’d refused to do so. Even when Daeron laughed that his place was not at the childbed, even when Daeron said it might be terribly revolting, he would not leave. He was confirmed in his choice with a firm pat to his shoulder by Maekar.
Daeron had asked Maekar to stay. The Young Prince, the Hand, the new Prince of Dragonstone, had been more than a bit offended by that. Daeron had told him it was because his father was an omega, but Maekar had never given birth.
“I’m worried you’ll find me disgusting after this,” Daeron admitted, when Valarr had finally gotten truth from him. “I do not have to worry about my father getting an erection after seeing me give birth.”
Valarr had blanched and almost missed when Maekar insisted Daeron could say whatever he wanted, and if Valarr was such a weak alpha to be turned off from his wife giving birth to his child, then he wasn’t worthy of him. Which had been confusing, and humbling, for Valarr, as he’d never implied otherwise.
Still, he was allowed to stay.
When time for the morning meal came and went, and there was no progress, Valarr was told these things take time. Even when the waters came and day fell away to night, he was told it takes time.
Midwife Rhoda sent for council when the moon rose. Grand Maester Aleryc came, though he had been there for no male omega births. He offered suggestions, and to palpate Daeron’s stomach despite how it seemed to hurt him and put gooseflesh on Valarr’s arms. Another midwife came, though they had not met this one, and the women discussed in low tones as the fear crept up Valarr’s spine.
“Something must be wrong,” Daeron said, his head lolled against Valarr’s shoulder. The loose, large, shirt he wore barely kept him covered but he was refusing to be completely bare. Maekar was holding his hand on the opposite side, and it felt so alike the dream that Valarr felt bile in his throat.
“Nothing is wrong,” Valarr said, with the confidence of a man who knew nothing.
“Do not worry,” Maekar’s voice called gently. He’d come back to them with light in his eyes and glee in his heart at the news of two children in his sons belly. The labor had not dulled his eyes again, but Valarr saw they were growing tense. Even his cheeks, that had filled out slightly on his trip to Dorne, looked taunt with how he chewed them.
“It is for them to worry, and you to listen,” Maekar continued. “They are skilled at this, Daeron. You are not. Let them worry, do not think on it.”
“Impossible,” Daeron ground out, as pain seemed to run through him once more. “Impossible to think of anything but worry when I feel like this.”
Valarr pressed a kiss to his wife’s wet head and prayed it was not a trembling as he worried it was.
With the moon high in the sky, Valarr did not feel the least bit tired. It was impossible, when ones wife labored as Daeron did. The midwives, and Septa Nohemi, had been doing a great many things to soothe him. Oil was rubbed up and down his body, pressing hands into his belly, and the scent of flowers mingled terribly with the room. Valarr could not go down to see what was occurring below, as he only stayed up and held Daeron as he sobbed and wept the longer it went on.
Maekar, despite his earlier insistence that the women knew what they were doing, seemed to be losing faith. He was doing his best, Valarr could tell, to keep his anger from Daeron, but he’d snapped a time or two at a midwife when his son screamed in pain and no progress seemed to occur.
It was hours upon hours of nothing, nothing Valarr could tell, until suddenly there was something.
Like a cork being popped, the nothing was something.
Daeron’s weeping cries did not go down in volume, if anything they increased. Valarr felt in a blur, a blur of trying to comfort his wife and soothe him through it, while also helping him listen to Septa Nohemi and Midwife Rhoda as they talked to the omega. Maekar was a better help with that than he, coaching Daeron along with encouraging, and commanding words. All Valarr truly was, was something to hold onto and brace against.
When the first babe was born, Valarr waited with bated breath as he pet through Daeron’s wet hair. His wife was exhausted, whispering softly and asking if the child was healthy. They waited, until they heard the quiet wail to weep against one another, Valarr kissing all over Daeron’s pale face and telling him how well he’d done.
“Healthy?” Maekar asked, in a tight and wet voice, as Daeron’s voice had not been answered.
“A healthy princess,” the midwife holding the babe said. She would go to clean her, her, as they’d been told, and Valarr strained to try and see, but kept a tight grip on Daeron.
“There’s still another, my prince,” Midwife Rhoda, still between his legs, had said. “It is not over yet, but we are almost through.”
“Gods,” Daeron was tired. Valarr held his hand tightly, his chest soaring as their daughter cried in the midwife’s arms.
“She has strong lungs,” Maekar assured Daeron, his hand cradling the back of the blond’s head. He peppered soft kisses to his brow, as Valarr had done. “She is strong, Daeron. You’ve birthed a true dragon.”
“Let us do another,” Daeron slurred.
Valarr felt the tingle of fear on his nape again, and when Daeron did not shout or scream as the labor continued it only deepened. The next lull that occurred, Daeron was blinking as if he couldn’t clear his vision at the ceiling above them.
“What —” he tried, but lost his tongue for a moment before he continued. “Valarr, tell me her eyes. The color?”
“I haven’t seen her,” Valarr said, still holding Daeron.
“Go see her,” Daeron begged.
“I must stay with you,” Valarr pressed his lips to his forehead.
“I’ve my father, but she just got here,” Daeron gasped, tears filling his eyes. “She — go see her, tell me, please?
Valarr would give anything to not be extracted from his wife’s side. But he would also give anything to calm him. His uncle gave him a nod, as if to assure Valarr that Daeron was in safe company, and Valarr slowly left the birthing bed to go put eyes upon his child. There was a midwife telling him to wait, that it wasn’t custom, that he’d have his chance, but he peered over shoulder to see anyway.
For a moment he thought his daughter had pink hair, before milky water was passed over her head and a stark white came through. Her hair was flat and tangled with the process of birth. Her face was scrunched up, making her look like an ugly cat.
“Her eyes?” Valarr said, quietly. The woman cleaning the child did not answer for a moment, as Daeron let out a choked up cry indicating it’d begun once more.
“It is too soon to tell, Your Grace,” the woman said. “But I would believe them to be brown.”
Brown.
Valarr hurried back to his wife’s side, tucking himself against him to be a pillar to press against. Daeron gasped, but did not scream, and fell back against the bed below him.
“Brown,” Valarr said, and he heard the wet sob Daeron let out. “And pale hair, like your father.”
It took time for the next babe to come. It felt like hours, but Valarr would later learn it was minutes in total. When the next babe came and Daeron finally fell back against the bed, weak and pale once more, Valarr waited with baited breath once more to hear the cries.
“Healthy?” Daeron’s voice was quiet, as he held Valarr’s hand. Valarr did not know if he nodded or not, squeezing back in turn with Daeron’s tight grip. They waited to hear the cry, and waited.
And waited.
Septa Nohemi was over the babe, and Valarr could see little limbs flailing as she rubbed and smacked at the child’s back, held over her forearm. He had a thought to tell her not to hit the baby, but the look on her face was not one he had mind to question at the moment.
“Valarr —” Daeron’s voice felt beyond a dream as Valarr leaned forward to look past Daeron’s body and the bed, to where the septa sad. Midwife Rhoda was saying something to Nohemi, before taking the child and resuming the same motions. The wet slap of her hand on his babe’s back felt like she was beating him to Valarr.
And yet, still, the babe did not cry.
Valarr heard the child’s sister cry, from beyond, and when Daeron sat up thinking it was the youngest — Maekar forced him back down.
“Don’t, Daeron,” Maekar said, his voice tight. “Don’t, son, do not look.”
“What?” Daeron’s voice choked. “No — wait, let me — Father, Valarr, where’s his voice? Let me hear his voice?”
Valarr felt tears on his cheeks. He didn’t know he’d begun to cry, but Daeron’s words had his chest tightening and his pulse racing. Septa Nohemi took the babe once more from the midwife, and looked to the Young Prince. Her face was a careful mask of sympathy and understanding, and when she opened her mouth to speak, Valarr did not let her.
“Do not,” he hissed, his voice wet. He released Daeron and went to ground, coming around. “Give him to me. Give me my son.”
“Your Grace,” the septa said, with the gentle tone of someone conveying bad news.
Valarr ignored her. He took his child from her, still wet from the birth, and wiped a thumb across his closed eyes, clearing the wet. His body was small, much smaller than his sisters.
He was a boy, Valarr could see that. He’d know as well, after all. He’d been so sure.
“Your Grace,” Septa Nohemi started to say again, as Daeron let out a horrifying sob that sounds like a wail. Maekar was speaking to him, and somewhere in the distance Valarr could hear his daughter still crying.
He took his son to his chest. Valarr cradled his little head against his neck, holding his little body carefully. He turned from the septa, and began to rub his hand up and down his sons back. His son, his little son. He couldn’t even hear Daeron’s sobbing any longer, but he could hear his daughters.
They’d thought of names for the children, of course. Unsure if it would be a boy and a girl, or two of each, they’d come up with enough for all. There had been one name for their son that they’d liked above all, one they’d come to a common understanding so early on that it’d seemed natural.
Valarr walked his little son over to where his sister sat in the midwife’s arms.
“Give her to me,” he demanded, reaching for her.
One arm was all it took to cradle his son, his hand still firmly rubbing up and down his back. He was rubbing his cheek against his little head, and realized he hadn’t even looked to see the color of the boys hair.
“Your Grace,” the midwife said, tears in her eyes.
She had sympathy stamped on her face, but Valarr would not see it. He would not see it, he would not hear it. He held his arm out for his daughter, and when the woman awkwardly handed the babe over to be cradled by him, he turned his son away from his neck towards the bare body of his sister.
Her little hand, without any true meaning, reached out and touched her brother. When it did, Valarr swore he saw the lips of his son move. He froze, staring down at the still boy. There was no movement, and he had half a breath to think his mind was playing tricks in his grief — but then the boy’s mouth moved again.
A tiny, small, little cry left him before his sister wailed.
“Nohemi!” Valarr gasped, lifting his head. The septa was to him before he finished her name. They went to the table the bathing basin was on, and Valarr could think of nothing else except a multitude of prayers as he waited to hear another cry from his sons mouth.
The gods answered him, when another little cry — much weaker than his sisters — rang out.
Valarr turned to look at the birthing bed, and saw Daeron’s wide eyes, wet and bloodshot. that matched Maekar’s, watching them, and he choked out a sob and said a word he had no confirmation of past hope and those little cries.
“Healthy.”
The small babe in his wife’s arms finally broke free of the breast to let out a little sound of contentment. His sister was curled up in Valarr’s arms, who was tucked against Daeron as he’d been since the afterbirth and all that came when labor was finished had been completed.
The babes were clean, dry, and swaddled in their grasp.
Maekar had left, once it was sure the children were alright and his own son had recovered enough to speak once more. He’d left to gather Baelor, who should not see the babes until the morrow, but had insisted on being woken when the labor was done, if he had even slept.
“Help me cover,” Daeron’s voice, raw and tired, said. He’d been eating little bites of cold chicken and sweet bread as he recovered, hungry beyond all thought, just like the children who’d nursed from his breast.
Valarr held his daughter against his chest as he tucked away his wife’s modesty, stealing a kiss to the brown hair of his son.
There was a knock at the door, and it opened when Valarr called. Maekar entered alongside Baelor, supported by his brother and not a crutch, and Valarr had never seen such joy radiating off his father. He came to the bed, and reached for Daeron before the children.
“Are you alright?” Baelor asked, touching Daeron’s cheek gently. Daeron smiled, his eyes still watery as he’d wept on and off since they learned their son was, in fact, alive.
“Look at my children,” Daeron offered to their grandfather. “How could I not be?”
Baelor turned his face down to look as he was asked. A smile blossomed across his face, his arm reaching out to gently touch the boys cheek with the backs of his fingers.
“He’ll grow,” Maekar’s voice said, sure as anything. He sniffed, wetly, but nodded where he stood over Baelor’s shoulder. “He’s strong, as she is, but small. But he will grow.”
“Of course, brother,” Baelor’s voice said, gently. “Look at him. What a little warrior we have now. I am quite proud of you, Daeron, for enduring so much.”
“Yes, well,” Daeron leaned against Valarr. “I’ve been told it’s worth it.”
Valarr pressed his lips to his wife’s brow. The girl in his arms cooed gently, but it was no real noise of alarm, if anything Valarr doubted the newborn even knew she’d made a noise.
“Does it feel worth it?” Valarr asked, watching as Baelor moved to touch the girls cheek now as well.
“I think so,” Daeron smiled.
“What are their names?” Baelor asked. He sat on the edge of the clean bed, and Maekar stayed standing over him, but laid his own hand upon the King’s shoulder.
“This is Maegelle,” Valarr said, of the girl he held in his arms.
Her downy hair was drying, and he could not stop pressing his nose against her to smell her skin. Maekar stiffened a bit and nodded, clearing his throat, having already heard the names and wept gently over them.
“A strong name,” Baelor nodded. “And the boy?”
“Baelor,” Daeron said, gently. Baelor, the King, turned to look at Daeron with wide eyes. The blond cracked an exhausted smile, and shrugged his shoulders. “You told me it was your design, my marriage, and thus his existence. You are also my husbands dear father, and my beloved uncle. Was it not a fitting tribute?”
“Daeron,” Baelor said, gently. He looked back to the boy, and his thick brown hair. “I can not think of something more honoring.”
“You are King,” Maekar said, leaning over him to touch the boy’s cheek. “You will think of something in time.”
Baelor chuckled, a wet little laugh, as he leaned forward to kiss the head of each child. The boy made a small noise as the King laid lips upon his namesake, perhaps at the unfamiliar tickle of the beard.
“We shall let you rest now, beloved nephew,” Baelor said, as he sat back. He’d only just arrived, but Valarr was glad to see them leave. As thankful as he was for their presence, he wanted some time with just Daeron and their children. “When you feel up to more company, please send word. Matarys will be joyed to meet his nephew and niece.”
“Yes, but for now, only focus on resting,” Maekar insisted. He pressed his lips to his own child’s forehead, kissing Daeron on the brow gently. “You did well, son.”
Daeron offered a little smile as he nodded. “Thank you, Father, Uncle.”
A few more kind words and soon Maekar was helping Baelor back out of the room. It wasn’t until the door shut that Daeron let his head fall back upon the pillows.
“Shall I take him to the cradle?” Valarr asked, watching how the young boy jolted a bit in his sleep but otherwise stayed quiet. “If you need to rest.”
“I fear him not in my arms won’t be good for my heart, but perhaps,” Daeron admitted. He cracked open a lavender eye and smiled, a tired smile, at Valarr.
“Let me lay Maegelle down, and I will return for him. They won’t be far, but you must relax.”
Daeron nodded. The maids and midwives had tried to take the children, but neither would allow it. Not with the fear in their heart. There would come a day soon where they could bear their children sleeping in a room far from them, but as Daeron had said during his labors, they just got here.
He laid Maegelle down in the small cradle. Had her brother been born the same size, perhaps putting them together would have been a tighter fit. Instead, once he retrieved his small son from his wife, he put Baelor beside her and smiled at the perfect fit they appeared to have.
The cradle was near the bed, close enough to touch. Valarr crawled in the featherbed beside Daeron, and cupped his face. He tasted like sweet bread and chicken, like watered down wine and exhaustion. Valarr kissed him again, then once more before tilting his head to deepen it into something more meaningful. In the cradle by the bed, their children slept gently.
When Valarr pulled back, he brushed some of Daeron’s limp bangs from his forehead. There was a sort of thoughtful look on his wife’s face, and Valarr did not beg him to tell him his thoughts. He had a feeling he understood.
He pressed another soft kiss to Daeron’s lips, before simply pressing their foreheads together for a moment of quiet. His eyes closed, and he wondered if Daeron would fell asleep soon. He was tired enough for it.
“I love you,” Daeron’s voice brought his eyes back open.
There was a wet glimmer to the beautiful lavender. Valarr smiled, though his smile trembled with all the love he felt for this man, his wife. He caressed Daeron’s cheek, but did not move from where their noses touched.
“I love you, Daeron,” Valarr said, quietly. Daeron smiled back, and kissed him gently.
The weight of the world was already on their shoulders, or at least it felt as such some days, and now this great responsibility was added to their backs. Pain had coated their path to this quiet happiness, and no doubt there would be more pain to come.
And yet, as Valarr softly kissed Daeron in the bed, so close to their children, he could not think it was all worth it to be here.
Valarr would do nothing different. And he knew Daeron would the same.
In this small moment of just them, all was well.