Chapter Text
211 A.C.
When Valarr arrived at Maekar’s chambers, he knocked with such a meekness that Maekar was surprised he had heard the lad at all. Maekar rose to his feet and opened the door to be greeted by one battered and bloodied Valarr. The sight made Maekar’s stomach jump with worry. Despite the situation, it was clear that Valarr was trying to emulate his sire’s strong and stoic nature by fighting to hold back the tears in his mismatched eyes.
“Seven hells,” Maekar swore, stepping aside to allow Valarr in. He didn’t need to ask what happened. If Valarr was there rather than with his father, Maekar already knew. Aerion.
The two had been arguing the night before at dinner. Maekar hadn’t caught the beginning of it, but he had heard enough to know it was not a fight Aerion would back down from. Not that Aerion ever backed down from a fight; he was too similar to Maekar in that way.
Closing the heavy wooden door behind him, Maekar bolted the lock to keep any unwelcome visitors out. “Let me help you,” he called after Valarr, sighing softly as he followed the younger man to the bath. Valarr already had his sleeves rolled up above his wrists and was splashing his face in Maekar’s washbasin. He had hoped, in vain, that the water would conceal his tears.
Valarr knew that Maekar would press him for details, but he didn’t feel like speaking. Valarr’s heart ached more than his face did, although that hurt plenty too. Why did his cousin have to be so cruel? He hadn’t meant to upset him at dinner and for Aerion to continue holding a grudge over a small disagreement—how carefully would he have to continue to tread? It was times like this that Valarr felt like a prisoner in his own home, and so more tears slid down his cheeks.
“Valarr…,” Maekar spoke softly, looking at the boy with worry. Really, he was a man grown at one and twenty, almost tall as his father and just as beautiful as Baelor at that age—maybe even prettier. Baelor would insist he had his mother’s beauty, but Maekar had to disagree. The truth was surely somewhere in the middle. Regardless, to see Valarr cry made Maekar’s chest ache and to know Aerion was the reason for it hurt doubly. “I’m sorry,” Maekar finally said.
“It isn’t your fault, uncle, an apology isn’t necessary,” Valarr answered in a soft, understanding voice that carried the same cadence as his father’s. Uncle. The word twisted the imaginary knife that always found its way into Maekar’s belly when Valarr was close by.
Valarr straightened up and lifted his head, eyeing himself in the looking glass. Dried blood still decorated his face in various spots where his scrubbing had missed. Bruises were already forming around his eyes and on his cheeks where Aerion had struck him.
“Let me…,” Maekar began, stepping closer to Valarr after picking up a cloth to wet in the basin. Maekar reached up with his free hand to gently hold Valarr’s chin while the other wiped away the rest of the blood with care. Valarr was Baelor’s greatest treasure, he’d treat him as such. Maekar always had when afforded the opportunity—when he was allowed.
Maekar wiped away a bit of blood before dipping the cloth again to rinse it. He tried to carefully dab the blood from under Valarr’s nose, but that earned a whimper from the boy. Pulling his hand away, looking worried, Maekar set the cloth aside for now. “Your nose may be broken. I can send for a maester.”
“Don’t,” Valarr answered quickly. The princeling tilted his head with uncertainty, casting his eyes downward. “I mean, I don’t want to see anyone else today. Not looking like this.”
Nodding, Maekar acquiesced. He knew better than most the desire to be alone when hurting after a fight. Sometimes he had even pushed Baelor from his presence. Perhaps, it was one of the few traits Valarr seemed to inherit from him. “I can go as well. Are you—”
“No.” The answer was sharp and short again—a tone of voice fit for a young prince. “Stay.”
Maekar had heard that voice before and knew it intimately. Valarr had tried so hard to emulate his honorable father, and yet there were times when his mother shone through. Those qualities of himself that Maekar could see in Valarr felt like he’d cursed the boy, just as he had cursed Aerion with an ill temper.
Yet as Maekar sat down across from his eldest, there was that painful ache again. Maekar rested a hand on his stomach, as he watched Valarr before him. When Valarr looked up, he could have sworn that Maekar’s eyes were welling with tears too.
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189 A.C.
No one would have guessed that Maekar Targaryen, blood of the dragon and in line to sit the Iron Throne, would be spending his fifteenth name day confined in his bedchamber in Maegor’s Holdfast. On the date of his name day, Maekar had been carrying the babe inside him for about seven moons. He had not seen Baelor since the third.
The lying-in itself was torture. Normally, a noblewoman with child would not be confined to her rooms until she was close to delivering the child, but this situation was different. No one could know that Maekar, prince that he was, carried the bastard child of his elder brother Baelor—especially when Baelor was betrothed to Jena Dondarrion. The moment his pregnancy began to be noticeable, Maekar was confined to his rooms and not allowed to leave. As far as everyone else was concerned, the prince was ill and needed rest, quiet, and solitude. What he actually needed was his elder brother.
Isolated in his bedchamber, Maekar spent his days in fear and terrible loneliness. Sometimes, he would sit at his window and stare outside, trying his hardest to be happier for the babe inside him, but it was no use. Maekar was positive that he had cursed the babe with an ill temper for how he’d felt during his confinement.
Only time would tell what sort of harm he’d done to his child.