Chapter Text
“Open your eyes, sweet boy.”
Aerion’s eyelids fluttered. His lips moved, shaping words that barely reached Maekar’s ears. With his hands trembling slightly, Maekar leaned closer to wipe the beads of sweat from his son’s forehead.
“Muna?”
Maekar let out a jagged sigh of relief. “Yes, it’s me. How are you feeling, love?”
Weakly, the boy mumbled, “Thirsty.”
Maekar reached for the cup of water on the bedside table. Moving with practiced care, he propped Aerion up against the pillows and guided the rim to his pale lips. After the boy had drunk his fill—and managed a few bites of the freshly made soup brought from the kitchen—a bit of rosy color finally returned to his cheeks.
“Where is Father?” Aerion asked.
Maekar’s expression tightened. “At a council meeting.”
He knew well the weight of Baelor’s duties as Hand, but could his brother not have missed a single session to remain at Aerion’s side? Baelor had simply shaken his head, insisting that Maekar was more than enough to keep their son safe. While the trust touched Maekar’s pride, it irked him how easily Baelor had turned away the moment their father’s page arrived to fetch him.
“He will return once the session is finished,” Maekar added, with a forced calm in his voice.
Aerion frowned, looking down at his blankets. “He doesn't have to. I don’t want to be a burden—”
“Hush,” Maekar commanded gently. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the boy's forehead and then both his cheeks, continuing until Aerion began to giggle in delight. Only then did Maekar pull away, though he kept his hand resting over his son’s heart. “You are not a burden, and you never will be. Your father will return of his own accord—not out of duty, but for you.”
Aerion looked doubtful for a moment, but then a smile slowly bloomed, followed by a determined nod.
“Will we be able to dine together? And where is Daeron? I want to tell him of my dreams!”
Maekar chuckled at the boy’s sudden burst of enthusiasm. “Slow down, sweet boy. It is far too early for that, and you still need your rest.”
“I’ve rested enough,” Aerion complained, though his voice was still thin. “How long have I been asleep, anyway?”
“Since yesterday.” Maekar ran his fingers through his son’s silken silver hair, the rhythm grounding him. “You gave us quite the fright, Aerion.”
Maekar had nearly lost his mind watching the Maester tilt Aerion’s head back to blow air into the boy's lungs. He recalled the cold weight of his sword hilt—how he had nearly beheaded the man for touching his son so familiarly—until that first, miraculous cough. Aerion had begun to breathe again, something that had ceased the moment he hit his father’s arms when he fell.
He had been unable to leave the boy's side. Not even the servants’ repeated pleas for his presence—sent on behalf of his other children—could dissuade him.
Valarr was four-and-ten, nearly a man grown and far too old to be coddled. Daeron followed him closely, only a year younger. Matarys was a gentle soul—perhaps the mildest of all his children—and easily content by the guidance of the household staff. Even the small ones, Aemon and Daella, were quiet and disciplined beyond their six and four years.
It was the youngest pair, Aegon and Rhae, who truly tested his patience. They were still far too emotional, driven by mischief and whims. Maekar had lost count of how many times a frantic servant had lost his youngest son, and Rhae, who was prone to fits of screaming whenever the attention drifted from her.
He loved them all fiercely, and equally but he would always choose their weakened brother over trivial whines about monsters under the bed.
“I’m sorry, Muna.” Aerion leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to Maekar’s cheek before nuzzling into the crook of his neck.
Maekar pulled him into a fierce, protective hug, closing his eyes as he breathed in the scent of milk and summer-warmed skin.
“It will never happen again,” Aerion whispered into his shoulder. “I swear it.”
(That oath meant little when his son’s body seemed so intent on betraying him.)
It was not long before Aerion’s heart failed him again.
And again, when he had run too fast.
And again, when he had played too hard.
And again, when he had felt too much.
And again, when he had dreamed too vividly.
And again, when the sun had been too hot.
And again.
Each time, it had clawed at Maekar's own chest, and each time he had lost sleep and weakened himself because of it. It had simply felt unfair to be well when his own son kept being dragged to the strangers door before him.
Everything became too much until each word and simple actions from sitting up from his bed that he took refuge in for quite some time since the start of his sickness is more of a hardship than lifting a sword. His strong, brave boy that might never wield one again.
By his fourteenth name-day, he could no longer leave his bed. It became a distant memory—the time when his son was still strong enough to play with his siblings, to fish on the lake, to laugh with that familiar brightness, or to train in the yard like any other boy.
His son was fading before his eyes, and Maekar was helpless to do anything.
Until Bloodraven.
He had begged him, as many times as his son had fallen. But the man had refused, saying that it was unethical—as if that had ever mattered—and that there was no solution where Aerion would not be changed forever. Maekar had demanded he find a way, and so Bloodraven did, at the command of the king and his husband both. The man could have done nothing but search, and search he did.
(“I can provide him a new heart,” Bloodraven had proposed after moons of locking himself in his studies. “It will cause the prince no distress. No fundamental change, no hidden cost. He will live. It will not grant him immortality, or anything so grand; he would simply have a heart strong enough to endure.”
“Do it.”
It was not Maekar who spoke, but Baelor. Their son’s ailment was taking a toll on him in a much different fashion; it was from Baelor that Daeron had learned his habits—the tendency to turn to wine and ale whenever trouble or nightmares arose.
Maekar had held his arms until he bruised. Desperation was a sad thing, but it also gave them hope.)
The room smelled stale—of herbs and incense. Maekar had grown so used to those scents that he had stopped trying to vomit from the smell.
He held the cold, still-living hand of Aerion. The boy was asleep, every breath shallow and rasping. He was so pale; once he had been sunkissed and warm, but now he was so cold—a dragon should never be cold. His cheeks were nearly sunken, his hair longer than it had been a month before, when he permanently became bedridden.
Too sickly to lift his head, or even breathe properly without hardship.
He should be outside—training, singing, playing, or even flirting with some lady he fancied. He should not be here.
“My prince,” Bloodraven said from behind him. He had always been quiet, always observing but never speaking a word until it suited him. “The process should take about a day,” he said.
“Where is Baelor?” Maekar asked, not taking his eyes away from Aerion. “He should be here.”
Baelor was many things and Maekar had never thought he’d ever perceive his brother as a craven, until now—for not having the guts to face their ailing son.
“I’ve already spoken with him,” Bloodraven said carefully. “He understood that any more presence would only be a liability."
Maekar's lips curled in displeasure.
"I have prepared everything, and at your word, I shall begin,” Brynden continued. Without you here, the silence seemed to finish for him.
His grip on Aerion’s hand tightened for a moment before softening again; his son was too fragile for that—too weakened. “You wish for me to leave?”
“Yes.” Bloodraven stepped closer, but he did not lay a hand on Maekar’s shoulder for comfort; they were not close enough for that, despite their shared blood. He cleared his throat. “His siblings have also requested to visit him before I start. They were quite insistent—”
“No.”
“He is their brother,” Bloodraven said measurably. “They miss him.”
“They will not see him like this,” Maekar hissed, but there was no strength to it. He had stayed awake too many nights, and he had slept too little over the last moon. He was tired—tired enough to wonder if it would be a bad thing to follow his child soon after, if Aerion ever passed. “They will have to wait.”
(Valarr was teaching the younger boys to throw rocks at the lake. The stones skipped like heartbeats—like the steady pulse Maekar felt beneath his son’s wrist.
Daeron laughed beside them, his head resting on a pillow while Rhae braided his hair. There was no wine in sight; Maekar had made sure of it. “Aegon might as well throw himself in the water, given how hard he’s trying.”
“He’s six,” Aerion said. He leaned against arranged pillows and blankets, with the trees a comfortable shield against the sun. His hair was still lustrous, thick with a health that would fade in months to come. “I rather like his determination. He looks like Father.”
Maekar sighed from his seat nearby—never far from Aerion. “I don’t think your father has ever looked like a boiled lobster before.”
His children laughed, and little Rhae chastised Daeron for shifting too much while she worked.
“I’ve never learned how to skip stones,” Aerion admitted.
Daeron looked at his brother, his hand moving to grasp Aerion’s left—the one Maekar wasn't already holding. “You worry too much about something so simple. We have all the time in the world to learn such trivial hobbies.”
Aerion shook his head with a resignation that Maekar loathed to see. “Then you must forgive me, for time itself seems to be against me.”
“Do not speak like that,” Daeron said, the words dulled with pain.
“’Tis the truth,” Aerion said, squeezing Daeron’s hand between his fingers. “It’s better for us to accept it early, before the loss itself—”
“Aerion,” Maekar interrupted, drawing him closer. “Do not speak of this nonsense anymore. You will be well soon, mark my words.”
Aerion smiled sadly, watching his siblings cast more rocks at the lake. Aemon was the last to succeed; his arms were more familiar with lifting heavy tomes than pebbles.
“I do feel much better now,” Aerion whispered. “Mayhaps I’ll be able to join them the next time we come back here.”)
“My prince?”
His eyes stung. Maekar heaved a shaky breath. “You will fix my boy.”
“I will do my best.”
“Swear it.” Please, he nearly added. He had lost count of how many times he had begged this man, drunk on his own grief and desperation.
“I swear.”
He breathed lightly, his hand stroking his son’s face with trembling lips. Reluctantly, he stood. Quickly, before he changed his mind. Brynden regarded him without pity, before his gaze slid away and rested on Aerion’s prone form on the bed.
When Maekar stepped out of the room, he staggered. He paid no mind to the guards, nor the strong arms that instantly wrapped around him. He simply let himself sob, his tears dampening Baelor’s tunic. Sighing with despair, he caught the faint, lingering traces of the incense from Aerion’s sickroom that clung to his clothes.
“Shhh,” Baelor whispered, hugging him tighter. “It will be alright.”
“Our boy, Baelor,” Maekar cried, his nails digging into his husband’s back. “Our boy.”
“He will be well,” Baelor said. “He will be.”
Sometimes Maekar wondered how his brother could remain so composed—but then he would smell the wine on his breath, and he would think no more of it.