Chapter Text
The Bending of the Anvil
Chapter One
Maekar Targaryen had never been a glad child. As a babe, his mother said he scarcely cried but also misliked being held for too long. He misliked songs, feasts, and often preferred quiet rooms or to be outside. That discontent with over flattery, exuberant displays of queer desperate attempts to excel themselves at the cost of his family carried long into adulthood.
He was a large child, born at ten pounds and continued to grow and grow as a toddler, then a boy, into a teen, into a man. At three inches over six feet, he was broader and taller than Baelor though his brother was quicker. He excelled at matters of war over matters of court. He would rather be in a field fighting a war over weaving his way through court and Small Council meetings as a politician.
There was a single woman he ever loved. Dyanna knew him for his harshness and loved him regardless. She made him smile, made him laugh, and softened him. She gave him four sons and two daughters--and died of the sweating sickness less than a quarter of a year after Aegon and Rhae had been born.
Three years had passed and he was still angry.
Today and the last six months before it: angry at the King and Queen.
Mother and father.
Baelor stared across the ship at the castle of Runestone--the massive castle settled against the edge of a cliff looking off into the Peninsula in the Bay of Crabs.
His great-great-grandfather, Prince Daemon Targaryen’s first wife was a Royce--dead having never given him a child. It was said their marriage was tumultuous, and his rather infamous great-great-grandfather hated her.
Yet it was the last stops in the Vale, looking for a second wife for Baelor and himself.
They’d marched through Dorne, the Stormlands, the Crownlands, and now would finish this leg in the Vale. Then they’d sail back to the fucking Crownlands and be met by Ladies of the Riverlands, Reach, and Westerlands--all clawing their way up the ladder by means of putting themselves in their bed.
Baelor was worse off than he--for the kinder, softer, and more chivalrous brother wasn’t just heir to the Iron Throne: he was also simply better looking.
It didn’t mean he was free from the overzealous Lords desperately trying to gain favor by putting their daughters in his bed.
“How long do we stay here?” Aerion asks, his voice soft. Eight years old and sensitive, his second son had been most interested in the Knights of the Vale--enjoying the stories spoken to him by his Septa Lollys.
“A fortnight,” Baelor says calmly. “Who is the Lord of Runestone, Aerion?”
“Lord Alec Royce is the Lord, and he and his wife Lady Lysa Royce, his cousin. They had three sons, Allard, Donnel, and Edmund, and nine daughters, though Donnel passed three years ago.”
Maekar snorts sharply. Twelve children--he could barely handle half of that.
“They have like, fifty, grandchildren,” Daeron adds from the edge of the ship. “Bunch of granddaughters and 10 grandsons.”
“Fuck me,” Maekar muttered.
“She really wants more granddaughters, doesn’t she?” Baelor says with a quiet laugh, though the look in his dark eyes showed all the grimness Maekar felt.
“I don’t know why we’re even bothering,” Daeron muttered. “Father has turned away every Lady turned his way.” He scowled at his eldest son despite his agreement.
“We must honor our King and Queen,” Baelor says dutifully. “And Father and mother.”
“I’ll be glad to be off the ship,” Daeron says dryly. “Daella stinks up our room with her vomit every night after dinner. She’s going to beg to ride horseback back home.” Maekar grimaces again, trying and failing to shake off the rage buried deep in his bones. His mother had beseeched him to leave the three youngest with her: but he would not let his four year old and three year old twins out of his vicinity for more than a few days. Let alone six months.
“She is still a babe,” Maekar snapped. “She cannot help it.”
“I didn’t say it was her fault,” Daeron muttered. Just yours, father, for making us come along with you. Is what Maekar hears.
“Fresh air on stable ground will do us all well.” Baelor says soothingly, both to him and his eldest son. One and ten, he was no Baelor or Maekar. Softer, prone to nightmares, and hated being a page and now his squire. Maekar scowled at the sky--at whatever Gods lied there.
They could go fuck themselves for the cruelty they’d dealt him and his.
Alec Royce had far too many fucking children. Maekar would not even be surprised if someone was to tell him that the whole great hall of the massive and imposing castle of Runestone was filled with his offspring. He could not fucking keep track of a single one of them, and even Baelor looked overwhelmed.
“There are a great many of us,” Lord Edmund, Alec Royce’s youngest son said with a laugh. Despite the Royce’s abilities at making babies, they struggled to make boys. Edmund’s two sons were the only boys who carried the Royce name. “It can be a bit overwhelming. My nieces, Deana, Desmira, and Myranda typically do the rounding up. They are my older brothers, Allard and Donnel's daughters.” He admits. Maekar wanted to snort. What was the bloody point of having that many children if you were just going to force your own daughters to do the raising? He just looked on with a frown, watching the children’s table his own children had joined.
Donnel had two wives. The first and two of his five children she gave him passed in a spring sickness, and he’d remarried and fathered four more daughters on the woman before he died. And she died with the last one, from birthing sickness.
“They must be skilled to keep so many children in line,” Baelor says, watching with a barely concealed frown on his face. Three girls were managing the table. Two blondes and a girl with auburn hair.
“All three are related to Lady Alys Arryn, their mothers were born to Lord Elric and his lady wife. He only had one son and passed in a jousting accident at twenty. The man was never the same, and passed only a few years after. The titles then passed to Lady Alys’s father.” He explained. Maekar looked at his brother with a deep frown--which was as much as he was compromising in terms of politeness.
“Deana and Desmira are sisters, but Deana and Myranda are the same age,” the man recounts--obviously offering the three girls of the Royce bloodline he wished for the Princes to pick from. Maekar grabbed his goblet of wine and drank from it: already done with the topic of conversation. “Deana is bold and brave, and enjoys horseback riding and hawking. Desmira is a bit of a romantic,” the Royce admits with a laugh, “and prefers music and the arts,” he gestured towards the two blonde girls who were not ugly--but looked up at the Princes in excitement. “And Myranda is very dutiful. The children listen best to her--though she is shy.”
The auburn haired girl had yet to look up once from the table and so he had yet to see her whole face. But she seemed attentive and calm in the face of a mass of bloody children--her kin and his. Her hair reached past the middle of her back and fell in loose auburn curls. Maekar frowned as she leaned in to listen to something Aerion said, before she nodded and began to speak to him. One of the girls on the other side of her began to talk to take her attention but wordlessly the Lady placed her hand on either her cousin or sister's hand and finished speaking to Aerion before turning to the girl and listening to what she had to say. Then she returned to Aerion who put his hand on hers to grab her attention silently.
Maekar tensed. Aerion was sensitive, quiet, enjoyed reading but was a far better prospect in Knighthood than Daeron. But he was also prone to dark moods. Far darker than Maekar at his age.
The girl turned back to him with a gentle smile and they seemed to restart their conversation--Aemon joining in by standing behind Aerion. Five year old Aemon was grinning, reaching for Aerion who seemed annoyed, but he turned and let Aemon climb into his lap before speaking again to the Lady.
“Deana and Desmira have always longed to see King’s Landing,” Edmund Royce says, smiling openly, but his eyes were as sharp as a hawk's.
“It is a wonderful place,” Baelor said politely, “though Runestone is quite beautiful as well.”
Maekar was inclined to hate the girl for speaking to his sons so: in King’s Landing there was no doubt she’d be scheming. But not once did she smile coyly like the other Royce’s whelps.
“It is quite beautiful in the summer, as well. Although there is nothing like looking out across the sea and watching a blizzard roll across the land. Albeit, beautiful misery.” Edmund inclines his head with a half smile. The man follows his gaze and for a moment just stares at the table. “Myranda is very sweet, she will watch over your boys well.” Aerion and Aemon seemed enthralled with whatever she spoke of, and they seemed to be gathering attention from the other children.
“Your nieces are very beautiful,” Baelor says politely.
“And young,” Maekar grunted, drinking more of his wine before placing the goblet down.
“They are of marrying age,” Edmund says boldly. “Deana and Myranda are seven and ten, though Myranda turns eight and ten in only two moon turns. Desmira is five and ten.” Daeron joins them, across the seat from the Lady and was rolling his eyes. He said something to Aerion, and his brother tossed a roll at him. Instantly he tensed and went to stand.
Daeron, though, stuffs it in his mouth and makes a show of roughly eating the bread while the others--including Aerion, laugh.
“A glad son you have, My Prince,” Edmund says. So unlike you, Maekar hears.
“Daeron is charming.” Baelor says. “He has begun his squire hood under his father this year.”
“Congratulations,” Edmund says politely. Maekar nods, but frowns more deeply as Aemon then tries to throw a brussel sprout in Daeron's mouth. It misses--hitting him on his chin, and grabbing something to throw back. Sighing loudly, Maekar shifts the seat back, the sound of his chair scratching the floor was loud and grating, and thankfully enough to startle his son. Daeron looks up and then away sheepishly and says something to his brothers and Myranda, who look back.
She is pretty--with high cheekbones, round mouth, and smooth pale skin. Her eyes were soft, and blinked at him nervously as Aerion turned to say something to her. The girl nodded before saying something that seemed to disappoint Daeron. He frowned deeply.
But Daeron put down the food he was meant to throw and joined their conversation again.
“The children quite like her,” Edmund seems to preen under the display. “She rarely has to tell any of them more than once not to do something.” Maekar grunted.
“And a husband has not offered betrothal to any of your girls?” Baelor asks politely.
Edmund’s eyes darken for a moment. “There was a betrothal agreement nearly in place for Myranda two years prior--but he was not worthy of her. The other girls have offers, but no agreements. For now.” Maekar finally looks at the Lord with a raised brow at his hopeful tone. The Lord shrugs as if to say, can you blame me?
“Your hospitality is greatly appreciated,” Baelor says politely, but the warning look he gives to Maekar says something else.
“Of course, your Grace.” Edmund says and seems to understand the time to speak of betrothals was over.
“You three seemed to enjoy yourselves,” Baelor says pleasantly when back in their apartments. The rooms walls were covered in Vale tapestries--old stories of the Royce Kings and the Faith of the Seven.
“Lady Myranda told us the story of the Battle of the Seven Stars,” Aerion says, his violet eyes lit up in excitement. “And how Artys Arryn managed to trick the First Men into thinking he was dead, before leading them into a trap.”
Maekar scowled. “That does not seem like suitable dinner talk.” Nor a story she should have been recounting around children so young.
Daeron snorted. “He asked her to tell her the story the way they tell it in the Vale,” he says. “Although she did say the same thing, father. It was only when Aemon begged she relented. She didn’t even tell any of the gory details.”
Maekar then looked at his eight and five year old sons, who looked upon him sheepishly.
“And the throwing of the food?” He asks, irritation clawing out of him through the back of his throat.
“Daeron was upset you caught him,” Aemon said. “But Lady Myranda said we should honor you by doing as you would wish.”
Baelor smirked, his gaze flickering to him.
“I wanted to go,” Daella says with her small voice, rubbing sleep from her eyes on the cushioned couch across the large bronze ugly fireplace in the room.
“You fell asleep,” Daeron said. “You and the babies.”
“I’m not a baby!” Daella yells.
“Well you slept with the babies,” Aerion muttered. “Then she told me of the Bloody Gate--and that Halleck Hoare tried three times to take the Gate but never could.”
“Who the fuck is Halleck Hoare?” Maekar says to his brother, who blinks for a moment, before Aerion answers.
“The second King of the Iron Islands, named back then Isles and Rivers,” Aerion says. “She--”
“Told a lot of stories,” Daeron says dryly. “I swear brother, you should become a Maester.” Aerion frowned.
“I am a Dragon,” he says plainly. “She is a Royce--but an Arryn, too, like aunt Alys.” Baelor nodded. “She doesn’t look like aunt Alys.”
“Why?” Daeron asks. “Do you think she’s pretty?” He teases.
“Daeron,” he snaps sharply.
“She is pretty,” Aerion says calmly. “As are her cousins, and a great many other ladies who have offered themselves to become father and Uncle Baelor’s wives. But she does not look like Aunt Alys, and very few of her cousins have red hair.”
“Her grandmother was a Belmore,” Baelor tells him. “They typically have red or auburn hair.”
Maekar reached up and rubbed his eyes in exasperation. “How the fuck do you know that?” He asks his brother.
Baelor rolls his eyes. “Because he will be King one day,” Aerion says. “He must know to be a Good one.” Baelor smirked at him and Maekar scoffed.
“Why couldn’t I have gone?” Daella asks. “Why didn’t anyone wake me up?” She whined, bottom lip quivering. Her violet eyes were glassy, but her brown hair was a mess. The girl rolled around so much in her sleep, her plaits had half fallen out.
“There will be more feasts,” Maekar says firmly. “You were tired from the ship, I sought to let you rest.”
“But I want to hear about Harr-harr--” She stutters out the words, unsure of them. She looked back at Aerion.
“Halleck Hoare,” Aerion supplies.
“Him!”
“I’m sure your brother can recount the story,” Baelor suggests, moving to sit beside Daella, and patted her hair down. “There will be more time, niece, I promise.
“Or when we join them in the gardens tomorrow,” Aerion says, “We can get her to tell the story again.” Daella’s glassy eyes turn hopeful and she looks at Maekar with pleading eyes.
Maekar grimaces as Aegon and Rhae finally wake, waddling out of the nursery that had been made up for them. Septa Lolly looked nervous.
“I’m hungry,” Egg says, pouting.
“Me too!” Rhae says, darting across the room to throw herself at Daeron. She collapses into him and he grunts.
“I think you could do with less food,” he says as he lifts her up and brings her across the room to drop her next to Daella. Her own pale blonde hair was just as a mess as Daella’s.
“Don’t say that to your sister,” Maekar snaps.
“Or any lady,” Baelor adds with a frown.
“Please father,” Aemon asks gently. “Can we join the Royce children in the garden? They take their lunch there together.”
“I want to go!” Rhae yells.
He growled, digging the heel of his hand into his eyes. “Fine.”