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The sun had long since begun its slow descent, though the lessons showed no sign of ending.
The princes sat gathered around the long table, maps unfurled and weighed down at the corners with inkpots and stones. The maester’s voice carried through the room, reading from his text while pointing at the maps from time to time.
Prince Baelor sat straight-backed, listening intently, with his fingers folded neatly before him. He nodded and asked questions when appropriate.
Beside him, Prince Aerys had already moved ahead in the text, eyes scanning lines that had not yet been assigned. Now and then, he would glance up with faint impatience, as if waiting for the lesson to catch up to him.
Prince Rhaegel sat quietly to his left. His gaze rested on the maps, though his mind was wandering miles away.
And on the floor…sat Prince Maekar.
Fourth son of Prince Daeron II, and far too young to join his brothers’ lessons, but that had not stopped him.
He had fought, loudly and persistently, unwilling to be excluded from whatever it was his brothers did. The septas had been helpless in the face of it.
Now he sat there, dragging a small wooden horse across the stone floor, entertained in his own world, occasionally glancing up as though to ensure no one had forgotten he was there.
“…and here,” the maester was saying, pointing to a stretch of land along the Narrow Sea, “you will find— ”
“Fack.”
The word cut through the room like a spear.
The maester stopped.
Aerys slowly lowered his book.
On the floor, Maekar continued pushing his horse.
No one spoke for a while.
The maester cleared his throat. “As I was saying—”
“Fack.” Maekar repeated, this time with more surety.
Baelor turned to him slowly. “Maekar,” he said gently, “what did you just say?”
Maekar looked up at him, unbothered. “Fack.” He answered, with the confidence of someone who had only just learned a word and found it far too good not to use.
Aerys let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Where did you hear that?”
Maekar shrugged “Man said it.”
“What man?” Baelor asked, frowning.
Maekar considered for a moment.
“Ser Man.”
That was, evidently, the extent of his testimony.
The maester pressed his lips together, as though holding back something between a cry and a prayer. “Perhaps,” he said carefully, “it would be best if the prince were—”
“No.” Maekar said at once.
He clutched his wooden horse, glaring up with all the ferocity a three-year-old could muster.
“I stay.”
The Maester sighed, already resigned, knowing there was no winning against the youngest prince.
So, the lesson had continued. And the matter, for the moment, was forgotten.
------x------
The Small Council chamber was quiet, save for the voice of a lord speaking and the occasional scratch of quill against parchment as the scribe noted things down.
King Aegon IV sat at the head of the table. On his right sat Prince Daeron. And on his lap, small and entirely self-satisfied, sat Prince Maekar.
Maekar had, once again, gotten his way.
He had cried to follow his father and eldest brother, who, even at his young age, attended council as the heir to the heir.
The councillors were deep in discussion over some recent matter.
“…and if we do not act swiftly,” one lord was saying, voice tight with concern, “we may find ourselves at a considerable disadvantage.”
The words hung in the air for a moment, heavy with implication.
And in that small pause, when no one was speaking, Prince Maekar, bored of not getting any attention, decided to make himself heard.
“Fack.”
An absolute silence fell on the chamber.
The lord who had been speaking went still, his eyes widening as if he could not believe what he had just heard. Around the table, others wore much the same expression.
Slowly, the king looked down at his grandchild.
Maekar looked back at him, entirely pleased.
“Fack” he repeated, helpfully.
Next to him, Baelor closed his eyes.
Prince Daeron had gone red in the face, sitting rigid as if wishing the ground would swallow him whole.
The king exhaled.
“Who,” he asked, voice dangerously calm, “taught you that?”
Maekar beamed.
“Man.”
------x-------
The culprit was not in the room.
He stood, at that very moment, outside the council chamber doors.
Ser Manfield had served the Red Keep for near twenty years. He had seen wars, riots, and worse.
None of it compared to the quiet dread currently settling in his gut.
Because he knew.
He knew exactly when it had happened.
A dropped spear. A bruised foot. A quick and carelessly muttered curse at an entirely unfortunate moment.
He had not seen the prince behind him.
And when he realised that the Prince had heard him, he had thought the boy too young to understand.
He had been wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.
And at that moment, as he stood there, praying to the Seven that the princeling might soon tire of his newfound fondness for the word, he closed his eyes.
“Fuck.” he muttered, and banged his head against the wall.