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The cold air of the morning kissed Maekar’s face, leaving behind a slight trace of dew. Stonehelm oversaw the Slayne and the weather behaved accordingly. It was so different from Summerhall that it was hard to believe it was only a few days' ride away.
Aerion hated it and he had made sure that Maekar knew it, making a point of mentioning it in the rare letter he sent them.
He has not laid eyes on his son in nearly two years and the last time they spoke, right before he married Lord Swann’s heir, had not been the most civil one. Wounds that were yet to heal were cut with unkind words.
It did not help that after the passing of their father, Baelor had called him to the capital and kept him occupied. He had not had the time to spare to visit his Aerion and impose his presence in Stonehelm.
The truce had come in the form of a grandson, his first grandchild. Aerion wrote sparingly and even less so throughout his pregnancy, and Maekar had dreaded the day a raven would arrive not with his son’s words but that of his husband’s, with empty condolences and sorrow.
So when Aerion had at last invited him to meet the boy, Maekar abandoned his duties and rode south with a small party.
Whatever he had been expecting, it was not this.
“Father, welcome to Stonhelm,” Aerion greeted pleasantly.
“Aerion.”
His voice was nearly warm, a small wonder in itself, and he looked… well, radiant. A healthy flush colored his cheeks and his hair was longer than ever, the silver ends brushing the breast of his black circlet, the sleeves of which were adorned with red and gold embroidery in the pattern of scales.
It was no surprise that he still wore their house’s colors rather than his husband’s, but what did catch Maekar’s eye was the slight swell in his middle. His eyebrows rose to his hairline.
Another one, so soon? The thought made him frown.
Aerion noticed his gaze and brought a palm to rest against his belly, as if to shield it from his view.
“You must be tired from your journey, but before you rest, may I introduce you to your grandson?”
A wet gurgle tore Maekar’s gaze from his son and landed it on the strapping boy on his nursemaid’s arms. He knew that he was not yet a year old, but he looked like he would be running around with a wooden sword in no time at all.
The plumpy lad had a mess of sandy blonde curls sitting on top of his head and paid him no mind, too busy trying to reach for the knight that stood behind them.
The nursemaid passed the boy to Aerion and he gave a happy squeal that made Maekar’s heart ache. He extended his arms instinctively, a silent plea that Aerion conceded.
“Father, this is Arlys.”
Oh, he was even heavier than he looked. He hoped the birthing bed had been kind to his son, that he had not laboured too long with his boy.
Arlys’s grubby hands found Maekar’s beard and he gave him a gummy smile, tiny white pearls peeking through his lips. He had bright blue eyes, not unlike Valarr’s, who had inherited them from his Dondarrion mother.
He tried to recall what his good-son looked like, his stomach giving a slight twist in warning. He had been tall, yes, though most men seemed so when standing next to Aerion. Not particularly large, but rather slender, with a mop of muddy brown hair and stormy gray eyes. Aerion had not been particularly impressed by him.
Later he would come to regret the searching look that followed, which quickly appraised the members of his son’s new household, not resting for too long on anyone, until he was forced to crane up his head to study the face of his son’s knight, quite the giant of a man, who tried without success to avoid his gaze.
Maekar’s eyes narrowed.
Arlys tugged on his beard.
Aerion looked serene.
-
Maekar fought a headache as he scrubbed himself clean from the grime of the journey.
It was too good to be true, he should have known, he should have fucking known that Aerion would not simply embrace his fate with open arms.
A part of him had expected him to run away. Aerion was anything if not resourceful and he could be terribly charming when he wished to be, securing passage to Essos would have been child’s play for him, which is why he had sent him to Stonehelm with plenty of escort and half awaited a raven from a concerned Lord Swann regarding a missing bride within the first year of the marriage.
This, Maekar thought, was much worse. The Swanns were old and proud and Aerion had cuckolded their heir with little regard for the consequences. And if the truth was plain for Maekar to see, then all would see it sooner than later.
The possibility of him taking a lover had never crossed his mind. Daeron was the one with a taste for whoring. Aerion had scorned the company of others he considered lesser and due to that he had raged when he learned he was to marry someone so beneath him.
A knight, a common knight of no name or renown. Maekar resisted the urge to pull out his hair.
Once he was clean and out of the bath, a maid knocked on his door to let him know that Aerion awaited him in his solar for supper.
He moved silently through the halls
of Stonehelm, feeling within as if he were marching to battle, or to witness a particularly gnarly execution.
To add insult to injury, the knight was there, guarding the door as he stood outside of the solar. He met them with an awkward bow and Maekar glared. He did not meet Maekar’s eyes.
Aerion was cheery enough as he received him, dismissing the servants and gesturing at him to sit by his side. A generous spread of dishes was laid out for them and a jug of wine and two silver cups rested on a tray.
“Would you care to try some crabcakes? They are rather good.”
Aerion dipped one into a red sauce, popped it into his mouth and chewed tranquilly.
This display of ease made Maekar’s headache worsen and his temper flare.
“Don’t play with me, boy.”
Aerion blinked in confusion, the picture of innocence.
“What is it, Father? You don’t care for the local produce?”
“Neither do you, it seems,” he hissed, unwilling to put up with the farce.
The corner of his son’s lip twitched upwards.
“I have no idea of what you mean by that.”
“Aerion!”
He did not quite manage to hide his flinch, which let Maekar know he still had enough wits to him, if anything to fear Maekar’s wrath.
“Fine,” Aerion grunted. “You wish for us to speak of it, then let’s get it over with. I warned you this would happen.”
An incredulous cackle left his lips.
“What?”
“I seem to recall telling you that you could marry me to that imbecile, but you could never make me bear him any children. Did you think I was lying?”
“I thought you had enough sense not to cuckold your husband!” Maekar hissed.
Aerion gave a careless shrug, but some red blossomed in his cheeks.
“Well, it may have not been within my plans to,” he gestured vaguely at his belly.
Maekar’s eye twitched.
“But the sooner my lord and husband gets his heir and spare, the sooner he shall cease to plague me with his presence, so it is a necessary evil.”
Breathing deeply, Maekar reached for the wine and poured himself a generous amount.
“Could you not have found a man that resembled him at least?”
“Do you think I’ve been spreading for any and all that cross my path?” Aerion finally hissed back. “As if I would roll around—”
“With some common knight?”
Aerion huffed and took the empty cup, snatching the jug from Maekar’s side of the table. He popped another crabcake into his mouth and served himself some wine.
“All this one wants is crab and fish,” he complained absentmindedly. “It makes my breath stink. You’d think I’m some fisherwife.”
Maekar’s temper faltered him and he could not help his next words.
“Your boy is a big lad.”
His son snorted. “Oh, I know that.”
“I trust the birth was not… difficult.”
Aerion stared into his cup, making the wine swirl.
“The maester said the head was too big, that if he did not come on his own they might have had to cut me.”
Goosebumps rose along Maekar’s arms.
Aerion’s chin pointed at the door.
“I told him to kill my husband and the maester should they choose the child’s life above mine.”
“Did—”
“It did not come to that, thankfully. I like to think he would have done it, if they had.”
Then, to Maekar’s utter shock, Aerion’s face grew soft with fondness.
“He’s not what you’d think— He’s an honorable man. Too honorable, I'd say. It’ll get him killed one day.”
Tentatively, Maekar reached for a crabcake.
“And where is your husband now?”
“Gone for a fortnight, off to Mistwood to visit his friends.”
“Does he know?”
“If he does, he has not shown it. Perhaps he believes my Valyrian blood to run stronger than his.”
Maekar gave him a blank stare.
“He does not look quite Valyrian.”
“Nonsense, he’s Maegor come again, twice the size of his little swan cousins. He’s got Daeron’s hair and Mother’s eyes, under the right light.”
“For your sake, I hope he has your silver tongue too. He’ll need it.”
Aerion smiled slightly, resting his hand over his belly. Maekar wondered if he was aware of it.
“He will never voice any doubts, not if he means to keep his pride and seat. He’ll be the laughing stock of the Stormlands if this gets out.”
Maekar was not feeling very reassured.
“...you still ought to think about what you’ll do if he does. Being a king’s nephew might not be enough to spare you from his wrath.”
Aerion snorted.
“I fear not his wrath. He’s a poor jouster and a poorer warrior.” He smiled again. “Besides, I have him for that, don’t I?”
Maekar followed his gaze to the door.
“Where did you even find such a man?”
“In an inn near Ashford. I'll spare you the details of how I found myself there."