Chapter Text
The cries had been loud for the entire night, the sound tore violently as wind split by arrows. Maegor’s cry rose and splintered the air like lightning striking stones outside on Shipbreaker Bay.
The storm had made enemies out of the battlements and Maegor seemed to answer it with renewed strength, the screams rolling through the chambers, down the stairwell to the kitchens. Somewhere below, a guard muttered a curse, for even the gale-force wind whistling and howling outside was momentarily outmatched.
Under Maegor’s weight, Aerion’s arms strained to keep him to his chest, his body yet to accommodate the babe in a place that was not his womb. Not even a moon old, but a sprawling bundle of fists and legs, Maegor was whole fury and his father’s strength in the raw and unbroken roar that was his cry, vast and echoing through the tower fiercely.
Thunder made flesh, his father, Lord Lyonel Baratheon, had said. A squall given lungs!
Aerion would sooner drive a blade through the stitches holding his body whole than cradle Baratheon’s blood.
A ringed hand came to rest on the armrest of the high-backed chair by the hearth, whole body rigidly sitting as flames licked the stonewalls, casting long, trembling shadows across the chambers. The fire crackled, spitting sparks onto the dark flagstones, and the scent of smoke mingled with the babe’s sharp honeyed one. Aerion had his senses flooded by it, the sweet pheromones of Maegor’s skin torturing his nose, his shrieks overwhelming his ears.
He shifted and welcomed the warmth soaking through his back from the fire, as Maegor’s small fists kneaded at this chest, testing the borders of his still limited world. But a demand for food it was.
Settling on his side to hold the babe against one arm, soreness seeped into Aerion in the form of shivers down his thighs. He tugged at the upper ties of his woolen doublet, loosening it just enough to reveal the linen underneath. The fabric slipped down a shoulder not without any effort, exposing part of his chest, and Maegor’s hungry wails turned to a stone silence as he latched, gathering strength with every mouthful drawn insistently. It was a request Aerion only could respond to, for Maegor’s fiery cries faded to unyielding fists and a staring gaze while nursing from him alone, eyes the deep violet of twilight over Dragonstone in spring.
Presentation day had rendered Maegor nervous, rage thundering through his body like widespread fire. To be held, to be shown, to be spoken of in front of a multitude of bannermen swearing oaths to the new heir had angered him beyond capacity for such little days lived.
Aerion had endured it while standing next to his High Chair, although otherwise advised by the maester, with pride baring its teeth in the face of those loutish stormlords. The sharp agony childbirth had brought had reduced to a dull pain of persistent ache between his legs, there where silken stitches pulled at the seams with each of his movements, and made blood pool in cloths.
But he would not sit across a hall of lords while Lyonel Baratheon claimed his son.
Maegor’s eyes drooped and his suckling reduced, now fed and quieted down. Only the distant growl of the storm beyond the cliffs remained, leaving Storm’s End wrapped in damp silence inside.
Slowly, Aerion pulled his clothes to modesty and shifted on the cushioned seat before raising to stand. A long shadow near the door moved in tandem with him from across the chambers, closing enough distance between them to intervene if needed. Aerion spared him a glance and made his way to the canopy. It welcomed a side cradle, rarely put to use these days, carved in the same wood Aerion had had his headboard made of. Aegon’s conquest, Vhagar, the burning of Harrenhal, the civil war between Rhaenyra and Aegon.
Aerion sat upright on the bedding, pelts and furs scattered all over. Maegor, wrapped in silk and sable fur, yawned, his small hand resting possessively at the hollow of Aerion’s throat.
“My prince,” Duncan emerged from the shadows at last, quilted arming doublet warm due to the fire, unlaced at the neck where the heat of the chambers had grown. He smelled faintly of oil and clean steel, and something warmer beneath it. It created a stark contrast with the air around them, heavy with the babe’s smell, milk and the faint, lingering sweetness of crushed lavender, something the maester had suggested for the pain.
Duncan ducked his head slightly, though the pillar was high enough for most men, and made way to step closer.
Aerion raised a hand to stop him, and propped himself among the pillows, silver hair unbound now spilling a pale torrent over his shoulders, a timid reminder of Lys and what remained of it in the fine cushions and sparse tapestry adorning his surroundings.
The presentation that afternoon had drained what little stregth Aerion had hoarded meticulously. Lyonel Baratheon had stood beside him in the hall, vast and solemn, while the lords of the Stormlands had filed past to swear to the babe swaddled in black and gold.
And they all had murmured the expected words: strong lungs, fine of hair like he is Valyrian, a blessing of the Seven.
“Shed your plate for the night?” He asked, a hand curved instinctively over his middle, as the other braced Maegor to his chest.
“The wet nurse may have him,” Duncan said quietly. “If you will.”
Aerion tilted his head. “No. She is not of my choice.”
Duncan’s mouth twitched, though he did not fully smile. He crossed the distance between them with measured strides, the floorboards creaking softly under his weight.
When he reached the bedside, he hesitated, and met Aerion's gaze halfway.
“My prince, you should lie back.” He said, then stopped. His gaze flickered over the disordered pillows, the angle at which Aerion leaned, his rigid posture. “Else you will strain yourself.”
Aerion’s eyes trailed down Duncan’s figure as he lifted his hand.
“Silence.” He breathed out.
“Allow me to mend it.” Duncan insisted, finally making shape of his thoughts.
Long gone were the days spent off the coast of Essos, where dragoneyes and skyflowers bloomed as decorations inside the manse and tapestries fluttered against smooth walls, gentle wind carrying the smell of billowing fumes inside.
Nothing was made to ease weary men at Storm’s End.
Aerion regardered him as the distant rumble of the storm filled the silence between them. The humiliation of the afternoon burned behind his ribs, sharpened by the murmurs of the lords weighing his son like coin. And the weather would not lessen, not even where he was supposed to rest.
“It is not necessary.”
“You must sit higher,” Duncan murmured, remaining still beside him. “Just stay upright for a moment, Your Highness.”
Aerion’s lips were pressed together, Maegor shifting again with a small whimper. Instinct overrode pride as Aerion adjusted him carefully, guiding the babe higher on his chest. The movement tugged at tender flesh stitched together.
Duncan stepped forward without asking this time, hands hovering. “Let me.”
Aerion’s gaze snapped to his. “Stay back.”
The words came swift as drawn steel and Duncan stilled where he was standing. For a breath, they remained thus.
The knight inclined his head. “As you command.”
Maegor made a soft sound, half sigh, half mewl. Aerion lowered his head to look at the babe, a silver crown adorning his head. The position made it clear that the pillows had sagged and the angle was forcing him seated crookedly.
“Only the pillows.” Duncan resumed. “I will not touch him.”
When Aerion’s pride allowed him to ignore the heaviness in the low of his guts, he straightened his back, lips pressed together tightly in the effort. Duncan moved with deliberate gentleness to ease pillows behind Aerion’s back. His hands were large, too large for the task he was tending to, but surprisingly adequate, gentle where Lyonel’s hand upon his elbow during the court’s congratulations had been possessive, formal, as cold as the walls of Storm’s End, humid in its grasp at the crook of his arm.
Maegor stirred again and Aerion tightened his hold around him, careful to sustain his head.
“You wake him.” He hissed through clenched teeth.
Duncan stilled in his movements and held his breath for a moment as he anticipated the sharp yet small intake before the shriek. It did not come, and he slowly resumed his task.
“My apologies.” He whispered, and finished adjusting the last cushion. Slowly, he retreated, watching over Aerion leaning back again on the plumped softness.
“There. Does that ease it?” He asked, offering an arm for Aerion sto steady himself on.
“Yes, maester Duncan.” Aerion said, though the bite in his tone was duller. Weariness tugged at the edges of his body as he heaved out air, chest deflating. Despite himself, his spine was relieved. “It's comfortable.”
“That is good.”
Their eyes met for a fleeting moment and the presentation rose again unbidden in Aerion’s thoughts.
“He has claimed him.” Aerion said, measured, taking in the Valyrian traits Maegor had been gifted at birth. “Strong lungs, strong as a storm, and that makes him a Baratheon.” He spat words like acidic snake’s venom on his tongue. “Maegor Baratheon, for another Maegor Targaryen is feared among those fishermen far more than their foolish storm.”
“He cried through it,” Duncan observed.
“He too shall take offense at being named a Baratheon.” He considered.
Now completely rested against Aerion’s chest, Maegor cooed and yawned, but did not resume crying.
“And now Storm’s End has its heir.”
Aerion considered him briefly, purple meeting blue.
“A dragon mistaken for a stag. They convinced themselves Lyonel Baratheon holds resemblance in his nose and chin.” He said it like it was something he, too, did not want to admit. Out of pride, out of truth.
“Are you convinced?”
Aerion met Duncan’s eyes again, and he smiled despite the weariness grasping at his body wholly.
“He is the blood of the dragon,” he said, “entirely mine.”
Duncan dropped his gaze from Aerion to the babe, safe in his arms. “Yes, he is.”
Aerion’s shoulders eventually leaned back against the pillows Duncan had set and mended. The strain from his back eased knot by knot, the pulling in his thighs scorched to a subdued pain, and the next breath he drew in went easier.
“Sit.” He said curtly, neck slowly reclining back onto the pillows.
Duncan gave a short nod, body seemingly too big for the chamber, as he turned on his feet. He reached the chair by the hearth, eyes following the path of the thick wood, the cushioned seat, white crossed by red.
From there, he spoke. “Should I send for more linens?”
Aerion’s eyes slowly lifted again, gaze flickering to Duncan, to his side, to the smear he was concerned by. Drying up blood spotted the fabric the wet nurses had adjusted on the chair. It had trickled down, crisscrossing paths in more than one spot on the cloths.
“They will be changed tomorrow.” He spoke, voice low. “Sit, I said.”
Duncan’s eyes lingered on him, down the furs covering Aerion’s body. A thick swallow made his throat tighten.
He remained where he stood. “I should be outside, my prince.”
Aerion eyed him briefly. “Ser Duncan is suddenly loyal to my lord husband?” His head rolled to the side to see him better. “Appears to be late for that.” He breathed out lowly, a joyless smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
To that, Duncan did not answer. He circled around the chair, retracing his steps. When close, he sat at the far end of the bedding, a hand coming to rest on his belted dagger out of habit, gaze held ahead.
Candles and fire both complimented the side profile of a brute in Aerion’s eyes.
A beast.
“I had the honor of meeting Lord Baratheon at Ashford, Your Highness,” he said at last. Light moved across his features and so did the shades of flames, dancing along the planes of Ser Duncan’s face. “I fought beside him. Broke bread with him.” He glanced toward Aerion and away again. “It’s not fitting I sit there.”
A faint smile touched Aerion’s mouth. It did not reach his eyes.
“I believe he would not find fitting you fathered his child.” Aerion said, words cutting through the air.
A bastard child for a bastard House.
He breathed in slowly, Maegor rising and falling with his chest.
“I was indulgent,” he continued, “a tongueless man holds no scruples.”
Ser Duncan looked between the tip of his boots, averting his gaze from Aerion and Maegor, there where his treason lay plainly before his eyes.
“Hard to eat without one.”
Aerion’s gaze snapped to him then, pale and bright as a blade’s edge. Silence settled between them, thick as wool. His fingers traced idle patterns along the child’s back.
“Do you quake for your honor, Ser Duncan?” He asked lightly.
Color rose to Duncan’s face.
“Barely.” A pause, “but yours.” He murmured.
“Long defiled.” Aerion looked at him, the words weighing heavy between them. “Stay, or do not. But spare me another word.”
His hands closed and opened in fists at his sides. “Aye.”
Aerion gazed down at his son, bright violet the storm on Dragonstone, the twilight on Dragonstone, the hope of Dragonstone.
When he closed his eyes, Aerion did not dream.
_______
The sound threaded through Aerion’s sleep like thin blade. It was not the thunder outside for once, as the storm had gone quiet during the night. It was not Maegor either. The babe lay wam and heavy next to him, breath soft and damp against the exposed skin of Aerion’s arm.
It was metal, a rhythmic chime, the faint slide of links shifting and clinking against one another, numbed by the wool.
Aerion’s eyes opened before he meant them to and for a moment, he did not move. The canopy above him was the gray light before dawn and sparkles of whiteness danced across his vision as his body ached the dull, distant pain of birth, a lingering pull low in his belly where his womb still remembered its labor. The fabric beneath him was warm with sleep and faintly damp. A nuisance.
The chain sounded again, closer now, outside the door.
He turned his head slightly to see Maegor continued to sleep wrapped in fur, mouth parted, one small fist curled at his head’s level. Silver lashes lay pale against his cheeks flushed with slumber, and his brow was ever so slightly knitted. He had been placed in his cradle during the early hours of deep night, before Duncan left.
A knock followed, polite and firm against the heavy wooden door.
“Your Highness,” came the low voice of maester Wylis through the oak. “May I attend you?”
Aerion’s jaw settled, and he let the silence stretch long enough to consider refusing.
“Enter.”
The latch lifted and the maester ambled in with the careful gravity of his order, grey robes neat despite the hour, and the chain about his body catching what little light there was. It was bothersome, Aerion’s eyes flicked to his face.
“Your Highness,” the Maeser bowed, “my lord sends his concern and his greetings.”
Aerion cocked his head to see the doors close behind the maester.
“My lord husband rises early. Did he command you at such an unseemly hour?” His voice sliced through the distance between them.
The maester approached the bedside but did not yet reach for him. His gaze, pale and sharp, took in the rumpled sheets first, the child’s position, the faint damp spreading across Aerion’s chest, where his clothes stuck.
“It is best I tend you before breaking fast,” the maester reasoned. “How fares Your Highness’s strength this morning?”
Aerion considered the truth, hands collected in his lap, tingling. “Death has yet to reach me.”
“That is... heartening to hear.” He set down a small leather case upon the bedside table and stepped closer. “Has the bleeding lessened since last I saw to you?”
The chair not far away from them spoke for itself.
“No.”
“No fever in the night? No chills?” Maester Wylis spoke in an even tone, similar to the one used with a child.
It made Aerion’s hands restless in their weakness, resting uselessly in his lap, unable to hold steadily anything besides Maegor. A blade, he wished.
“The old fool thinks I do not follow the common tongue,” Aerion tilted his head, speaking as though someone else were in the chamber to hear him. “He drags his words, draws out his syllables, as if he thinks me slow in my wits.”
The maester stalled, pale lips pursed. “No such offense, Your Highness,” he extended a hand, keen on carrying on with his duty. “Your wrist, if it pleases you.”
Aerion considered him, and shifted carefully, suppressing the faint wince as the movement pulled low in his abdomen. He offered his still numbed wrist to the maester, whose fingers were dry and cool when resting lightly over his pulse.
He counted in silence.
Beside Aerion, Maegor stirred at the disturbance of the new presence, making a small, indignant sound. It elicited Aerion’s instinctive response to turn around, and the gaze of the maester, meausuring him as he released Aerion’s wrist.
“And the young lord?” He asked quietly. “Does he feed well?”
“Like he’s starved.” Aerion said.
“A promising sign.” The maester shifted on his feet. “If Your Highness permits.” He gestured towards Aerion’s midsection.
“I shall not.” He said, forcing words through gritted teeth. He would not allow any more hands on him, nor would he bear the maester's gaze on Maegor as he fed from him. The first humiliation of the sort had been enough to endure.
“Your lord husband has demanded I–”
“My lord husband will deal with the disappointment,” he interrupted, reaching to his side to collect Maegor with arms still stiffened from sleep.
“Very well,” the maester was not pleased, “any sharp pain lower?”
“A pull,” Aerion answered truthfully. “When I rise.”
The maester gave a thoughtful nod. “That is to be expected, due to the nursing. But you must continue to rest. The swelling to your stitches...”
Aerion pulled at the strings of his will not to laugh in the face of maester Wylis, only a huffed sound left his lips.
“I will see the stitches for myself,” Aerion said, dismissive. “You can tell my lord husband I will not have anyone inspecting me in between my legs as if I were some common whore.”
Once pulled against him, Maegor began to fuss in earnest, mouth rooting blindly for Aerion’s chest.
The maester, careful in changing subject, noticed.
“A strong appetite is a blessing. He looks to have gained weight since last I held him.” He said, and extented his hands. Aerion hesitated, a fraction, a moment too long.
To ensure Maegor made it through his first months held weight against Aerion’s possessiveness.
He allowed the transfer and the absence of the babe’s warmth was immediate. The maester cradled Maegor with competence, long-practiced hands supporting the head as he studied the child’s face in the growing light coming from outside.
“His lungs are formidable,” he observed mildly. “The castle hears him every night.”
And they will. For long.
“So I was told.” Aerion replied.
The maester traced a careful finger along the babe’s small hand and Maegor’s fist closed fiercely around it.
“Ah, a warrior’s grasp,” the maester murmured. “Lord Baratheon will certainly be glad to hear it.”
He shifted the child, studying the pale fuzz of silver hair already brightening in the dawn, and returned the babe to Aerion without further comment.
As Aerion settled Maegor once more against his chest, he became acutely aware of the maester’s prolonged silence.
“Who stands outside the door?” He questioned, eyes studying his focused expression.
“Your sworn sword, Your Highness, and your lord husband,” he gathered his unused instruments back, “he was much pleased yesterday, the stormlords speak highly of the presentation.”
As a fool might be impressed by a puppet show in Flea Bottom.
“Stormlords seem content with little.” Aerion said. “Send more linens.”
The maester bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment.
“He has given instructions that Your Highness is not disturbed unnecessarily.” He continued, handling the leather case to fasten it.
“His mercy is overwhelming.” Aerion said. “It would please me more were it to start after dawn.”
Maester Wylis avoided looking at him. “I shall return in three days’ time, unless summoned sooner. Should fever come, or pain worsen, you must send at once.”
The edge of the maester’s voice pushed Aerion’s patience teetering over its narrow edges.
“Are your feet any faster than your tongue?” He asked.
Maester Wylis nodded profusedly, the sight of Maegor’s forehead wrinkling enough to urge him to the door. “You have done well, Your Highness, I will take my leave.”
The maester bowed once more, chambers quietening down as the latch settled behind his shoulders and Maegor began ptotesting to feed again, small, determined sounds coming from him like demands.
_______
Outside, Duncan moved to the side to allow the maester to pass through when the door opened. He searched for the old man’s face, and found none, for the maester ignored his presence altogether. Closing the door, he did not catch any sight of Aerion inside either.
Lyonel Baratheon, fingers held at his lips and posture rigid, snapped out of his silent composure at Duncan’s side.
“Well?” He asked, expectant eyes on maester Wylis.
“He heals,” he said, “slowly, due to his... conditions.”
Lyonel furrowed his brows. “Speak plainly.”
Maester Wylis clasped his hands in front of his tunic, chain sounding and echoing throughout the empty corridor of the mute tower. Servants and wenches both avoided the passageways of Aerion’s living quarters during the early hours of the day, perfoming their tasks starting past midday. And they had the strict rule to retire before supper was served.
“His Highness is stubborn in feeding the child himself. That, some maesters say, slows down the healing of his wounds.” Maester Wylis said, briefly eyeing Duncan before continuing. “The tearing was severe, my lord, and he insists he sees them for himself.”
The maester spoke with practical words, directed at the lord of Storm’s End. Duncan understood the gravity of them, the implication, the way they were meant to salvage the prince’s honor as possible, and remained where he had been for the entire night.
Maester Wylis wore a contrite expression. One Duncan knew well.
Having an omega prince of Targaryen blood at Storm’s End, heavy with a Baratheon heir, had been a blessing, but he was otherwise proving himself difficult to adjust.
Duncan expected no different.
“What is your advice?” Lyonel asked, terse.
“That, as my lord first suggested, he is not to be pressured. Then, if I may,”
Lyonel waved his hand in the air. “You may.”
“A wet nurse might be of help, with the healing and the pheromones.” He concluded, stepping closer to the lord. “The longer he keeps the child close, the longer it will take for his body to heal completely.”
“You suggest I take the boy away?” He asked bluntly.
Duncan had to pull at the ties of his self restraint not to look up and see the maester’s face at the question spoken so carelessly. Even he, a low born alpha of Flea Bottom knew how such a suggestion was nothing short of despicable. And thoughtless, as ehind the doors at his shoulders lay something he knew no men present in that corridor could afford to face, if the advice were to be followed.
Maester Wylis repeated. “A wet nurse, my lord.”
Lyonel hummed a sound, and the maester took it as a cue to leave, not without performing a bow before.
The clinking of the chain echoed again down the corridor with the maester’s every step.
“Ser Duncan.”
“My lord,” he acknowledged.
“See that he rests,” he commanded, “I shall take my leave for the border tomorrow at dawn. I will make for King’s Landing.”
“My lord,” Duncan interjected, “forgive the impudence, but the prince is not yet fit to–”
Lyonel gave him a stern look. It reminded Duncan of the last gaze they had shared under the tree at Ashford Meadow, when he had refused the secure walls of Storm’s End in favour of the Seven Kingdoms. And Lys, though he had no knowledge of that awaiting him at the time.
“The prince heals, you will see that he does.” He concluded, dismissive. “And when I am back, I will bring words of the king.”
“The king can send a raven,” Duncan pressed, even though Lyonel’s look alone was enough to make him close his mouth. “If he has something to say, that is.”
“Aye.” Lyonel conceded. “The raven came but this morning already. I’m to answer the King in person.” His voice lowered, a whisper meant only for Duncan. He rested a spread hand over the knight’s arm, stepping away from the door with him. “Maekar wants a formal renunciation. For Maegor, in the King’s name. He expects it soon.”
Duncan’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. A habit, a practiced hold. The King’s message was a stone dropped into still water, and the ripples were going to spread too fast to contain.
“It is a fortnight of travel,” Duncan considered, his tone carrying more than surprise. “Maegor is scarcely weaned and the maester said the prince has yet to settle after the birth.”
Lyonel’s jaw twitched.
“I heard well about the prince’s state, Ser Duncan, I was here. As my son, it is required of me that I ride to King’s Landing to renounce first. The King has been advised of Aerion’s condition, he is to remain here, to regain his strength, before he takes the road for King’s Landing. My summon is only the first measure.”
Duncan held his composure this time, and gave a short nod.
“I must– I am afraid his body is not yet strong enough for his temper, my lord.” He kept his voice at the same level of Lyonel’s, hoping his words would bring counsel, though unrequested, to whom had once been close to. “And as for the wet nurse...” he trailed off.
“His temper and body are mine to steady.” Lyonel said, interrupting what was coming next. His expression did not change.
Lyonel had faced and defeated the prince where it mattered, on the battlefield, and later in their marriage bed, where the match had been sealed before gods and men. Covered in blood by wielding arms or by childbed, Aerion’s fury burned beneath the frail cast of his body.
Duncan knew, he had seen it. Both cases. Nonrtheless, he bowed his head.
“Yes, my lord.”
“He shall hear reason.” Lyonel said, and knocked.