Aegon 'Egg' Targaryen & Selaena Velaryon (Goodbrother and Goodsister)
Daeron 'The Drunken' Targaryen & Selaena Velaryon (Lord Husband and Lady Wife)
In his later years, as the crown grew heavy and the Red Keep spit its vices, the good King Aegon ‘Egg’ Targaryen would oft speak of his youth in Summerhall, when he was but a boy of ivory hair and lesser renowned. Simpler times, of basking in sunlight and suckling on honey, his greatest stories oft featured the kind caring of his eldest brother’s lady wife, the good Selaena of House Velaryon, who accepted a motherless boy with open arms and taught him a kindness that was lacking in a home absent of womanly love.
Before the hedge knight, a boy loved his goodsister very much.
A moon had passed since the wedding of Prince Daeron Targaryen and Lady Selaena Velaryon, and already her lord husband had been called to the capitol.
It wasn’t a grand affair; a matter of succession, of the future of House Targaryen, an annual meeting regarding inheritance and castles and who-lived-where. Prince Baelor resided in The Red Keep with King Daeron and his wife, Queen Myriah of House Martel, as Hand of the King. He would inherit the crown and the duties of the realm. His son, Prince Valarr and his wife, Princess Kiera of Tyrosh, found their home in Dragonstone, where the heir of the throne would typically reside. As heir to the heir, though, Valarr claimed his spot on the stormy little island, and ruled the people there in preparation for his ascension in the coming decades. There were two sons before Prince Maekar, Prince Aerys and Prince Rhaegal, both of , both of which held apartments within the Red Keep rather than their own stretches of land outside of the capitol. Prince Aerys had married once upon a time, but never fathered any children, secluding himself to the libraries within the Keep and rarely seen within the castle. Prince Rhaegal, Selaena had heard, was father to twins Prince Aelor and Princess Aelora, as well as Princess Daenora, and lived within the Keep due to his cradled mind.
But she had yet to meet either men or their families, for they had been absent from her wedding, and Summerhall was terribly far from The Red Keep.
Spring was beginning to wane, and thus Prince Maekar and his heir made their yearly journey to King’s Landing in reporting the livelihood of their stretch of Dornish marshes, carrying ledgers and grain amounts and hundreds of ink-splotched numbers that made Selaena’s head spin just thinking about it. It was a droll affair, so her lord husband had informed her before his departure weeks before, adjusting his riding gloves with a wry smile as she stood hesitantly just beside where his horse swayed her large white head to and fro.
“It won’t be forever.” Daeron had offered quietly, watching her with a careful look before awkwardly reaching forward and patting her shoulder, “I’ll be back before you know it.”
Selaena had gnawed at the skin of her bottom lip in response, nodding stiffly. The only members of the Targaryen brood leaving Summerhall was that of Prince Maekar and Prince Daeron, leaving Seleana alone amongst the maze of corridors and solars to care for the rest of the Maekarlings in their stead. A duty bestowed upon her with a stern look of warning from her good father, who had nodded towards her in solemn understanding before barking orders of behaving to the rest of his children who had gathered near the front gates to see their father and brother off.
Daella and Rhae were not a problem in the slightest, still young enough to be swept into the arms of their nursemaids and kept occupied in the nursery. Aemon was always busy in the library or in his chambers, preparing for his departure to the citadel in Oldtown in but a few moons time. And little Aegon was like a shadow since her wedding to his brother Daeron, clinging to her skirts and following her wherever she went, eager to mimic the readings and writings and even needlework his good sister prided herself in.
Aerion was a different story.
The boy was seven-and-ten and already fearsome. Selaena felt a bubble of embarrassment burst in her chest when she caught his gaze across the yard they were gathered in, the sharpness in his gaze sending a shiver down her spine. He loomed as if he were six feet tall, though he was shorter than even herself, a silent threat watching her from afar as she roamed the halls of the castle they occupied. Aegon had confided in her the cruelties he was capable of, the threats and the powerhungry mantra he clung to and inflicted upon his younger siblings, placing stinging scorpions in his youngest sister’s bed, tossing Aegon’s beloved cat down a well, demanding servants duel him in the training yard only to cut them down until they were bruised and bloody.
He had not made any moves in approaching her since her arrival. But the threat always loomed. His eyes followed her whenever they passed. Whenever they occupied the same space. Luckily that was few and far between. The wife of Prince Daeron did not find herself busy with meaningful ventures. Days were long and uneventful. Breakfast in her solar. Walks in the garden in the morn. Sitting in on Aegon’s studies before luncheon. Picnics in the afternoon sun. Reading in the library with the smaller boy by her side. Needlework before supper. Dining with the Targaryen brood, where her husband would inevitably end up in his cups. Escorting a drunken Daeron to their chambers. Readying for bed. And repeat, each and every day.
Aerion still terrified her. The blatant, sheer curiosity. She had focused her attention on her lord husband, who wore a pinched, sheepish look as he stared down at the woman he had wed but a handful of weeks prior.
“I will eagerly await your return,” She had nodded her head towards him, watching his expression flicker and a sigh sag his shoulders, “We shall miss you here in Summerhall.”
What she truly wanted to say was please, do not leave me here with Aerion and Daella and Rhae and Aegon, to watch over them as their lady mother should, because I have absolutely no idea what to do without you or Prince Maekar here for guidance, but she could not say that, for she was supposed to be a mature, adult woman, so she simply offered her lord husband a small, reassuring smile as he mounted his horse.
He regarded her for half a beat longer, lashes long and slow blinking as he soaked in her strained expression, as if he were counting each freckle dotting her cheek and committing the tiny twist of her lips to memory. For the first time since their union Daeron looked somewhat put together, his riding gear fitted and clean, his face freshly shaven, his hair detangled and brushed in golden reverie. His gaze was clear and sharpened, observant, more aware of his surroundings than usual.
A proper prince. The kind that would make Maekar proud.
It was strange, being married to that of a Targaryen prince, at least in Selaena’s opinion. Having to think of other’s opinions of oneself and one’s husband and one’s actions, and how they could affect each individual member within the household. The second daughter of a sealord, she hadn’t been quite so familiar with such power, such sway in the words that left her throat and the happenings of the footfalls that echoed through corridors and dining halls. But there was always someone watching, whether it be a goodbrother or goodsister or the servants they paid to work within the keep of Summerhall. And each miniscule interaction she had with any given member of the Targaryen family was observed, tucked away for safe keeping, for future blackmail or leverage. That, she had learned rather quickly, from the mouth of young Aegon, who had been eager in slipping away into the shadows of the castle they inhabited and away from prying eyes to devour a satchel of lemon cakes he had nicked from the kitchens.
Daeron had offered a hand forward, large and gloved and warm above his skin and beneath the height of the sun. It was something he did often when they found themselves in the company of one another amongst the household, subtle touches, quiet declarations, performative gestures that displayed their good nature to one another. Symbolism, of course, in the gratifying eyes of his lord father, who would smile thinly at his son’s seemingly warm interactions with his lady wife, a demonstration of their alluded care for one another. Selaena accepted his grip with a slight sigh, watching with a sheepish gaze as the Targaryen turned her fingers over in his grasp, pressing his lips to her clammy palm before gently releasing.
It wasn’t as if they despised each other. In the privacy of their chambers, they shared a bed, and often found themselves tangled in one another when they woke; she had even comforted her lord husband after he woke from a rather fitful dream but a few nights before, running her fingers through his hair until he ceased shaking and hiccupping. But they were politely distant otherwise, almost awkward. They were essentially acquaintances, having just met, respectful of one another’s space despite the forced proximity of their shared chambers.
“Be good, my lady,” Daeron smiled something crooked, relaxed and easy enough to send a slight flutter through Selaena’s heart. Her own smile felt more genuine against her mouth, warm and bubbly, spine straightening subconsciously as Daeron took up the reins, placing his feet firmly in the stirrups.
“No promises, my prince,” Selaena quipped in response, tangling her fingers together as she glanced to her left, where Aegon swayed side to side as he listened to Maekar’s stern instructions nearby, “You’re leaving me with my partner in crime, after all.”
More than a fortnight had passed since she last saw Prince Daeron, and she found that she missed him dearly.
She had kept up with her usual routine, trying her best to maintain a sense of normalcy in her life and that of the Maekarlings that had been left behind in Summerhall. She would rise with the sun, dressing in the layered silks required in surviving the turbulent heat that had begun to settle over the Dornish marshes like a thick woolen blanket. Rich blues, calming seafoams, watery greens, pale ivories, swaths of fabric that would swish as she paced the nursery floors with a wailing Rhae in her arms when she should have been breaking her fast, Daella tugging stubbornly at her skirts with a demanding little pout and a request for the older woman to engage in whatever game she could conjure up in her little mind.
Tiny clammy hands would accompany her during her morning walks in the gardens, pudgy cheeks and lilted laughter spilling amongst petals and foliage as the girls tugged her this way and that. Selaena found that slippered feet needed abandon in favor of thick sandals when in the presence of Maekar’s princesses, both stubborn and resourceful and excited to be out in the fresh marsh air rather than cooped in their shared chambers with wooden toys and septa teachings. Daella would kneel in the dirt despite the older woman’s protests, gathering earthworms and wriggling beetles in her palms and watching close with bright, curious eyes, before eagerly tossing them on Rhae until the youngest Targaryen screamed and cried and buried her tear-stricken face against Selaena’s breast.
Aegon’s studies before luncheon had been postponed in light of his father’s absence from Summerhall, his usual maester having traveled along with the caravan to deliver his own reports to The Red Keep. In a rare moment of respite, tucked away amongst the library’s looming shelves, Selaena would find solace in the comfort of a plush chaise, the young Aegon pressed to her side as they poured over ancient histories and fairytales alike.
They would picnic in the afternoon sun, she and Aegon and the girls after they had enjoyed a mid-morning break in their chambers, spread across a blanket with an array of meats, cheeses, and fruits settled around them. Selaena would cradle the young Rhae in her lap as she told the children stories of her childhood, of the silly tales she had heard as a child herself, of the mischief she and her older sister would get up to when their lord father and lady mother were absent from the island. On a rare occasion, she would catch sight of Aerion slinking about in the breezeways, silver hair catching the sunlight as he stole a glance at the group from behind a stone column, violet eyes blank and absent of any discernible emotion, before disappearing back into the shadows. Most of the time, however, he was conveniently absent from any sort of activity occurring within Summerhall, to which Selaena was eternally grateful for.
She suddenly found that her usual time for reading with Aegon was filled with questions from the maids and servants working for the family, springing about a myriad of requests and either-ors that made her head spin. Supper choices, laundry, courtiers wishing to make an appearance, the horses in the stables, Aerion’s training, Aegon’s homework left behind by the maester (that she was not aware of for nearly a week, mind you), whatever mischief Daella and Rhae got up to, tears, damages from a chaotic scuffle between sisters and brother, what to do with the lemons freshly picked from the trees, what gowns the girls should wear each day, if Aerion was permitted his allowance with Maekar’s absence, if Aegon was to be disciplined for sneaking into the training yard after dark.
Not long after Daeron’s departure, Rhae had spilled a goblet of juice across Selaena’s skirts while she was attempting to make progress on her needlework, the youngest girl having found herself occupying the older woman’s chaise beside her as Daella and Aegon played a game of hide-and-seek about the solar. The Velaryon woman had hissed as she quickly rose to her feet, fingertips brushing against the ugly purpling stain seeping into the soft fabric of her once sky blue gown, a frown tipping at her lips as she regarded it with a wince.
“Oh!” Rhae’s bottom lip had warbled dramatically as she clutched her now-empty goblet close to her chest, staring up at Selaena with wide, tear-filled eyes. The woman waved her off with a reassuring look, murmuring to herself about needing to change anyhow, before excusing her to her private chambers to peel the ruined gown from her body.
“You know,” Her handmaiden had piped up as she unlaced the fabric from her body, fingers deft and quick against the stubborn knots secured at her back, “Those who marry into the Targaryen lineage don the dragon’s colors, crimson and black, after their union, instead of wearing the colors of their maiden house.”
Selaena had raised a singular brow as she stepped out of the wet gown, checking her small clothes for any sign of juice in the reflection of the silvery mirror situated just behind the dressing screen she was ducked behind.
“But I am no Targaryen. I am a Velaryon, in mind and body.”
The handmaiden stepped away, rummaging around until she returned with a gown of deep crimson, thick and luxurious and dramatic at the sleeves.
“Of course, my lady. But it is to be expected. You are no longer a girl in Driftmark, after all. You’re now the wife to Prince Daeron of House Targaryen. You must look the part.”
She found herself seated near the center of the table in the absence of her good father and lord husband, dressed in arrays of smoke, ink, and crimson and drinking goblets of rich red wine she hadn’t before. It was a drab affair, the dining hall quiet as a mouse, silverware clinking against plates, pitchers being refilled and passed about the table, soft murmurs from the girls at one end of the table, harsh glares from Aegon tossed like a dagger towards Aerion at the other.
By the end of the traveling period, Selaena had found herself rather sullen and bored without Daeron by her side, clad in the weight of dark colors and lips stained with wines and days spent shouldering the responsibilities of squabbling princesses and princes only to return to a cold, empty bed by nightfall.
She discovered that even in the short span of time she had been wed to Prince Daeron, she had become familiar with his ever presence in their chambers, his absence feeling fiercely overwhelming and heavy in the very air she breathed as she laid in the darkness, sheets rucked around her waist and hands outstretched to where her lord husband usually lay, only feeling the emptiness that he left behind. She even found herself missing the presence of a half-filled flagon situated on the table beside their marital bed, the scent of alcohol clinging to the pillows he laid on, the heat of his skin against hers when she would barely rouse in the night, registering only briefly that his head rested against her breast before slipping into sleep once more. His boots were not scattered at the end of the bed and she found herself missing that, and his undershirt was not tossed haphazardly across the top of the dressing screen and she found herself staring wistfully at the ocean-painted silk with regret.
Come home. Selaena had thought to herself half-asleep, still clad in her gown from the day and laid on her back across the mattress, empty goblet hanging loose between her fingers as she stared hopelessly at the canopy above her. Come save me from this mess. This boring, drab, overwhelming mess of managing Summerhall in your absence.
The door to the solar creaked open, cutting through the dark like a dull blade, though Selaena paid no mind to the intrusion nor the soft footsteps against the stone floor, tossing an arm over her flushed face amidst the flickering candlelight painting shades of gold across the bedchamber walls. It was probably a maid, she deduced, checking to see if the Velaryon woman needed help from the heavy gowns she had been advised to wear, thick and ugly and buoyant enough in the skirts that Selaena needed help in undressing, or perhaps checking the smouldering flame still whispering in the hearth.
Her head was warm and fuzzy, the wine she had been consuming since her lord husband’s absence fraying the edges of her thoughts. The Arbor Reds and spiced Dornish varieties felt hot and wet sliding down her throat, and Selaena had never been particularly fond of drink, but she couldn’t seem to help herself without him around. It was almost like a bridge of connection between the two while he was so far away, tethering the Velaryon woman to the man she had shared a bed with for but a moon. The days blurred into one whenever she was deep in her cups, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy as she slinked through the keep, tiny grabbing hands and shrill voices dull and faded as she floated through life.
She had been infected with the plague that riddled each Targaryen before her, the sickness that festered and consumed and crafted each woman married into the dragonhouse into exactly what they were; pitiful, sorrowful, riddled with problems only found within the mind.
Footfall traveled into the bedchamber, soft and faint against the fanciful rugs that decorated the stone floor, and the golden haired woman drowning in crimson groaned at the intrusion. With one arm remaining steadfast across her alcohol-flushed cheeks, she gestured the goblet in the other hand towards the source of the nose, driblets of leftover wine sparkling across tangled sheets.
“Begone Marya, I needn’t any assistance. I have decided I shall die in this gown.”
Except it wasn’t the handmaiden who had been dressing her each morn.
The mattress dipped, and warmth pressed against her thigh despite the layers of skirts surrounding her, and a muffled chuckle cut through the space between she and the figure crouching over her then. Confusion swirled through Selaena’s muddled mind as a singular hand dwarfed her wrist, ring-clad fingers delicately peeling her sleeved arm away to reveal glittering blue eyes and a small smile seated just above her slow-blinking face.
“Sweet wife,” Daeron’s tired grin widened as he soaked in her shocked expression, cradling her free hand close to his chest as he loomed above her, blonde curls pale and tangled about his cheeks, eyes dulled and sharp with sobriety, ”Oh, look at you; are you ill? Why are you…”
His gaze traveled down, further to the blood-red color of the richly made fabrics clinging to her body, the brocade of velvet dragons and swooping wings titillating around where her bust had been cinched and shoved towards a sloping neckline. A ragged breath escaped him, jaw ticking and throat bobbing with a swallow, releasing his grip on her hand to allow his fingers to trace the lacing at the front of her gown.
“What is this?” He murmured softly, brow crinkling as his dark eyes finally returned to hers.
She was slow to process his words, blinking lazily up at him, head lulling to the side as she moved to clutch her empty goblet with both hands before her. A soft hiccup racked her chest, pink dusted cheeks tugging into a giggle as she laughed at the sound, her breath wine-sweetened and mingling with the taste of the honey cakes she had shared with Aegon before bed.
“A dress,” Her voice was brighter, more enunciated, and dragged a bit at the vowels in such a way that her lord husband graced her with a knowing look, “Marya said that I am a dragon bride, and–and I must look the part.”
Another fit of giggles, and Daeron brushed his knuckles across the ridge of her exposed collarbone, a puff of air eliciting from his lips as he gently pried the golden cup from her hands, tossing it unapologetically to the side. Selaena stared up at him, her laughter dying as silence blanketed the two, the only sound to be heard between them being that of their mismatched breathing and the soft shuffle of Daeron’s boots as he inched further onto the bed, resting his weight on one elbow as he took her hands in his once more, settling beside her amongst the blankets and pillows she had fitfully tossed about earlier in the day. He bore into her soul with his unwavering gaze, as if he were relishing in the simple fact that he was there, in their bedchambers, with Selaena laid out before him without a singular soul to shatter the moment. He was like a man starved, tracing the contours of her jawline with his sight, her cheeks, her lips, the lashes brushing blonde against her skin, the rise and fall of her chest with every breath she took, the pearlescent earrings clinging to her ears, the heavy necklace at her throat, the thick crimson fabric tight around her torso, the halo of long golden hair pooled around her. And she stared at him with equal intensity, watching the twitch of his jaw as he gazed down at her, the dilation of his eyes in the dimness, the quirk at his lips as he regarded her current state, his sandy-blonde hair hanging tangled and limp from days on horseback, the leather of his doublet half-unbottoned at the collar.
“You’re drunk.” He observed thoughtfully, as if the sheer fact of the matter humoured him greatly. He laughed softly at her pinched expression, the grimace that pressed into her cheeks and crinkled her nose at the notion of the alcohol that settled warm and low in her belly.
“I am.” She confirmed softly.
“Why?” Daeron asked, leaning further into the mattress so that his face rested just beside hers, the scent of sweetgrass and earth smothering her senses, “You detest drinking, isn’t that right, my lady?”
Selaena pursed her lips, the familiar feeling of embarrassment creeping up her spine. She squeezed at his grip on her hands, fingertips dancing across his own, avoiding his gaze for but a moment before sighing loudly. Daeron fought off a smirk.
“I…” Selaena began, interrupted by yet another hiccup that she fought to keep down. It shook her entire body, “I suppose I just…missed you, is all.”
Daeron barked a laugh, bright and airy and unlike anything she had ever heard from him before. And Selaena smiled, raw and genuine, far from the soft simpers and small quirks at the edges of her lips she usually provided. His grip on her fingers tightened just a fraction, relaxing almost instantly and thumbs brushing along the tops of her hands as he graced her with a warm sort of look.
“I missed you as well,” He whispered between them, as if it were some great secret he was keeping from the dressing screen and the vanity situated at the other end of the room, “I thought of you each night I was in the Red Keep. The bed was terribly cold and lonely.”
Selaena huffed a chuckle. “You cannot sleep without me at your side?”
Daeron rested his weight fully on his shoulder, reaching up with his free hand to poke the space between her eyebrows.
“You cannot either, so it seems. You have fallen into your cups and into splendor whilst I have been away.”
Selaena bit at her bottom lip, watching him through her lashes with a wry little smile.
“I confess, this gown is rather itchy. I detest it so,” She watched the smirk return to his lips, his hand now cupping her jaw as he listened to the words falling from her lips, “And wine leaves me with a rather sour stomachache.”
Daeron laughed again. Looked upon her with that same soft, gentle gaze he always held when they were alone.
“It is alright, I am here now, sweet wife,” And Selaena’s smile melted into quiet curiosity at his words, for he had seldom referred to her as anything but my lady or Selaena until that moment, and the thrill of being called that soft little name sent a shockwave of fluttering butterflies throughout her ribcage, “You can return to your silks and your blues and your fruit juices. You shall not change who you are, for I like you as is, my Lady of Driftmark.”
“Truly?” Selaena found herself asking, watching the corners of his eyes crinkle in such a way she knew would fade away come the morrow, when he inevitably returned to his drink once more.
“I would not have agreed to marriage if otherwise.”
Aegon found that he felt a wide array of emotions on the day that they were to depart from Summerhall, trading the thick sticky marsh air for the wet grassy heat of Ashford in supposed celebration of some lord’s daughter’s thirteenth nameday.
He was already dressed and ready for the journey ahead, leather boots freshly polished and tied at his ankles, gloves tucked into the waist of his breeches, hair neatly combed and tied away to reveal wide amethyst eyes darting curiously about the room.
The servants had packed whatever belongings he needed for their sennight stay in the days leading up to their departure, dragging heavy wooden trunks and satchels of study materials and knapsacks of whatever else the young prince had demanded to bring into the corridor where the children of Prince Maekar resided in their wing of the castle, lining the walls from room to room with each person’s needed belongings. Aegon darted through the maze of boxes and trunks with a sprig of laughter lodged in his throat as a myriad of people bustled about, shouted echoing the halls as hands hoisted baskets of rich linens and fresh flowers and embroidered cushions and carefully packed sets of gleaming armor through the air on their way to the caravan that waited just outside the gates. Seldom was Summerhall bustling with so much energy. His father enjoyed when things were quiet, when the maids did their work in silence, when he and his sisters spoke in hushed tones in the gardens and studied their books with diligence.
A guard scuffed the boy at the nape of his neck as he ducked across the way, nearly dripping a laundry maid heavy and swollen with child, her cheeks just as red as her hair as she waddled down the corridor with a stack of folded blankets in her arms, and Aegon slipped through an open door with a scowl, rolling his eyes at the light scolding before making his way to the chaise settled fat before a darkened hearth, flopping down unceremoniously with a groan.
“When are we to leave? I am growing bored.”
A tanned hand reached from above him to curve against his brow, and Aegon smiled at the realization that days in the sun with a fishing pole in hand had left his own skin sunkissed, resembling somewhat of his good sister’s beautifully golden color. He looked up at her with eager eyes, pale brows raised as he awaited her response. It was difficult, of course, to gauge her expression as she stood above him with a teasing look, the swell of her pregnant belly large enough now to hide her face behind it like an eclipse.
He wrinkled his nose at the sight.
“Any moment now, dearest,” She sounded less tired that usual, tucking his hair away from his face before returning to the desk she had been situated at upon his arrival in the solar, neatly pressing a crimson wax seal to the roll of paper in her grasp before laying it gently against the wooden grain, “We shall depart when all your things are packed away in the wagon, I figure.”
With that statement, she shot him a pointed look, and the boy huffed in response, crossing his arms over the airy cotton tunic he had dressed in that morn.
“I need everything I packed!”
“You truly need every story book on your shelf?” Selaena shot him a deadpanned look, slowly rising from her seat and approaching the gilded silver perch situated by the farthest window in the solar, where a cinnamon barred crow hopped from foot to foot with a cock of its head. She carefully tied the spool of paper around one of its spindly black legs, gingerly plucking it from the perch and tossing it out the window to soar through the air, “I think you mayhaps have overpacked, my little prince.”
Aegon sat up in his seat, pointing a finger towards the armchair where her needlework basket was now absent from its place.
“You’re bringing every project beneath the sun with us to Ashford, and we are staying but a sennight!”
Selaena placed her hands on her hips, the silvery blue of her skirts shifting in the morning light. “I will have plenty of time in the wheelhouse and once we get there to work on my embroidery–of which, if you recall, is for the babe, and for you. Do not think I have forgotten that surcoat you ripped at the seam!”
“I did not mean to,” He sighed in exasperation, pressing his palms to his forehead as he ducked his head between his knees, “Honestly, must I accompany you in the wheelhouse? You are giving me a headache.”
Selaena chuckled as she neared the prince once more, decidedly settling onto the chaise next to him with a quiet sigh. Her slippered feet moved to rest upon the low table settled between them and the cooled hearth, ankles swollen and pink from the weight she carried on her front. Aegon wondered briefly if all pregnant women grew fat and puffy as time progressed, but held his tongue in fear of the Velaryon woman scuffing the nape of his neck like the guards and his brother had before, as his goodsister’s mood was drastic in changing as of late.
“You will be begging to rest in the wheelhouse after a few hours on horseback, rest assured,” Her hand patted at the top of his head, to which he batted it away. Selaena shot him a weary look, “Aye, okay. What is with this sudden attitude recently? Where is my sweet prince?”
Aegon nearly pouted, a jagged frown twisting at his lips as he turned to the side, facing his good sister with a tug of the brow and a rather nasty look floating across his amethyst vision. In truth, he had been a right terror for days, oscillating between bouts of excited mischief at the prospect of travel and whiney irritation at whatever was clouding his mind. He had been increasingly sensitive to the little quips and jabs his brother Daeron would toss his way, and even the light teasing of Selaena he hadn’t had issue with before, snarling his teeth and tucking himself away to sulk whenever they struck a nerve.
He wasn’t quite sure what was happening, why he felt the way he did. Perhaps it was a part of growing up, so to speak, the first entry into adulthood being that of bigger emotions, feelings his body was still too small to manage on its own. Or perhaps it was the little sliver of information his brother had let slip but a few days before during his newly anointed training time in the yard, regarding the very tourney they were supposed to depart for at any given moment.
“Daeron says he does not wish to attend the tourney,” Aegon said after a beat of silence settled uncomfortably between them, shrugging his thin shoulders as the confession slipped across his tongue, “And I want to. I am excited to–to be a real squire. I just wish that he wasn’t the man I was squiring for.”
Selaena sighed from beside him.
“Your brother, my husband, he–” She seemed to hesitate, mulling over her words before slumping back against the chaise’s singular armrest, gaze flickering towards the ceiling, “He is rather...particular about the ventures he takes part in. He does not enjoy horse nor sword, and your lord father wishes for him to do our household proud despite that.”
“He has come up with a nasty sort of plan,” Aegon admitted quietly, avoiding the sharpness of her look as it immediately swooped to land on him. He fidgeted with the hem of his tunic, “He wishes to hide out in an inn and avoid the tourney all together. Until it is over, he says, and then we can return home. I do not want to, my lady. I want to go to the tourney!”
“And you shall,” Selaena reassured with a warm hand against his cheek, the other resting limply against her swollen stomach as she regarded him with a careful sort of look, “Nevermind whatever Daeron mumbles on about. He is in his cups more days than not. Your lord father would never allow the two of you to sneak off and hide for a sennight.”
Aegon sighed, large enough to deflate his little body, hiking his shoulders towards his ears before relaxing again.
“I wish father had permitted me to squire for anyone but Daeron. He is a dreadful teacher, and he is dreadful at sword–and he doesn’t even like horses. I fear I am not learning much from him besides how to get out of training and how to take a man out with just a hit at the knees.”
She chuffed a laugh, much to Aegon’s disamusement, ruffling the top of his head as the door to the solar swung open, a gaggle of ivory-clad maids bustling in to begin carrying what few trunks Selaena had dutifully packed from the chamber. A woman with a head of especially shining brown hair tucked away into an intricate bun approached with a silver-sheen traveling cape over one arm and a pair of riding boots in her hands, silently kneeling before his goodsister as she began to remove the soft slippers from the Velaryon woman’s swollen feet.
“Why, what more training do you need, if you are able to take a man out with one whack?” Selaena grinned, silently thanking the maid as she switched to the other foot, watching with mild interest as the woman carefully tied the brown laces at the ankle in a multi-petaled bow, “Mayhaps after the tourney, I shall have a stern talk with my lord husband, and you shall learn more than wooden swords and brushing horses.”
“Would you really?” Aegon’s mood instantly brightened, hands planting firm against her forearm as she tucked her feet to the floor, struggling to right herself in the seat they shared, “Oh Lady Selaena, you are the greatest goodsister! Mayhaps the best in Westeros–no, in Westeros and Essos!”
He bounced against the cushion, rising to his feet and digging his heels into the rug beneath them as he struggled to help the golden haired woman to her feet, laughing all the while at the stubborn look gracing her pinkened features as she pulled and pulled and nearly tumbled to the floor with the weight at her front.
Aegon could not wait until his niece or nephew was born, not necessarily out of excitement for the babe (because, who was he kidding, Aegon found babes to be rather boring and stinky), but out of yearning for his goodsister to return to her lithe movements and neverending fun. Since she had grown heavy and round, she seldom wished to sit in the dirt and play any longer, nor could young Aegon clamber into her lap or construct cushioned forts in the furthest corners of the library and laze with her there as they read. She was slow in movement, so no more running about the gardens or the corridors in chase or hide-and-seek, and she was tired more oft than not, so their time spent together was dull and boring in the eyes of the young prince, comprised of sitting under verandas and nibbling on fruit cakes and cheeses in quiet conversation, or reviewing his studies after the maester had left, or lazing silently in her solar as Aegon read the dragon book and Selaena worked on whatever needlework she was creating for the babe in her stomach.
It felt like she had been with child forever, and she would remain plump and round forevermore. He was growing increasingly restless without the adventures about the keep and the previous fun they would have in the warmth of the garden, the walks about Summerhall, even the few fishing trips they had taken just after his tenth nameday. She had slowed down considerably, and Aegon only felt despair and annoyance at the loss of his playmate at the hands of his older brother.
Or at least, that is what had been said by Aerion, who made snide comments every now and again that Daeron had plagued Selaena with his own brand of infection. Whatever that meant, he wasn’t so sure, but Aegon had not been pleased at the notion of his goodsister being sick at the hand of his brother.
“My lady,” The brown haired maid bowed her head slightly as she clasped the travel cape around Selaena’s neck, placing her hand on her forearm in a guiding motion, “The wheelhouse has been prepared. We are to depart soon. Shall I escort you there?”
Selaena smiled politely, her free hand reaching to rest on Aegon’s shoulder, willing him closer to her blue-colored skirts.
“What of my lord husband, Jeyne? Will he be accompanying us in the house or horseback?”
“Horseback, my lady, so I have heard. They are readying the saddle as we speak,” She looked toward Aegon then, a small smile directed towards the young prince as another figure came forward, holding the boy’s own traveling cape in her arms, “Prince Aegon shall ride with you halfway, as directed by the Prince Maekar, and then will depart with the Prince Daeron on his own horse so that they may arrive early to sign up for the first jousts. They should be received by Lord Ashford but a day before the rest of the traveling party.”
Aegon glanced upwards towards his goodsister, the corners of his eyes crinkling at the telltale twitch at the corners of her lips, a frown willing itself to give way from the polite smile currently occupying the stretch of pink at her mouth. He tilted his chin towards her face, allowing the new maid to clip his own cloak around him, before tangling his fingers amongst the firm grip Selaena had on his shoulder, tugging her hand away and into his clammy grasp.
“Well, I suppose we are off then,” Selaena finally responded, squeezing reassuringly at Aegon’s hold before the trio made their way from the solar, emerging into the frenzy that was the corridors of Summerhall, “Your first tourney, are you excited my prince?”
Aegon could only beam up at her, nodding enthusiastically despite the strange ache in the pit of his stomach, the words of Daeron’s previous plan echoing briefly in the back of his mind.
“Terribly so,” Aegon grinned, tugging boyishly at her hand as they walked into the sunlight.
“Best behavior, my dear Aegon, otherwise I fear Lord Ashford will never invite us again.”
The boy of ten could only roll his eyes as they approached the wheelhouse. No matter what occurred on the way there, or when he and Daeron departed from the rest of the group, he was bound and determined to reach their destination, no matter the cost.
If only he knew exactly what the cost of attending the Tourney in Ashford Meadow would be by the end of it all.
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