Collecting Fandoms

It was a pleasant afternoon, the air warm and still. You had been walking the garden at the pace your current condition preferred, one hand resting on the small, firm round of your stomach. The scent of crushed rosemary followed your steps. Then the song carried over from the yard, a cheerful, clear melody. Egg had always had a pleasant voice, and for a moment you simply listened, enjoying the warmth of the sun on your face.

Then the words caught up with you. They were not the words of a nursery rhyme.

You crossed the yard faster than was strictly advisable, following the sound until you found him up a tree. Of course he was up a tree, perched on a thick branch without a care, delivering the second verse of what you were rapidly understanding to be the most unedited version of a Blackfyre rebellion song in existence. He reached the chorus with complete unselfconsciousness, his small voice carrying beautifully across the open yard. You stood below him with your heart somewhere near your throat. 

“Aegon!” 

He looked down at you, untroubled. 

“Get down this instant!” 

He scrambled down the trunk, bark dusting his tunic. 

“What did I tell you about that tree?” you asked, before anything else. 

“Not to climb it,” he said, his boots scuffing the dirt. 

You stared at him, bewildered, “And yet,” 

You took him by the shoulders, sighing, your grip firm. “Who taught you that song?” 

“Daeron,” Egg said without hesitation,

“I never want to hear you sing that again. Not one word of it. Do you understand me?”

 “Yes,” he said, and looked down at his feet. “I’m sorry.” 

Pressing a kiss to the top of his head you sent him off and went to find your husband. Maekar was in his study, working through a modest pile of papers on his table. He looked up when you came in, read your face in approximately one second, and set down what he was doing.

 “Egg,” you said, “was up that tree again, singing a Blackfyre rebellion song Daeron taught him.” 

A smile tugged at the corner of Maekar's lips. He was fighting it. He was not winning.

 “This is not amusing.” 

“No,” he agreed, in a voice that indicated otherwise. 

“The boy is but seven years old.” 

“Yes.” 

“There is to be no more of this,” you said. “No more cursing, no more lewd songs. I don’t want our child’s first memories to be of their father’s swears and their brothers’ tavern songs.” 

“You’re right,”he said, with the conviction of a man who had concluded that agreeing was both correct and entirely in his interest, especially as of late. He crossed the room and put his hands carefully on your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones, and kissed you. When he pulled back, something so openly fond was in his expression that the last of your outrage dissolved. His violet eyes and one hand dropped briefly to the small round of your stomach.

“I’ll speak to Aegon,” he promised. 

"Speak to yourself first, your mouth is the greatest offender."

Maekar laughed, caught off guard by the accusation, and then the laugh shifted into something else, a glint in his eyes that you recognized immediately.

"You had rather a different opinion of my mouth last ni—"

"Maekar!" 

He laughed, properly this time before taking both your hands and pressing a kiss to them.

"Talk to Daeron," you added "Please."

"Daeron as well," he agreed, and pressed one more kiss to your knuckles before he went.

He found Egg and said what needed saying. Egg, to his credit, took what you said seriously and felt genuinely bad remembering the look on your face. He did not sing that song again. However, on his way back across the yard, Egg began something else entirely. An older song about a Dornish widow and a visiting knight and the details of the knight’s three-day stay, delivered in the same bright, cheerful voice, having apparently concluded that this song was different enough to sing.