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Maekar glared down at his son, bouncing a crying Matarys on his hip. He had been reading a report from Lord Dondarion when a piercing wail cut through his private solar and demanded his attention. Little Matarys barged in when Ser Wylde opened the doors for his prince with a red, blotchy face. Maekar had abandoned his quill, immediately sinking to one knee as his youngest son barrelled into him. Matarys’ normally sweet milk scent was putrid with distress.
“What is the matter?” He demanded from the nursemaid who hurried after his baby. The woman now stood with her head bowed and hands clasped behind her back against the closed door. She was a slip of a girl with a pleasantly bland scent of candle wax and grass.
All of his sons stood in a row, neat as ducklings, in front of his writing desk. Valarr, Daeron, Aemon, and Aerion each wore a range of expressions from anger to innocence. Maekar absently brushed his hand through Matarys’ locks. His crying had ceased since, and he had buried his face into Maekar’s neck to drink in his mother’s scent from the most potent source.
“Prince Valarr wished to show the younger Princes his new stallion, Your Grace. But I told him Prince Matarys was too young to go into the stables, per your decree,” she explained timidly. Maekar narrowed his eyes in impatience and looked to his other children.
“Valarr, explain.”
His oldest straightened his spine at the command, meeting his mother’s eyes with his mismatched ones. One honey brown and the other amethyst – a perfect imitation of Baelor.
“As Amelia said, I wished to show off the horse uncle Rhaegel gifted me for my name-day. I left Matarys with Aerion since he didn’t want to go.” Maekar nodded as a sign for him to continue. Valarr’s eyes darted to Aerion.
Omega Consort could feel a headache starting to form at his temples. He kissed Matarys’ chubby cheek and adjusted himself to set the boy on his knee more comfortably.
“Aerion?”
Aerion jerked his head up for a moment. His face twisted as he glared down at his boots.
Maekar squashed down his irritation as best he could and said, “Aerion, I will not ask again.”
His second youngest erupted.
Like the dragon he styles himself, the words shooting from his lips were hot as fire. “I didn’t mean to hurt him! How was I to know he would cry like a baby and come running to you, Muña!” Aerion stomped his foot.
“There is no need to shout, Aerion. You will carry yourself with the temper of a Prince of the Blood,” Maekar said.
A low growl rose in Valarr’s throat. His newly presented alpha musk tickled the air and everyone’s noses. Aemon sneezed and fidgeted uncomfortably. Daeron’s glassy eyes fluttered softly as if he only just now noticed where he was.
“Don’t shout at Mother,” his oldest son snapped. Aerion didn’t recoil at dominant the pheromones starting to pour off his siblings. If anything, it made him spit and hiss more.
“Shut up, Valarr! Muña asked me!” Aerion shouted.
Aemon scoffed in a rare show of distaste, “You didn’t even say what you did-”
“I was getting there, you imbecile. If you-”
“Enough,” Maekar commanded. His tone sliced through the children’s high voices, and all fell quiet. “Silence. All of you. I will hear the tale from Aemon.”
Disappointment-Annoyance-Resignation filled the chamber as Maekar released some control of his scent. Sickly sweet rotten peaches and sharp peppermint filled the air, making even the maid squirm uncomfortably.
His youngest whine,d but Maekar cupped the back of his neck to draw him forth from the comfort of his neck. He brushed Matarys’ dark hair back and rubbed his thumb over his pup’s cheek, removing the last of the tears. “Tell me what happened, Sweetling.”
Aemon bit his lip. Maekar waited, knowing he needed to get his words in order.
“We went to see the horse, as Valarr said. I turned around because I’d forgotten the scarf you gave me, and I didn’t want to catch a cold,” Aemon explained slowly. Maekar hummed, prompting him to go on. “When I came back to the nursery…Aerion was holding Cuddles over the fireplace, and Matarys was screaming!”
Maekar had to think for a moment before he remembered who Cuddles was. Then he remembered; it was the barn cat Aemon had Ser Ronnel save from the well near the stable and immediately taken as his new beloved pet.
“Aerion, what do you have to say for yourself?”
Aerion crossed his arms over his chest, glaring with such acidic rage it spilled into his unpresented scent. Curdled milk filled the space to mix with Matarys’ distress and Aemon’s anger.
Maekar sighed. A shard of pain stabbed at his temple.
His dear husband had left for Dragonstone two nights ago, and already his pups were running him ragged. Trying to quell the incoming migraine, Maekar pinched the bridge of his nose before taking a deep breath.
“Amelia. Is Cuddles hale?”
The maid curtsied, “Yes, Your Grace. Prince Aerion dropped him after the animal scratched him, and he ran off.”
“Scratched? Aerion, show me. Now.”
Maekar shifted the little brunet on his lap and held out his hand. Aerion shuffled forth, eyes still downcast, and rolled up the sleeve of his tunic. The scratches were deep and raised, droplets of blood now visible where the black fabric had hidden them before. His son flinched when Maekar turned his arm this way and that.
“You’ll seek bandages for this and ask Maester Jeremiah for a salve. And don’t think you won’t be punished for this. Not only did you endanger a harmless animal, but you’ve also shown behaviour not appropriate for a common street urchin, let alone a Prince of the Blood. Do you understand, Aerion?”
Aerion’s scent wilted with Apology-Shame-Sadness. He inclined his head, “Yes, Muña.”
“Your father will choose your punishment when he returns from his trip.”
The Nursemaid put her hand on Aerion’s shoulder to guide him. For his part, Aerion let her, even though it was known how little he enjoyed touch from anyone outside their immediate family. Even his grandmother, the esteemed and lovely Myriah Martell, wasn’t exempt. Aerion hissed and spitted like a feral kitten when he didn’t wish to be touched. Turning his attention back to his other children, Maekar sighed. Valarr’s face was still dark as a thundercloud, as was Daeron’s.
“Aerion is a menace,” Daeron muttered. “He’ll do it again.”
“You three, return to your lessons,” he said to Valarr, Daeron and Aemon. “You will report future incidents such as this directly to your father or me.”
His oldest replied dutifully, “Yes, Mother.”
Valarr, Daeron and Aemon marched out of his solar like a row of ducklings. Their hair looked like a gradient – warm brown, dark blonde and typical Targaryen silver.
Satisfied, he leaned down to press a kiss to Matarys’ cheek. His youngest was gnawing on his fingers. He enjoyed the taste of Maekar’s golden signet ring, always testing his little fangs on the metal when left unattended for a moment. Gently, Markar pried his hand free and brushed back his son’s curls. Would he give him as much trouble as his four older brothers? Gods have mercy.
“Shall I call for a maid to take the Prince back to the nursery, my prince?” Ser Donnel asked from his spot by the door.
“No need. I will take Matarys there myself.”