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It was in the training yard by the barracks, where all the trouble started.
Aerion did not notice the signs. He was too busy sparring with Finn, trying out a new lunging thrust that Ser Balan had told him was too flashy, but that the prince wanted to perfect anyway. It certainly worked on the squire; the boy stumbled and fell back for the third time that day, dropping his sword and rubbing his collarbone where Aerion had thrust at with the blunted tip. “You’re going to break my bones!” he whined petulantly.
“He wouldn’t manage that if you didn’t flinch and freeze every time he charges at you, lad,” Ser Balan, their master-at-arms, said gruffly. He was overseeing the boys, leaning against a stone pillar, arms crossed over his muscled chest. Behind him, others were watching, Daeron among them. His big brother was clinging to the shadows of the great arches, half-hidden, but Aerion knew he was looking intently.
“He’s crashing straight into me, like a horse at full gallop,” Finn complained.
“Do you think men on the battlefield will attack you gently, you empty-headed boy? You have to learn to keep your wits about you when someone charges, not piss your breeches. And you, Aerion,” he turned to the prince, “are as hardheaded as a bloody mule. How many times do I have to tell you you’re overthrusting? If you were actually fighting a skilled opponent, you’d be leaving yourself wide open.”
“But not every foe will be as skilled,” Aerion retorted stubbornly. “You always tell us that everyone is different. Some will be clumsy and easy to scare, like Finn.”
“Hey!” the boy protested, stung.
Aerion was a little abashed, even though it was true. “You wouldn’t be if you practiced more,” he retorted. “You just need to stop being lazy!”
The master-at-arms was frowning. “Stop with your bickering. And don’t talk back to me, Aerion. You’re a natural fighter, gods know, but you’re still—”
“A bloody fool,” a gruff voice said levelly.
They both turned, alert at the intervention. Prince Maekar was standing at the yard’s entryway, hands clasped behind his back, dressed in severe Targaryen black-and-red. Aerion grimaced.
“I was going to say ‘obstinate’, my prince.”
“Well, both are true. Aerion, where did you learn that thrust?”
Has he been standing there for that long? “I… I saw it in the melee in Duskendale. Ser Justin—”
“—Used it to knock down that Tyrell boy. I recall now. He’s a ferocious man, Aerion, but a reckless one. He is leaving himself open, and one day someone will take advantage.” He sighed. “Still, you were right about remembering that each opponent is different. Many would be felled by such a move, like poor Finn here was.”
For Maekar, this was high praise indeed. Aerion gave a reluctant smile… but it fell away from his face when his father looked around, frowning. “Where in the seven hells is Daeron? Did he wander off again? I thought I told you to not let him neglect his training anymore—”
“He is here, Your Grace,” Ser Balan said calmly. “I bade him watch.”
Maekar turned a sharp gaze to the sidelines. His eyes found Daeron in the back. “Your little brother drilling for hours every day, and you're just standing around,” he chided. “Come over here, boy.”
Daeron walked as slowly as if he was being summoned for a beating. That was normal, to an extent, but this time he looked a bit too alarmed… and as he stepped forward, Aerion saw why. He has the horse with him. He usually didn’t bring it to the training yard, but Ser Balan had promised that he’d just have to watch, this time, so he must have decided to carry it along.
Aerion cursed in his head. He should have thrown it away at least, when he saw Father approaching. But Daeron would never do that; his horse was far too precious to him.
It was, Aerion thought childishly, mostly Uncle Baelor’s fault. He had gone to Qohor two years ago, and upon returning brought gifts for all of them. There were Qohori tapestries, Valyrian steel daggers, a mantle lined with lemur fur for Mother... and for the children, elaborately carved toys, from the city’s famed woodcarvers. It was an exquisite collection, each item larger and more detailed than mere playthings had any right to be. There were bears and birds and lions and horses, even dragons and griffins. Aerion had immediately attached himself to the dragons. One was coiled up and one was snarling and the third was in full flight, each painted in different colors. He had been obsessed with them at first, but he gradually began spending less time with toys and more time practicing with sword and spear and lance. The dragons were now safe in a chest in his room, almost forgotten.
Daeron was a very different case. For one, he had never liked being around any sort of dragon, since they reminded him of his dreams. When pressed upon to go to court, his brother would wail and throw tantrums and refuse to pack, because he knew he was going to have to face the huge black skulls in the Great Hall. So he had chosen a horse for himself, elegant and intricate, and refused to take anything else. He’d become quite fond of the toy, and had taken to carrying it around with him wherever he went. Aerion had paid it little mind; Daeron was always clinging to one toy or the other. He used to make fun of him for it, calling him a big baby… but something in his brother's eyes when he clutched some doll to his chest would make Aerion feel absurdly guilty, and he switched to teasing him for other things instead. And this particular toy seemed to be somehow unique for Daeron. He’d clung to it for far longer than anything else.
Their father, unfortunately, did not like the boy’s habit, and was never afraid to say it. Now his gaze lingered on Daeron’s hands, and hardened. “Again with this bloody thing? You are a squire, Daeron. You're going to be a man grown soon. Are you expecting anyone to take you seriously when you carry toys around everywhere?”
His brother clutched the horse tighter, eyes widening. He didn’t speak, just stared up at their father.
Maekar grimaced, his jaw clenching. Aerion knew that expression; it didn’t bode well for anyone. He rushed forward. “Father, I caught a fish today!” he blurted out. It wasn’t a very elegant distraction, but he couldn’t come up with anything else.
Maekar looked down at him, startled. “A fish,” he said flatly.
“A big trout, in the morning by the stream up north. Wyll said we’re going to eat it at supper. Do you want to come to the kitchens to see? It’s huge.”
“I am sure it is.” He looked up at the darkening sky. “It is getting close to suppertime. I suppose you boys can go now. I’ll look at your fish later, Aerion; I need to speak to Ser Balan.”
It was more than enough leave for Aerion. Wordless, he walked forward and grabbed Daeron’s hand, dragging him along. He rid himself of his padding and arming sword in the barracks, then turned to his brother. “I’m going to the hall to wait for supper. Are you coming?”
Daeron shook his head. “I’ll come later. I’m going to go to our chamber and read.” He hesitated. “Father is probably still angry. I don’t want to be sitting where he can see me for too long.”
“Alright.” He left him there, eager to see what was going to happen with his fish.
At the high table, the trout was served, just as the cook had promised, and Father even praised Aerion a little. But Daeron never showed up, even when the tarts and pastries arrived. He loves sweets. He wouldn’t miss them. Maybe his brother had hidden himself away somewhere? It would certainly not be unlike him.
He sneaked a lemon tart into his sleeve, for Daeron. At the very least, I’ll lure him out of his hiding hole with this. It was not very clever to hide; they were bound to find him eventually, and then he’d really be in trouble. Mother was usually able to calm the worst of Maekar’s temper, but Mother was away in Dorne, visiting the princess in Sunspear.
He would go to his and Daeron’s bedchamber first, he decided. It was the most logical choice. He’d feel like the biggest fool in the Marches if he went running around the palace while his brother was just asleep, or quietly reading.
When he opened the door, he breathed a sigh of relief. Daeron was there, sitting on the bed, arms wrapped around his knees. He wasn’t asleep or reading, however; in fact, he didn’t seem to be doing much of anything.
“Where have you been?” Aerion demanded. “Why weren’t you at supper?”
Daeron did not respond, sullenly staring at the wall. Aerion offered him the tart. “I brought one with lemon. Your favorite!”
His brother’s eyes darted up to him. “Thank you,” he said softly, but made no move to take it. Aerion faltered. He set the tart down at the table by the window, unsure of what had happened to make Daeron look so sullen.
His brother started biting at a finger, so he walked up to him and swatted his hand. “You are going to make yourself bleed again.”
Daeron tucked his hands in his underarms, pouting. His bottom lip was trembling as if he was about to cry. Aerion hesitated. “What is it? What happened? You missed an orange pie as well, and some nice jam-filled pastries—”
“He took Dreamcatcher.”
“He took the what now?”
“Dreamcatcher. The horse.”
Aerion blinked. “You mean... the wooden horse?” He was puzzled his brother had bothered naming the thing. “Who took it?”
“Father.” He sniffled. “He came before supper. He said he was tired of watching me hold him all the time, and that I am going to be a knight soon so I'm too old for toy horses. He's giving it to Aemon instead, or Daella.”
“Oh.” Aerion supposed that made sense; Daeron was ten, after all. But his brother's eyes were too desolate for him to say it out loud. “That’s not so bad, brother. You don’t need it anyway. Think, you’ll soon get a real horse, and that will be so much better!”
It was the wrong thing to say. Daeron’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want a real horse. They’re too big and they kick. And I don’t want to be a knight, or joust, or fight anyone. Ser Balan always makes me practice and practice and practice until I’m all sore and my arms hurt. I hate it. I hate everyone.”
Aerion watched him, not quite knowing what to say. The children were only allowed to ride ponies so far, but the prince was constantly begging for a proper horse, and had been promised he would finally get one right after Daeron did. Fighting and riding were Aerion’s two favorite things, other than hearing stories about magic and dragonlore. But his brother had always been different from him in almost every way, gentle and quiet and reserved. Aerion thought about offering to give him his own carved toys, then he remembered Daeron was afraid of dragons.
“Come on, now. You have other toys. And you’ll get new ones, I know it. There’s your name day coming soon.” It wasn't until a few moons away, but that wasn't so far.
Daeron shook his head, as stubborn as a mule. “Dreamcatcher was special.”
“Special? Because uncle Baelor brought it?”
“He brought him from Qohor. Qohor is called the City of Sorcerers. Uncle said... he said…”
“Yes?”
“He said that they make everything with spells there. And that he might help me with— with my dreams. That’s why I called him Dreamcatcher.”
“Oh.” Aerion loved spells and sorcery, but he didn’t believe the Qohori would go so far as to use it to make toys. Baelor likely said that to comfort Daeron... But it was a well-meaning lie, he supposed. “Has it helped?” He had noticed his brother would be calmer when he woke from his dreams during the past couple of years, but he had assumed it was just because they were growing older, or that he had gotten used to it.
“Some,” Daeron sniffled. “I sleep better, and I’m less scared when I wake. But now he’s gone. I can’t go to sleep without him, Aerion!” His mouth trembled, tears running down his cheeks. "I’ll wake up afraid and crying and screaming, and I’ll start wetting the bed again, and Father will be so disappointed and angry and... and…” He bowed his head and began to sob.
Aerion swallowed, a lump in his throat. He watched his brother cry, feeling rather helpless.
Daeron had always been an obedient child. Aemon and Daella were as well, though Daella was a little more stubborn. Aerion was the truly rebellious one, the one to always flout orders and get in trouble. The solution came swiftly to his head, as unwise as it was necessary.
He sighed. “Do you know where he took it?”
Daeron raised his eyes, sniffling. “What?”
“Dreamcatcher. Do you know where he is now?”
His brother gave a miserable little shrug. “No. At Aemon and Daella's room, maybe?” He pouted. “They don't even need him. They probably won’t play with him at all.” His lip trembled, and Aerion knew fresh tears were coming. He took a step forward. “Stop. Listen to me. I’ll go get your horse, alright?”
Daeron looked at him with shock. “What? You will? How?”
"I'll go to Aemon and Daella and take him back. Simple enough. You’ll have to be very careful, though. Stop carrying him around where father can see. Just keep him here, so he can help you sleep."
Daeron gave a little nod, eyes big as saucers. “What if someone sees you?”
Aerion shrugged. “Who will see me? There are no guards inside our apartments. I’ll just wake them and ask for it, I’ll be back before you even realize.”
His brother hesitated. “Won’t Father know I’m the one who has him? Won’t he look?”
“He wouldn’t think you'd dare do anything defiant. And I’ll tell the little ones to just say they’ve lost the horse if he asks, that they left him somewhere and don't remember. But you will have to hide him really, really well.”
Daeron nodded eagerly. “I will. I promise.” His eyes were filled with hope. “Thank you, Aerion.”
“Thank me when I come back with it.” He walked to the door. “And eat your tart. You’re weak as a kitten.”
Daeron pouted. “I am not.” Aerion just rolled his eyes.
It was no hurdle to slip out of their chamber. The children’s wing of the palace was guarded, but only at the doors of the gallery, to prevent outsiders coming in. Watchmen prowled the courtyards and guarded the palace gates, so everything was thought to be sufficiently secure. There was a nursemaid sleeping in baby Aegon’s room, of course, but she was not likely to hear Aerion. Still, he tiptoed, quietly crossing their solar and retiring room to reach the door of Aemon and Daella’s bedchamber. He turned the doorknob, then very carefully pulled the door open, stealing into the room by the halflight of the lamps on the walls and the moonlight streaming in through the glazed windows.
All the rooms in Summerhall were richly furnished, including the children’s. Aerion stepped on thick Myrish carpets that muffled his feet, and walked over to the great featherbeds with the fine velvet covers.
Who did Father give it to? Which one of them has it?
Aemon was the most likely candidate, he decided. Determined, he quietly climbed on the bed and straddled the boy, clamping a palm over his mouth.
Aemon stirred immediately. His purple eyes flew open, and he made to fight Aerion's grasp, but the prince held on tight until the younger boy stopped struggling and just stared up at him.
He felt ridiculous, sitting on top of his brother like some robber in the night, but he had to be threatening. “Don’t yell. Don't wake anyone up, or you'll be sorry.”
The boy nodded, eyes wide. Aerion removed his hand, slowly.
Aemon just looked at him for a moment, confused. “What are you doing here?”
“Has Father given you a horse?” he blurted out. “A carved toy horse, the one Daeron is always carrying around?”
His little brother blinked, then pouted. “Get off me first,” he said gruffly.
Aerion did, scrambling off the bed. Aemon got up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “No. I don’t have his horse. Dreamcatcher, is it?”
He was surprised. “You know its name?”
“Daeron asked me about Qohor once. If they are truly sorcerers.” He yawned. “I said they are, and he told me about Dreamcatcher. What happened to him?”
“Father took it away. Daeron thought you might have it.” He hesitated. “Do you really believe it's magic?”
“Maybe. Magic is real, we know that well. We're Valyrians, aren't we?”
“Yes,” Aerion said uncertainly. “But still—”
“Aemon?”
Aerion startled, then spun around. Daella was sitting up on her bed, her dark hair tousled.
Aerion said a word that was not very befitting of a young prince, then marched up to her and grabbed her by the arms. “Stay quiet.”
Daella whined. “Let go of me. Why are you here? Father will have your hide.”
“That's why I said stay quiet.” He sighed, then explained the problem to her.
Daella didn’t have the toy either, but by the end she was fully awake, eyes beaming. “A magic horse?” she asked, mouth hanging open. “Why aren't our toys magic? Uncle didn't say anything about my hawk or my lion.”
“Nor about my griffins,” said Aemon calmly, “but maybe Daeron just needed the sorcery more.”
Aerion had heard all that he cared to hear about magic horses. “Yes, well, so what are we going to do? He needs it back.”
Aemon frowned, considering, and both Daella and Aerion held their tongues. His little brother had always been the smartest of the siblings, almost frighteningly so. He'd been reading since three, knew more High Valyrian than all of them, and was as solemn as a boy twice his age. He'll know what to do. He will.
“Since neither of us have it, clearly Father chose to keep it hidden. He wouldn’t just burn it or throw it away, it is quite pricey, and it was a gift from Uncle.” His lips formed the little pout he always made when thinking. “His apartments are guarded at the doors of the antechamber,” he said finally, “and ours are guarded by the gallery. But the gardens lead to his terrace, and from there to the solar. That might be where he put it, unless it's in his bedchamber itself.”
Aerion frowned. “Father’s terrace is too high up.”
“One of us can climb it. There are hedges and trees, and the wall is brick on one side, so there might be footholds—”
“I’ll do it!” Daella said, too loudly.
Aerion hissed at her. “Quiet, you dolt, before I kick you. And no, I am going to climb. You’re as clumsy as an ox, and Aemon is too small.”
“We’re both Targaryens,” she whined. “You're not supposed to be ordering me around.”
“I am still your elder. And I am the best at running and fighting and climbing, everyone knows.”
His sister gave a pout. “I want to help.”
“You can keep guard while I go up, for the night watchmen. Aemon will stay here and wait for us. Then I’ll just sneak back to my room.”
“What if you wake Father up?”
His stomach twisted at that. Maekar would be angry enough to hear he had been wandering the palace after dark to steal the bloody horse back against orders, but if he found Aerion sneaking into his rooms as well…
He shook his head. “I won’t. I’m too quick and quiet.” He prayed it was true.
Aemon looked troubled. "And what will happen if Father sees that the horse is missing? Won't he suspect?"
Aerion swallowed. "We'll have to just stay quiet and deny everything. Maybe he'll think he lost it somewhere. Why should he even care about a toy horse? And I'll help Daeron hide it very well."
Aemon did not seem particularly convinced, but he nodded.
With Daella in tow, Aerion headed out of their little ground-floor terrace and through the gardens. The moon was full, which was very good; they could see everything quite clearly. Not that that mattered when it came to Daella; she was soon looking up at the sky and nowhere near her feet. When she tripped into a flowerbed and almost fell, Aerion cursed his own stupidity. I should have taken Aemon. He’s small, but at least he wouldn’t alert everyone in the bloody palace. His sister was notoriously ungainly, with two left feet. He reached back and took her by the arm, dragging her forward.
It didn’t take long for them to reach Father's rooms; the living quarters of the family were all fairly close together. But he was disheartened by the reminder of how high the climb would be. At least fifteen feet. He looked over the problem, his jaw set stubbornly.
The rose hedges were obviously useless to him, though they reached up to the terrace. Even if they were sturdy enough to climb, he would be scratched to bloody ribbons. But the brick wall did look promising, and there was also a tree that was fairly tall. He would start there.
He turned to Daella. “Wait here. If some watchman passes by and sees me, make a hooting sound so I can hurry back down.”
Daella rolled her eyes. “We’re dragons, not owls.”
“Well, you’d better be a dragon that hoots, unless you want Father to tan both our hides. And make sure no one sees you. Hide in some dark corner, and move as little as possible.”
She nodded. “I will! I said I would help you, didn’t I? Don’t lecture me, Aerion, I can do it.”
“Fine.” He gave her one last glance before he walked off, just to make sure she was resolute.
The tree grew cherries or peaches or something, he thought; he’d seen it bloom sometimes, all in pink flowers, but Summerhall was so full of vegetation it was hard to keep track. It was tall enough to get him about halfway, and then he’d have to brave the brick wall. He stepped on one of the lower branches, pushed himself up, grabbed onto another, pushed, lifted with his arms. Climbing trees was easy; he always made himself practice, because he reasoned that a Targaryen should be used to heights. What if his own egg was the one to hatch? Daeron had told him he’d seen the dragons returning in his dreams, and Aerion had to be ready to ride one.
Climbing the wall was harder. He couldn’t see the protruding bricks very well in the moonlight, so he touched every one with his hand first, to make sure he had found a good foothold. Still, he discovered that he felt secure enough when he moved slowly. Soon he was almost to the top, and pride surged through him. Daeron could never do this, for sure, nor Daella, nor Finn or any of the other squires. But for him, this was fun, it was easy—
His foot slipped.
For a long, terrible moment, Aerion was sure he would fall. Then he somehow managed to grab onto the bars of the railing. He held on for dear life as his feet struggled to find another foothold, until finally one stepped on the thorny hedge, and another braced against a brick. Gasping and shaking, he just held on for a few moments, his heart pounding.
He heard Daella call out to him in loud, alarmed whispers. “Aerion? Are you alright?”
“Hush, you fool, they’ll hear us,” he hissed. “I’m fine. Just keep watch.” He willed himself to calm down, to slow his heart rate. Almost there. Getting back down will be easier. He didn’t know how, but he had to convince himself of that.
He climbed upwards, stepping on footholds and inching up the railing until he was high enough to finally, blessedly, throw himself over the side and land on solid stone ground. He realized that his leg had been scratched up by the thorns of the hedge, but it scarcely mattered. There was a little blood, and his breeches were torn at one side, but he had made it to his goal in one piece.
After all the excitement of climbing, sneaking inside felt almost safe. His father’s solar was quaint and comfortable, with a large oak desk, small dining table, bookshelves, and multiple chests and cupboards. Aerion guessed the horse had to be in one of the chests; that was where Father kept trinkets and various items. He opened the lid of the largest one, but discovered only some old leatherbound books. Others proved no less disappointing. He found linen and tapestries and game boards, but certainly no toy horses… yet when he was near exasperation, his gaze fell somewhere more promising.
It was a smaller chest, half hidden next to the sideboard with all the wines and mead and ciders. Something about it gave Aerion pause, and he was pretty sure it was the only one in the room he had not searched. He approached tentatively.
The chest had a lock, but the key was in it. Aerion turned it slowly, unlocking it with a sharp noise that made him wince. He gently lifted the lid and peered inside. It seemed to contain tableware, spoons and forks and goblets covered in precious metals and gems. He swallowed hard, and started moving the items around and searching beneath them. It didn’t seem likely for Dreamcatcher to be hidden beneath some cups and utensils… but if the horse wasn’t in here either, he’d have to go inside the bedchamber, and that would be far riskier. He rummaged through the chest, increasingly desperate. It had to be this one, it had to—
Hard hands clamped tight around his shoulders, yanking him around.
No. He gasped, too afraid to even scream. His father was hovering above him in the dark, the moonlight casting harsh shadows on his pale face. “What in the seven bloody hells are you doing, boy?” His voice was a hiss, sharp as a whip.
Aerion trembled. He stared up at Maekar, silent, biting his lip to keep from crying. I am nine now, not a baby. I won’t weep in front of Father.
Maekar shook him. “Tell me, or I will put you over my knee right now. How did you get in here? What were you doing stealing into my chambers, looking through chests? Targaryens aren’t thieves.”
“I... I j-just wanted the— I wanted the—”
“Don’t stammer, boy,” Maekar snapped. “You’re a prince! Speak clearly. What did you want?”
He was shaking like a leaf, feeling years younger than he was. Suddenly he wished Mother was here, or uncle Baelor. “I... I wanted the horse. D-Daeron’s horse.”
Maekar stared, frowning. “The toy? The wooden toy? What on earth did you want with that?"
“I-I wanted to play with it,” he lied, sounding unconvincing even to his own ears.
Maekar’s eyes hardened. “You haven’t played with toys for years, you spend all your time in the yard. Stop lying to me, Aerion, before I lose my patience and turn your bum as red as beetroot.”
He bowed his head, looking away from the furious gaze. “He needs it,” he muttered. “He says it is magic.” Then the rest poured out of him, leaving out only Daella and Aemon’s involvement.
His father listened, hands tight around his arms. He didn’t speak for a long, good while. He’ll punish me now, then Daeron as well, Aerion thought miserably. His efforts would just end with his brother even more desolate than before.
But then his father let go of him. He stood to his full height, crossing his arms over his chest. “I ought to cuff your ears for this, then give you a good thrashing. You could have broken your stupid head climbing my wall. And Daeron…” He frowned. “Gods be good, when will that boy grow some sense? An enchanted horse? Though I suppose I have my brother to thank for that.” His face fell. “You said he is better, when he sleeps with it?”
Aerion nodded, not daring to speak.
“These dreams…” Maekar grimaced, his eyes distant. “They saved our House, when Daenys foresaw the Doom. But they are a grave burden as well. The gods give with one hand and take with the other. When Daeron first started having them, I thought there was something wrong with the boy’s mind, a sickness or blow to the head that we missed. He was four years old, yet started acting like a babe again, losing control of his bladder, crying, clinging to your mother... It took a while to understand what was happening.” He huffed. “Then your grandsire wanted me to be glad! As if a few vague prophecies are worth having a child suffer like that. The maesters were useless, and the septons…” His lips twisted into an angry sneer. Then his gaze found Aerion’s again, and his eyes softened. He turned and walked to a cupboard, taking something from the top shelf.
Amazingly, he returned with Dreamcatcher, and held it out to Aerion.
“Here. Take it back to your brother. I was going to give it to one of your siblings tomorrow, but clearly you have outflanked me. Tell him he can have it if he promises to be a little more discreet. It is not for my pride that I say this; he will soon be a man grown, and the world is cruel. He will never be respected if he is always weeping and clinging to toys.”
Aerion reached out tentatively, hardly believing it. He took the toy and held it tight. “T-thank you, father.”
Maekar reached out and touched his hair. “You foolish little boy,” he said, but his voice was warm. “You are my fiercest child, to be sure. If you were higher up in the succession, the kingdom would tremble. Let’s get you back to your room... through the door, this time. And don’t put yourself in danger like this again, or I will have to punish you. In the future, come to me instead. I know I’m not the most patient of fathers, but I promise I’ll listen.”
Aerion smiled, then remembered that his little sister was waiting outside. He hesitated, trying to come up with a way to tell Father that wouldn’t just make him mad again.
Maekar studied his son’s face and gave a long, deep sigh. “Who else is out there?”
“Daella,” he confessed, looking down at his feet. “I told her to stand guard.”
“And doubtless Aemon gave his sage counsel as well, is that the way of it? I am glad that my children are such determined tacticians already, though I do wish you would not conspire against your father in the dead of night. Soon enough you will be planning a rebellion.”
Aerion shook his head. “I don’t think any one of us would want to be king,” he blurted out.
Maekar snorted. “I am relieved to hear it. Come along now. I’ll get a guard to find your sister, if she has managed to not tumble down a bloody well.” He took him firmly by the shoulder, leading him through his rooms.
At the antechamber, Maekar opened the door and gently pushed the boy through, towards two very surprised household knights.
“Ser Cole, Aerion has lost the way to his chambers. Kindly escort him back. And my daughter is somewhere in the gardens, make certain to turn her up as well. Knowing her, you only have to follow the stomping and rustling leaves. Thank you.” With another soft sigh, he closed the door, leaving them in stunned silence.
Ser Cole looked down at Aerion for a few moments, frowning. “How in the bloody hells—” But Ser Robyn smacked him on the arm, and he cut himself short. “Come with me, my prince,” he muttered.
In the courtyard, the knight fished Daella out from behind a bush, squirming, then walked them both back to their respective chambers. Before Aerion went inside, Ser Cole gave him an intense, lingering look, as if he was still trying to figure out what had just happened. Aerion gave a soft chuckle.
Daeron was chewing on his fingers as he walked in. He jumped up, shaking, then saw the horse in Aerion's hands. “You brought him,” he whispered, in wonderment.
He grabbed the horse and held it close to his chest, as if afraid someone would snatch it away again. His eyes filled with tears. “Thank you,” he whispered, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Aerion explained to him what had happened, briefly, while Daeron’s eyes grew wide. “Father said I can keep him? Truly?”
Aerion nodded. “Just try to not always carry it around, he said. Be more careful.”
“I will.” Daeron stepped forward to wrap his arms around him, which made Aerion a little surprised. When they broke the embrace, his brother looked at him with earnest eyes.
“I won't forget this,” he declared solemnly. “You'll be my favorite brother from now on. I shall love you best.”
Aerion chuckled. “Aemon and Daella helped as well.”
“Yes, but you started it. And Father could have punished you when he found you in his rooms. I’m telling you, I will always remember.” He grew very serious. “Indeed, I foresee it. I will always love you the best, no matter what happens.”
Aerion wanted to tease him for making such a grand declaration over a mere toy, but Daeron’s voice had a gravity to it that could not be argued with. “Thank you, brother. I shall love you as well.”
They were silent for a few moments, until Aerion turned and looked at the table by the sill. “You still haven’t eaten that bloody tart?” He groaned in exasperation. “It’s no wonder you hate drilling, Daeron, you’re too weak to swing a sword most of the time.”
His brother rolled his eyes, but he finally went over to the lemon tart and started chewing. Now that all his work was done, Aerion was suddenly very tired. He undressed quickly and got into bed, muttering a good night to Daeron, who answered in a soft, content voice.
He grinned to himself as he settled under the covers, thinking of his brother’s promise. I will always love you the best… no matter what happens. The second part was a little queer, but Daeron often said queer things. Aerion couldn’t imagine what could possibly happen to make his siblings stop loving each other. They fought, but they were still kin, Targaryens, the last descendants of the dragonlords. One day perhaps their eggs would hatch, and they could all spend their time flying together to King’s Landing, or Dragonstone, or Lys, or anywhere they wanted. When you were soaring high on the back of such a great beast, you could do anything, and no one could hurt you.
He went to sleep dreaming of horses and dragons, and hearing the beating of great leathern wings.