"I will come with you, Father, to King's Landing," offered Daeron.
Maekar frowned. "Why would I need you to accompany me, pray tell?"
Daeron flushed. "You don't need me there with you, I'm sure. But I thought perhaps … perhaps you would want me there, if Grandfather demands an explanation about how you and Uncle Baelor ended up fighting on opposite sides during the trial of seven."
Maekar regarded his eldest son warily. "And you think you are capable of providing this explanation to my lord father, on my behalf?"
Daeron sighed, wearily. "I know you think me useless, Father, but –"
Maekar interrupted, "I would not think you useless if you had provided me with even the slightest bit of evidence to the contrary, if you had not lied and dissembled over and over again, if you had not –"
"If I had not caused you to be the cause of your brother's death?"
Daeron paled, as if he could not quite believe he had actually spoken those words out loud to his father, who was glaring at him with a ferocity that could turn wine into water.
"Father, I –" Daeron began, and immediately halted, stricken at the sight of the roiling turmoil he glimpsed on his father's face. The ferocious glare had been replaced with something else, something Daeron could not name and dared not guess. This was not the father he knew, the father he feared, the father against whom he fought, tussled and struggled on a daily basis, though most of the time, those fights, tussles and struggles took place inside his own mind.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, the glimpse was a very brief one. It was as if a veil had suddenly descended over Prince Maekar's face, and the only expression remaining to be seen was irritation, his usual expression while talking to his eldest son.
"You did not cause me to do anything. How could you? Do you presume yourself to be so powerful, so high and mighty, that you could pull my strings as if I were a puppet under your control?"
"That was not what I meant," Daeron tried to explain. "I only meant … well, if I had not lied about Ser Duncan abducting Aegon, then perhaps … perhaps what happened would not have happened."
"Let's be clear about your lies, shall we? You lied to hide your own guilt. You lied to get yourself out of trouble. You lied so you would not be blamed for getting drunk and losing your squire, your own brother. You lied –"
I lied so you would not look at me in that way, Father, with wrath, weariness and disappointment all fighting for the upper hand, thought Daeron.
Prince Maekar's voice was like thunder. "What did you say?"
Daeron cursed himself. He must have said out loud what he had so often thought in silent.
"Are you blaming me for your lies?" demanded Maekar.
Was he? Daeron could not tell, feeling very confused himself. "No!" he answered nonetheless.
"You are responsible for your own lies, and your own deeds. You, and no one else. Just like I am responsible for the blow that slew my brother. I, and no one else. Get those truths into that stubborn head of yours, Daeron. I have never taught any of my children to foist the blame on others for their own misdeeds, and yet you and Aerion …" Prince Maekar halted, and never continued.
After a while, Daeron said, "We were wrong, Father, but –"
"But I was also wrong to believe your lies? Your brother Aegon said something similar."
Did you really believe in our lies, Father? Daeron did not quite have the courage to ask this question.
"You will return to Summerhall with our household knights and men-at-arms," Maekar commanded. "You will not take another drop of wine, or ale, or any kind of spirit, during the journey home, and while I am absent from the castle. When the Prince of Summerhall is away, his heir must take his place and execute his duties. Can I trust you not to make a fool of yourself during my absence?"
Not a single drop. It seemed a bit much, thought Daeron. When the dreams assailed him, stalked him and preyed on him, what was he supposed to do, to forget, to erase, to deny? Drink water?
"Daeron!"
"You can trust me, Father," he promised, a promise that was greeted with a look full of skepticism and disbelief by his father.
Nonetheless, just before they parted, Prince Maekar grabbed hold of Daeron's arm and said, in a voice full of urgency and desperation, "My father may see fit to punish me for the event that transpired at Ashford. He is not a cruel man – in fact, he has been accused of being toomerciful at times – and I do not expect him to punish my children for my misdeeds. If I am stripped of Summerhall, he will not disinherit you as well. But are you prepared for the duties and responsibilities you must execute as the Prince of Summerhall? Are you, Daeron? Or will you disappoint your grandfather too, the man in whose honor you were named?"
Daeron's eyes opened wide, with fear. "But surely Grandfather would not punish you for a mishap? Surely he would know that you never meant to do Uncle Baelor any harm?"
"If he believes that it was indeed a mishap. He may not believe it."
"But why would he not believe you? You have never lied to him, never dissembled to get yourself out of trouble, to hide your own guilt. You're not … you're … well, you're not me. Your father has no reason to disbelieve you," pointed out Daeron.
"Even if he believes that it was a mishap, he may still think that I deserve to be punished."
Or perhaps you're the one who believes that, Father, thought Daeron. Perhaps you're the one who believes that he should be punished for the blow that slew his brother.
In his dreams, he held out his hand towards his father, his bloody hand, his living hand that struck the fatal blow on his brother's skull, the fatal blow he did not, could not, or perhaps would not, remember. He held out his hand towards his father with these unspoken words understood between them, "This is the instrument of death, the instrument of your grief, of the realm's grief. Do with it as you see fit, Father. I am in your hands now."
The dreams always ended before he could see what his father meant to do with that hand, meant to do with him. Was that a curse, or a mercy? A curse, he thought, on most nights. He needed to see, to know.
"Are you afraid of what your father might do to you?" the son he had named after his father had asked, looking and sounding incredulous, as if the thought of his father being afraid of his own father was something Daeron had never contemplated before. "But why should you be afraid of your father? Grandfather is not –"
"Not like me? He is not the kind of father I am, you mean?"
Daeron had not denied this, and Maekar had not replied to his question. His son would not have understood, even if he had given an answer.
He was afraid of his father's mercy, even more than his father's punishment.
He was afraid of his father's understanding, even more than his father's misapprehension.
He was afraid of his father's tears, even more than his father's reproach.
Most of all, he was afraid of his father offering forgiveness, for that would mean that there was indeed something that needed to be forgiven.
"Was his body prepared for burning according to my wishes?"
"It was, Father. Exactly as you wanted. He was not clad in mail and plate, and the visor of his helm was opened, so people could gaze at his face one last time."
"I would have liked to see his face one last time, but Baelor himself would have said that once the soul has departed, the body is only an empty vessel. We will remember him as he was when he was alive – laughing, smiling, calling out for his brothers – not as a body laid out on a funeral bier."
"Do you have nothing else to ask me, Father?"
"You know me, Maekar. I would not ask a question when I already know the answer."
"How could you know for certain, when I do not know myself?"
"You know. If you had not known it, you would not be here standing in front of me now. Had you struck the blow intending your brother's death, I would have lost two sons instead of one. You could not have lived with what you did, if you had indeed intended grievous harm to Baelor. I know, because you are still alive."
"I need a new Hand," his father said, the next day, as Maekar's hands supported his swaying frame when the old man rose from his seat.
Maekar went through the list of candidates he had heard from his surviving brothers and the other members of court. "Valarr is too young. In any case, the focus should be on preparing him for the throne, not foisting the duties of Hand on his shoulders. Bloodraven is … well, Bloodraven. Lord Hightower might not be an ill choice, if you –"
"I was thinking of you."
Maekar recoiled. "I do not want it, not like this. And you will be condemned for the choice, Father. There will be voices baying and clamoring that this is yet another example of King Daeron being too soft, too weak, too forgiving. It would look as if you were rewarding me after I slew my own brother, and worse, rewarding me with the position that used to be his."
"It is far from being a reward. You may even begin to see it as a punishment, being my Hand. It grieves me to lay this burden on you, Maekar, but I need you."
Long ago, he had made a promise to himself to be his father's sword, the sword that could never be stolen or taken away from his father, unlike Blackfyre. "I will be your Hand, Father, if that is truly your wish."