Not All Alone Unhappy


It's easier to be wrathful at a thing than an idea. When Maegor strides into the training yard days later, the master of arms throws him into spars hardly after he's warmed up. The man doesn't like him much, probably because he always wins and doesn't pretend that it's the gods or his arms master.

When the Celtigar squire staggers away, numb from fingers to elbow, Maegor feels like the world is slightly righted. Then he sees Aenys.

His brother lounges on a bench with the other squires, laughing at some stupid jest. The fool's chest-length hair is pinned back with some bauble that sparkles in the sun. Probably tied by some useless scullion—they're always fawning over him. The stupid boys know Aenys is a miserable swordsman. Still they like him. Maegor sees now from they way they're standing and laughing that Aenys is telling them a story. His brother has that groundless ability to charm. Maegor could carve up the lot of them; it gets him respectful nods. Not that he cares. Aenys sups on goodwill, not him.

The more he sees, the more he'd rather sup on blood. Then the Velaryon brat shoves him off-balance—he was looking over too long. Bracing, shifting, Maegor grins. The master of arms always yells at him for using more than his blade in common spars. When this boy does too, there's nothing the fool can say. It's over quickly, the Velaryon on his knees trying not to retch up his breakfast.

Like as not Aenys will slap swords with a couple cow-eyed squires, calling it a good day because he's broken a sweat.

"Brother!" Maegor calls, arms wide, sword in hand. "We haven't sparred in months. Favor me."

Aenys' smile goes tight and thin. He can't easily refuse, not with his acquired audience. It's one thing to be a shoddy swordsman, it's another to be craven. His brother has his pride. With a roll of his shoulders and a mummer's grin, he strolls to the center of the ring with his spotless boots and practice sword.

Even if he's gotten a touch faster, a shade taller, he's never had a chance. Aenys' jaw clenches when Maegor's first lunge sends him reeling. He twists back, parrying, keeping his guard decently up. As the spar goes on, Maegor all but swatting the sword away, he finds another reason to grin. His brother has always had a choke-hold on his temper, and Maegor's done a fucking good job setting it off. Aenys' lip curls and he actually tries to hold his own.

The master of arms is yelling something but Maegor never hears it. He pretends to step too wide and unbalanced. Aenys wouldn't take such an obvious lure, but his knuckles are white and his breath is ragged. He lunges. Maegor kicks his ankle out from under him, and cracks his pommel into face. It sends his brother spinning onto his back as he falls.

Aenys' pale eyes are closed. Blood's snuffling over his mouth, between his teeth and down his pretty little cheeks. He feels the blunt edge of the practice sword against his throat, a foot on his ribs, and swallows.

"Yield," he coughs, blood bubbling from his broken nose.

The master of arms wrenches his sword away, calling him brutish, dishonorable…Maegor allows it. He doesn't care enough to take offense. The man's an up-jumped hedgeknight from some little hole called Rosby.

He feels better already as he leaves the training yard without another look. Mother won't be amused, but Rhaenys and Father are in Storm's End with Orys, to plan the new conquest of Dorne. Passing one of the castle's stone statues, he thinks of his own wasted creature. If it couldn't survive an egg, it would've made a worthless dragon.

Near sunset, Mother tells him to find Aenys. She says nothing about the training yard. Now that his blood has cooled, a part of him breathes a sigh of relief.

If Aenys isn't in his chambers, there's only one other place he runs to. His brother has no taste for exploring, but Quicksilver's small glade is just within the forest, a stone's throw from the castle. He asked once why they let the trees grow so close, but Mother only said Dragonstone was too wet to burn.

He walks there at a sharp clip, looking up only when he hears wings. Vhagar. Her blue-gray body blocks the sun when she passes overhead. Mother's dragon never bothers them, but sometimes he feels stupid wondering if she's spying.

Maegor crosses the thin line of trees and stops at the edge of the clearing. No Aenys or Quicksilver, even when Maegor calls his name. Has he found a new place to sulk? Like as not curled up with his pony-sized dragon pup, mourning his broken nose. There's a rustling in the trees; even birds and squirrels don't consider the dragon a threat. If it were his dragon…his fists tighten and he shrugs off his broiling anger. It's not that his dragon will never be another Black Dread, but that it was a stunted weakling all along. Even Aenys' docile pet is stronger.

He shouts his name again. Nothing. "You should thank me!" he yells. "You'll look like you've fought for once in your life."

More birds rustle, along with a creaking sound, like wind buffeting tree limbs. Maegor's neck prickles. There's no wind to shake the branches. But there is a hiss. He whips toward the sound, toward a wide old tree.

Quicksilver perches on a thick limb that groans under his weight. Aenys sits on the dragon's back, his nose swollen and crusted in blood. He has a strange, amused little look on his face. No fucking way he flew up there…then he notices gouges scored all over the tree trunk. His brother's been disappearing to play with Quicksilver for a year. Never saying a word about—

Aenys murmurs a different word and the dragon crashes onto Maegor. His breath wheezes out of him as he falls, pain splintering down his side. Sticks and bones dig into his back, Quicksilver's haunch drives into his hip. It's—fuck!—pressing too hard for him to breathe. Aenys grins.

Fuck if that's the last thing he sees. Maegor scrabbles for a weapon. He finds a rock, smashes it into the dragon's sharp little face. A teeth-jangling screech and the weight rears back from his burning chest. He's rolling free when the dragon bites his shoulder, teeth stabbing and burning at once. Then he's the one howling. Too near his face are Quicksilver's slitted green eyes, his steaming mouth. A wing-claw pins him down. Maegor can at least fight for breath—Aenys has finally tumbled off, yelling in Valyrian.

A roar makes his bones ring. Vhagar crashes into the clearing.

Quicksilver lets go just as Mother's whip cracks across his face, as she calls him unholy names even Maegor's never heard. He has seen her steel-banded whip tear a man's face clean off. Dead leaves sting his eyes as the silver dragon launches into the air. Blood splatters over Maegor's face, hot enough to burn his mouth. Whose blood…?


Maegor refuses to hiss as the needle digs into his flesh. It shuts him up though. How Mother knew, how Vhagar knew…the milk of the poppy's made him too dull to puzzle it. She sits at his bedside, fixing the maester's slipshod stitching. None of his words have made her do more than glance up.

Finally she sighs. "You shamed him in front of the whole yard. Then he found a way to best you. He will be your king one day—"

"He's weak," Maegor growls.

Her eyes sharpen, their violet almost black in the flickering light. "You wish your brother's throne?"

"I…" He can't think of anyone but Father atop the throne. When he thinks of sitting in that ugly chair all day, listening to stupid peasants prattle on about their sheep or lords blathering over a disputed bridge…he wants none of that. Who in seven hells would? "I wish…" His thoughts are jangled and scattered, but Mother's always forced him to finish anything he's started. "…the weaker wasn't the older." It sounds so stupid from his mouth, but it makes him picture Aenys, and that makes his blood simmer all over again. I don't want his crown. I want his…

She smiles a little as she tugs the string through his wound.

"Something you can never change. Don't waste your fire." Her free hand tightens on his wrist, not the bone-grinding way when she's furious with him. "The king does not rule alone. He needs strong seconds. Your father has his siblings. Aenys will have you and Velaena." She looks down at her swollen belly, mouth twisting. "And whatever this thing turns out to be. Liking him has nothing to do with it."

It's over a week before he can walk without groaning. There isn't much to do but breathe deep. Aenys stays well away.

Mother joins him for dinner one night. She's received word Father and Rhaenys prepare to attack Dorne. No slogging through an ocean of sand this time. Rhaenys will fly to Sunspear and offer a last chance to kneel.

"Why offer at all?" he asks, sitting in a chair across from her. "Meraxes and Balerion should burn it and ask the survivors."

Were his mother and aunt's places reversed, Rhaenys would smile that someone agrees with her. Mother scowls that someone shares her displeasure

"Men who kneel on their own—the Northmen, say—are less bitter than ones smashed to their knees." Her neck flexes, frustrated her belly keeps her from the battle. "True enough, were they not Rhoynar exiles. They're too bitter to begin with."

Her fingers trail idly over her stomach. Maegor wonders what it will be.

Nothing, in the end, when it bleeds out a week later. If he were her, he wouldn't want a babe so weak it couldn't even stay alive in a belly. He has sense enough not to say that.

Mother is ashen though, say the servants, even though it's happened before. She won't see anyone. Maegor wonders why, when she can just make another with Father. Turned away at her door by his mother's gap-toothed servant, he almost pushes the girl aside and goes in anyway. Except…he has no idea what he'll see, and no idea what to say.

He finds Aenys on the widow's walk, connecting two towers in the family wing. His brother's precious nose looks reasonably straight, the bruises faded and yellow. He stares at the forest, not the sea, but looks as mournful as any widow. Mother seems not to have punished him though—that makes him angry, that she saw Aenys as having just cause. A part of him wants to rebreak his nose and crack a few ribs, but he breathes a moment until he's reasonably sure he won't.

Instead he scoffs. "You're acting like a jilted milkmaid."

Aenys tenses, sees in Maegor whatever he's looking for, and leans against the balustrade. "I haven't seen Quicksilver in a week."

"Vhagar ate him."

He rolls his eyes. "How is Visenya?"

"Fine, why wouldn't she be?"

He sighs, in a way Maegor almost thinks is a laugh. Why? She's flown into battle and cut down knights in full plate. That's when Aenys straightens, leans further out.

"I think I see him! Northeast." He looks ready to plunge off the balcony as a shortcut. "I don't know that part as well as you…" he trails off in an unasked question.

Maegor barks in laughter. He'll protect his throne. That doesn't involve scavenger hunts or peace offerings.


When he's back in his chamber, he sees a cloaked figure scurrying from the castle. The fool going on a scavenger hunt. He'll make it two miles and turn back from a blister. But later when it's dark, he knows Aenys hasn't returned. It might be the one night no one puts much mind to the crown prince. Servants are too busy with Mother, and the best knights are with Father.

At first he doesn't care. His brother won't die of cold during the summer. Northeast. What's Northeast? Aenys doesn't know the island very well. And now it's dark.

Fuck.

The shale cliffs, he's always called them. They're crumbling and pocked—Maegor's kicked entire chunks into the sea for fun, but he's never taken Aenys. If his brother wanders there, pitiful explorer he is…

Cursing him with every name he's heard Mother say in rage, he yanks on his boots and goes after the fuck-headed idiot. He avoids most of the forest; he knows Aenys would do the same unless he was convinced the little creature was in the trees.

His instincts aren't wrong. The ground becomes crunchier and the sea pounds louder. The moon's large enough he can see decently well. He doesn't miss that stupid feathery hair.

Aenys stands near the edge, looking down—leaning over. That's when Maegor remembers there are little caves set in the cliff face.

It would be easy to push him off. He can't help but think it. Maegor feels the damp wind on his cheeks, imagines how they would feel to Aenys as he plunged. An easier throne to protect.

And yet.

He doesn't not want to, but whatever fickle part of him disagrees, he can't close the distance.

"Damn it Aenys!"

His brother jerks around, a wide-eyed glare. "Or you'll write my mother?"

"You wouldn't be worth the paper even if you'd died," he scoffs.

Aenys' eyes go wider, then narrow, head cocked almost in question. His breath is shallow, his hair a saltwater-tangled mess, still catching a glint in the moonlight. The wind skitters pebbles over the the side.

Craaack.

He can feel when the shale is falling apart or just cracking. Aenys can't. Maegor scowls and takes a cautious step. A small crunch. His brother looks appalled and steps back, his heel an inch from the edge. He's shivering, his cloak gone.

"I'm your next king!" he squawks so raw Maegor wonders what the fuck is wrong with him.

His brother's more scared of him than the cliff. No, that's wrong. Aenys wonders the same thing. An evil, sad little death that would never be avenged, because his reckless heart made him more heedless than usual. The small bit of haze drifts past the moon and the shadows sharpen. Maegor gets a better look at the rocks. Damn his brother. There's pocks and spiderweb-cracks all around his feet. How he hasn't plunged already is wondrous.

And most likely the moment he notices his miracle he'll panic and the whole damn cliff will break off. Just like the time Maegor bullied him into climbing the tree with him. The idiot scaled the branches easy as anything. Then the moment he realized he was high enough to crack his head open, his balance went cockeyed and his limbs went all stiff. Maegor finds it stupid when he loves flying with Rhaenys so much.

Tripping and falling now could land them both in the sea. Or splattered on the rocks. He holds out a hand, earning his brother's bared teeth. Then there's another craaaack. Aenys stiffens.

A part of him doesn't feel much about Aenys tumbling into the sea. Maegor still has to bite back a yelp if he leans against his ribs a certain way. But he's expected to be more than that.

"You are my next king," he grumbles, holding out his hand.

Aenys still hesitates, wondering if it's stupid to trust him. He must've shifted his weight, because the stone crunches, crumbles, and Maegor's breath hisses. It holds, barely. Aenys is lower than before, his face paler than milk. Getting close enough to grab him would just as murderous as shoving him.

"Always."

His brother leaps, grabbing his wrist just as Maegor hauls him close, just as something breaks away and shatters below. Aenys collides with him, an arm hooked around his neck. Maegor hates how fast his heart is beating, and he hates that his brother can hear it. Aenys' cold lips graze his jaw as he tries to stifle a shuddering laugh. Relief. The little idiot has earned—Maegor sputters in surprise when his hot mouth presses against his.

He shoves him to arm's length. "What in hell?"

Aenys laughs like his mind's cracked. Maegor lets go of his shoulders and he slumps to his knees. His brother's almost wheezing when he finally chokes out a word.

"Liar." For all the laughter, his eyes are clear, sharp even. Maegor doesn't understand, and lets the silence grow steely. Aenys finally gains enough control of his lungs to enlighten him. "I didn't know you had a drop of thespian. I almost believed you."

He pieces it together. Throwing his brother off that damned cliff is making his fingers itch again. Instead he scowls. "Believe what you want. You'll wear a crown someday. I'll keep it on your empty head." For all it will matter. Aenys still has a suspicious squint as he stands, dusting off his knees. Scoffing, Maegor drags him closer and wrenches him around. The moon's vantage is better this way for seeing the stones and shadows. "Look," he growls, arm around his narrow waist. "That's where you were standing, you fuck-headed idiot."

Crumbling shale and rock, freshly jagged at the edge. Probably horrified at how splattering over the rocks would ruin his hair, Aenys squirms against him. Maegor's blood is warm, like when his temper boils, but he feels more irritated than furious. He notices they're of equal height now, though he carries far more muscle.

"I saw him," Aenys says softly, still breathy. "That's why I was leaning over. I saw his tail dangling out."

A bit more than irritated. He feels like biting his neck. Instead he pushes away, feeling the wind on his chest again. "Stay here all damn night and write him a love ballad then."