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Choosing Pride

A Lonely Summer - Summerhall

The sky was blue and flawless, the small white puffs mere decorations, rather than threats of upcoming rain. The smell of the forest downhill was drifting up and up, strong and heady. It's strange how I notice it, Maekar thought. As far as he could say, he was the only one who did. It was so different from the stench enveloping King's Landing. He often had the feeling that the smell clogged his lungs as he spurred his stallion and anticipated the joyful moment when he could be high enough above the city to draw actual breath.

He had always preferred Summerhall to King's Landing. To him, it felt like home, the one he had been torn from to be thrown amidst the serpent pit that was King Aegon's court. He could not imagine what he would have done if he didn't have this castle to return to after the insult Aerys had dealt him. He couldn't have stayed at King's Landing, that much was clear. But where would he have gone? He didn't know.

His daughters were already seated when he appeared. Daeron was nowhere to be seen. Probably sleeping a hangover away, Maekar thought disdainfully. The troubling thing was the fact that he didn't even mind anymore – he had come to appreciate the quite mornings where it was only him and the girls. Or the not so quiet mornings, he checked himself, listening to Rhae and Daella chattering away about kittens, gowns and lessons, Aegon who had recently sent a letter from Oldtown – Oldtown! – and everything under the sun.

The mountains of letters that awaited him on his writing table would have made him groan, had he been a man who didn't mind showing his irritation at such tasks. That was the way his day always began, yet there were days when his correspondence was mercifully small. Days unlike this one. He took his seat and reached for the first one with the thought that the sooner he started going through them, the sooner it would be over.

His father had always sorted his letters by the region the known correspondence were from; Baelor had used to go through them without breaking the seals, just to get a general idea of who sent them. Maekar, though, always went through the missives meticulously, starting with the one atop of the stack and finishing with the one at the bottom.

"Are you never curious?" Baelor had asked often many years ago. "Don't you want to know?"

Maekar had only given him a look of incomprehension. "I'll know anyway, is that not so?"

Here, Baelor sighed dramatically and wondered how Maekar could have been born without a spark of curiosity.

Go away, Baelor, he thought now. Leave me alone. Please.

For a moment, he could almost swear that he saw dark indigo eyes, eyes that could almost pass for black, and the slightest hint of mirth behind a mouth that did not quite grin. What? I am not doing anything.

Maekar shook his head to chase the ghost away and his brother agreeably withdrew. He knew where to pick his battles, Baelor. In bright daylight, he was easy to push away. At night, though… That was another thing that he had not considered before leaving King's Landing. There, with Aelinor to anchor and accept him, guilt and regrets were easier to bear. But here, on his own…

The first letter was from Lord Caron. Maekar smiled for a moment, as amazed as usual by the man's many talents. He had never known that someone might be a famed knight, as well as a gifted musician, as well as an able administrator before Pearse Caron grew up. As usual, he was giving his three month report about the state his lands were in – a good one, just like Maekar expected. The Marches had not been quite spared the devastation of the Great Spring Sickness but that has been nothing compared to the horrors of King's Landing and Lannisport, the Stranger's pale mare galloping wherever she liked uncontrollably.

"Dining direwolves," his father said in his head. It felt so strange that his last memory of Daeron would be no farewell, not even an order on what to do next in the afflicted city but a jest. The King had wanted it so. Once again, Maekar was reminded of the last time he had seen him alive. Daeron had come, late into the night, in his solar where he and Aelinor sat before retiring. They had been playing a stupid name game, one they had loved as children… How Aelinor had wept in the night after they had given their father's body to the flames. Even then, as he held her shaking body, Maekar had not found tears in his own eyes. He could not remember when, exactly, he had lost them. Sometime before his tenth nameday, for sure.

The next letter turned his look harsher. Wouldn't those two stop arguing over the damned river already? The clash had started well before Maekar was given Summerhall and it was still running strong. I swear, I have half the mind to dry the river at all and leave both of them with nothing. He left the missive aside, in the tray meant for letters meriting further consideration.

At the first glimpse of the third letter, his heart started beating faster. The dragon seal. As furious as he was with Aerys, he did not want the coldness to last forever. He simply couldn't force himself to make the first step. But a second look showed him that the seal was not his brother's and disappointment shot through him, taking him by surprise as always – he was so adamant that he was not hoping for reconciliation.

For a moment, he was tempted to bury Aerion's letter under all others and postpone opening it. Of course, such a thing would go against his meticulous nature, so he sighed and opened it. His eyes perused the lines, taking them in a single look before inspecting them closer. Aerion felt fine – no surprise here, since he had inherited Maekar's own strong constitution. And of course, he needed money. Maekar grinded his teeth and decided that he did not want to know what in the seven hells the boy had done with his quite generous upkeep.

If he thinks he'll get a single dragon more from me, he's sadly mistaken, he thought. I am done with it. For once, Aerion will have to take care of himself and I don't care how he does it.

His anger disappeared as quickly as it had come. Maekar Targaryen was a man who, having once made his mind, rarely revisited his decisions, unless there was a pressing reason to. Not giving Aerion's predicament another thought, he threw the letter in the tray where unneeded ones were collected. He saw little use of destroying perfectly serviceable parchments, so Aerion's letter, along with many ones, would be reworked, the words rubbed away, and the calfskin used for another record.

I'll have to warn Aelinor to turn him down if he seeks her aid as well, Maekar thought before remembering, with a suddenly heavy heart, that he and his sister were no longer on speaking terms. He was sure that any letter of his addressed to her would meet the same fate Aerion's letter to him did, with the sole distinction that Aelinor would not bother to read it.

On and on the morning went and the stack at last started to decrease. Maekar was just thinking that soon he'd be able to go to out for a ride when the sight of the last letter made his breath catch. This was the royal sigil but the writing… he recognized it immediately. Aelinor might not be good with needle – or she might be, he simply hadn't seen her taking one when not needed – but she could rival any clerk or Aerys himself in elegance of handwriting. But no, the letter was not addressed to him. It was Aelinor's weekly missive to the girls, brought to him by mistake.

Suddenly, another being stirred within him, raised his hand, pushed it towards the sealed parchment that he had left on the table. After all, he was entitled to know what kind of letters his daughters received, was he not? There was a number of years separating them from their tenth nameday. Only the gods knew what King's Landing had turned into those days. He had a duty not to let that rub on the girls.

Slowly, painfully, he forced his hand back. What was he thinking? As if Aelinor would ever write something that might upset Rhae and Daella. He was just scrambling for excuse to see what she wrote, to feel closer to her, maybe. He might be rightfully offended but the two way correspondence with King's Landing was cut off all the same. Now all he received were the official news and rumours everyone else did. Aerys and Aelinor flung his own stony silence back at him. Has Brynden started influencing Aerys even more? Maekar could not give a single reason for his dislike of the man. Oh he could point out a thousand but not one that truly mattered. He simply didn't share his father and brothers' trust of Bloodraven and his covert ways. Magic was a dangerous thing, corrupting those who practiced it. Maekar was glad it had gone away, even with taking the dragons along. Who knew just how far gone Brynden Rivers was? Now, when he was no longer near to see for himself what was going on, he had to rely on the rumours alone – and they were all but soothing! If the gossip about his power over Aerys was true, that could mean a disaster.

Was Aelinor healing? The Great Spring Sickness, on top of Baelor's death by Maekar's own hand had shaken her quite badly. She had become gaunt and quieter than usual. He had heard that she prayed every day to the Mother to bless her with child, yet she was way too clever to rely on the gods alone. She had probably made attempts in another direction… and Aerys had rejected her again. Maekar knew her pride better than anyone. She would never let her hurt show but she certainly felt it, especially now, when she grew older and her chances smaller with each passing day. The thought of the children that had to come, Aerys and Aelinor's children, was quite haunting, yet the thought of them not coming was even more troubling, for both Maekar and the realm. Aelinor needed a child. The realm needed an heir. And Aerys was doing nothing about it, as far as Maekar could say – and he could not say anything for sure because of his isolation from the rest of the family. Once again, he almost reached for the parchment.

He rose and summoned a servant. "Bring this letter to my daughters," he ordered. He wanted the parchment gone before he succumbed to temptation and disgrace himself by reading a missive not meant for him when there was no reason for him to.