As Laenor approaches the room where his daughter's teachers are sparring, he hears the sound of good natured quips and whistling steel. Quickening his pace, he enters the room. Walking to Vissie, he settles beside her.
"How are things going?" he asks. She sends him a frustrated look.
"Ssshhh, Kepa," she says. "I'm trying to focus!"
Laenor bites back a laugh and turns his attention to the duel unfolding before him.
Breo is on the offensive, it seems. He advances swiftly upon Bello, sending blow after blow, but that is not to say he outmatches his uncle. In fact, he cannot land a decent strike. Bello side steps and weaves around him, and his grace astounds the heir to High Tide. They are moving swiftly, and for a good fifteen seconds, Breo's arm is a blurr. Despite his speed, his uncle continues to evade him.
Bello sports an exhilarated grin. He doesn't look tired or worn, though a light sheen of sweat has broken out across his forehead, and his brown eyes blaze. It is obvious he is not outclassed in this match, and Laenor wonders why he does not go ahead and attack yet. If his goal is to wear his nephew down, to frustrate him, he wagers his plan is working well already.
Then, Breo feigns to the right, and then swiftly draws his arm back to jab left, and Bello is forced to parry. The sound of clanging steel rings out. Laenor watches as the blonde-haired Braavosi grins smugly. "You're getting old, Uncle!" he taunts.
The heir to High Tide swears he can see Bello's eye twitch. He responds with a gruff suggestion to save his breath, and they're back at it, with Breo, again, on the front foot.
But then something changes.
Laenor isn't sure what it is, but suddenly, Bello's expression goes from exhilarated and focused, if somewhat irritated, to satisfied. He bursts forward with an energy not seen before, and now it's him gaining ground.
Breo is faster and stronger, by the looks of it, but Laenor notices that his uncle is more agile. He thrusts once, twice, and side steps before feigning up and then jabbing at his nephew's side. The tide has shifted, and Breo's expression grows increasingly more nervous, but it is the look Bello dons that catches Laenor's attention.
Here, with his blade in hand and his body coiled while his eyes blaze with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away, he could be the Warrior himself. Sweat drips down his brow, down his throat, and the lean, sinewy muscle of his chest and forearms ripples. Breo stumbles, and Bello lunges. The tip of his blade catches an arm and blood is drawn.
And, oh.
With blood splashed against his cheek and his bared teeth looking like fangs and his dark curls mussed, Bello is positively feral. He and his blade are one in the same- he's a storm, a torrent, a force of nature. As he pushes his nephew to his last legs, he looks as if he belongs in a great song. He is a beast and a god and a hundred other things all at once as he forces Breo to his knees, blade pressed against his Adam's apple, and Laenor is enthralled. As Bello glares down at his nephew, chest heaving, a line of sweat slides down his cheek to the curve of his throat. The heir to High Tide follows it, watches it trail further until it pools at his collar bone, and his heart skips a beat.
"Does an apprentice surrender?" Bello asks. Breo grunts in assent, and he flops onto the floor beside him. Gradually, his features smooth back out until he's the calm, amicable man from before.
Laenor wonders how it is that this man and the one he saw just a moment ago are the same person. It seems impossible. Bello rises slowly, turning to approach Vissie and himself, and the fabric of his tunic rises up. The skin of his stomach flashes and the heir to High Tide averts his eyes quickly, feeling, foolishly, like a boy again.
Bello sports an easy smile as he makes his way over, the lines around his eyes crinkling. He bows to Laenor before turning his attention to Vissie. "What did a princess discover?" he asks. Vissie looks down at the parchment before her.
"You're right-handed," she says, "And Breo is the opposite. He's stronger than you, but you're more agile. I'm not sure who's faster." She goes on with a few more things. Bello rubs at his chin.
"These are not bad observations for a novice," he says, "But there is room for improvement. A man, his apprentice, and a princess shall work on this together."
Laenor can see his daughter's fists clench and winces in sympathy- she so hates imperfection. He pats her shoulder in solidarity, and says, "It seems you did well, little one. Take your victories where and when you can."
Bello glances at him at that and nods approvingly. A bit of pride ignites within him.
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That night, Laenor and Rhaenyra dine with the children. Vissie's mood has lightened, though she still looks irritated, and Luke and Joff eye her warily. Aemon is here as well, attended to by a nanny.
"Give me my son," Laenor says to her. She curtsies and does as he bids. As the weight of the little prince settles into his arms, he looks down. His son- his third son, he thinks fiercely, not his first- gurgles happily upon seeing him, and tiny little fists wave about. Laenor smiles back. He has been busy helping with Rhaenyra's duties upon Dragonstone as of late. As the Lady of her seat, she has both a lord's responsibilities and his wife's, and it wears on her. So recently, he has taken it upon himself to prove a worthy consort and help her. That means, in turn, that he has had less time to be with the children old enough to walk about and visit him, much less his youngest.
Rhaenyra, who is sitting next to him, smiles, likely thinking about the same thing. They wait for a moment as the meals are brought out, and then Laenor reluctantly returns Aemon to his caretaker.
The conversation between Rhaenyra, Luke, Joff, and himself had not been easy. They had been alarmed by the prospect of Vissie using blades, had almost turned on one another in the process. Laenor winces at the memory. Because of this, his wife thought it important for them to have supper together, to see that their sister was perfectly fine, and that they should not fight.
As it stands, the boys are at her side, Luke on her right and Joff on her left, and both stick to her closely. Laenor's heart hurts as his daughter curls into the both of them as much as she can. Whether she is trying to comfort them, herself, or both, he does not know.
Rhaenyra opens her mouth, and before she can say anything, the heir to High Tide grips her hand in his. "Say nothing of the training," he advises lowly, "The wounds are too fresh, I think. Simply let them see that she's alright, and have them come to their own conclusions."
His wife pauses for a moment, lips pursed, considering. Then she nods slightly in acknowledgment.
And so the supper passes in a fragile sort of peace. Luke is not curling into himself and Joff is not spitting and Vissie is not helplessly trying to help both her brothers at the same time, and Laenor considers that to be an improvement from before.
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Laenor sees Bello the next day before Vissie's next lesson. It's early in the morning, and he's been restless, so he walks about the castle while few people are up. The Great Hall is already accessible, so he enters quietly. The Braavosi is sitting in a corner with a mug of ale. His plate is loaded with cheese, buttered bread, and some goat meat, which is a usual here on Dragonstone, and as he wolfs down his food, the heir to High Tide wonders how such a wiry man can eat so much.
Bello notices him quickly and moves to rise.
"Please," Laenor says, "It's too early for such things. Worry not about them." The other man smiles.
"Would a lord like to sit?" He points to a place on the bench beside him. Laenor accepts the offer and he shifts to accommodate him.
Here in the flickering candlelight, he catches a better view of Bello. He is not the most dashing man to ever walk the earth, Laenor thinks, but he is handsome all the same.
He has high cheekbones which are prominent against his pale face. His eyes, a light shade of brown that looks more like amber as the light hits them, are almond shaped, smile lines and stress lines both around them. His mouth is small but his lips are full, and they twitch upwards as Laenor's eyes dart to them. His nose, long and upturned, is crooked and slanted at a queer angle- from a break, or two, or three, no doubt- but it adds a rugged sort of charm to him, especially with his stubble.
Yes, Bello of Braavos is no god amongst men, but he is attractive all the same. The heir to High Tide's stomach flips.
"What are your plans concerning my daughter's training?" he asks. Bello places a hand against his cheek.
"A man was thinking of, for the first part of the day, telling her what to look for as he and his apprentice sparr, and then for the second taking her to the town below to have her grow acclimated to it. Then she can begin to learn how a setting helps in a battle, and a man can look for optimal places to train her in this."
Laenor hums in acknowledgement. The plan sounds good. A thought occurs to him. "Why do you speak that way?" he blurts out. Bello raises an eyebrow and he feels heat creep up his neck. He hastens to explain. "As far as I know, the Braavosi don't speak in the third person."
His companion takes a gulp of ale and then licks his lips, gathering his thoughts. "A man's father hailed from Lorath," he says after a beat of silence. "He grew up with time split between there and Braavos, and as such took upon the speech patterns. Now, it is also a way to honor a man long gone."
Laenor winces. "I'm sorry for your loss." The words sound weak. Still, Bello smiles. "There is no need for a lord to apologize." He waves a hand. "He did not know."
"You said you grew up in both Braavos and Lorath," Laenor says, curiosity piqued. I want to keep him talking. "As a boy, I did not travel from Driftmark all that much, and even now, the furthest I'll go is King's Landing and Dragonstone. Tell me, what was it like to move so frequently, especially as a child?"
Bello's face positively lights up.
For a long while, he speaks softly, the velvet of his voice filling the Great Hall apart from a servant here and there. Laenor is perfectly content listening with rapt attention.
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Laenor has duties he has offered to help Rhaenyra with, so when he's done conversing with Bello, he goes to the solar his wife had made for him and gets through it as quickly as he can. Vissie will be busy, he thinks, but that does not mean I cannot spend the day with my other children. The work- some ledgers and food stores the steward has gone over and a few smallfolk issues (though those are handled mostly by the Princess of Dragonstone)- is tedious, so he makes sure to be , when he's done, he makes his way back to his chambers and pulls on clothing suitable for braving the winter weather.
As his family breaks their fasts , his wife looks at him with bemusement. "Where are you going to dress so?" she asks.
"I'm taking Luke and Joff out today. A break from their lessons, if you will. They'll play outside and wrestle and race around like regular children."
She frowns. "It is cold outside. They could catch a chill."
"They're healthy and hale," Laenor rebutts, "And the sun is out. We'll wrap them up in thick clothing and set fires for them to sit by, and they can take some time from being princelings to be boys."
"What happened to you stressing over Aemon being outside?" Rhaenyra asks this, but he can tell she's warming to the idea.
"Aemon is a babe," Laenor replies. "Luke and Joff are older and stronger."
Just a moment too late, he realizes his wording. They grimace at the same time, and he thinks about how utterly terrible that sounded.
"Please, Muña," Joff whines.
"It will be good for them," Laenor whispers.
Finally, Rhaenyra cracks. "Very well," she says grudgingly. "But I shall join you." Their older boys whoop.
"Luckies," Vissie complains. They stick their tongues out at her and she kicks at their ankles. They squawk.
His wife's shoulders begin to shake at the sight and he is right there with her. They throw their heads back and laugh and laugh and laugh until the children join in and the room is filled with joy.
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A/N: I don't really have much to say about this chapter tbh. You get Targ/Velaryon family angst/cuteness next chapter from Rhaenyra, who we haven't gotten a POV in a while, so there's that. I hope to make it longer than this chapter. While it wasn't absurdly short, I dislike how I can't even seem to hit 2.5k words.