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The torches in the corridors had burned low. Ashford Castle did not sleep, not truly - servants moved in whispers, guards spoke softly at their posts, somewhere below a septon prayed - but grief had laid its hand over the stone like a heavy blanket. Egg stood outside his father’s door barefoot, the ornate Myrish carpet cold beneath his feet. He had tried to sleep. He had failed; the pyre of Baelor Breakspear would be built at dawn. He was the blood of the dragon, and had to have his end written in flame, like his forebears. Preparations had to be made, and he had not seen his father all day.
Egg lifted his hand and knocked once. There was no answer. He knocked again. Inside, something shifted. A chair scraped against stone. Then his father’s voice, low and worn thin. “Enter.”
Egg pushed the door open. The chamber was lit by only two candles and a dying fire. Shadows climbed the walls and pooled in the corners. Maekar Targaryen stood near the hearth, still half-dressed in black - no doublet, only a linen shirt unlaced at the throat, sleeves rolled, as though he had begun to undress and then forgotten why. He looked smaller without armor. Older. There were fresh bandages at his ribs. His hair was ruffled, pale gold threaded through silver. His beard caught the flickering candlelight. He did not ask why Egg was there; he simply looked at him.
“You should be asleep.”
“I know.”
Neither moved. The hearth crackled softly. Outside, wind dragged along the shutters. Egg stepped fully inside and closed the door behind him. Maekar’s gaze lingered on the boy’s bare feet. “You’ll catch a cold.”
Egg swallowed. “I don’t want to sleep.”
Maekar’s jaw tightened faintly. “Sleep will come whether you want it or not.”
“Not tonight.”
That earned him a look - not stern, not sharp. Just tired.
Maekar crossed to the table and poured wine into a cup, though he did not drink it. His hands were steady tonight. “On the morrow,” he said, voice low, “the realm will watch how we burn him.”
Egg’s throat closed. Maekar did not look at him when he spoke again. “He should have been king.”
“You should not be alone tonight, Father.”
Maekar’s hand stilled on the cup. For a moment, silence stretched long between them. Egg’s words had broken something; not loudly, not visibly, but still. Maekar turned then, slowly. The candlelight caught the hollows beneath his eyes. There were lines at the corners Egg did not remember seeing before. “Come here.” It was not a command; Egg went.
Maekar knelt - stiffly, carefully, his ribs protesting - until they were eye to eye. Up close, Egg could see the red still in his father’s eyes. Could see that he had not truly slept.
“You are too young for this,” Maekar murmured.
“I’m not,” Egg said stubbornly.
Maekar’s mouth twitched - faint, almost unwilling. “You are,” he said gently. “And I would give much for that to remain true.”
Egg reached out; he had never done this first. He placed his hand against his father’s cheek. Maekar went very still. The beard was soft and warm beneath Egg’s fingers.
Maekar did not pull away. For a heartbeat, he simply knelt there - a prince, a warrior, a son who had lost his brother - and let his youngest child’s small hand rest against his face.
“Father?” Egg said after a long while.
“Hm?” Maekar shifted slightly, despite himself, and drew in a sharp breath as pain flared up beneath his ribs.
“I want to squire for Ser Duncan.” The words were quiet. Careful. But they did not tremble. Maekar did not respond immediately.
“I know he’s only a hedge knight,” Egg went on. “I know he hasn’t got lands or banners or fine armor. But he stood when others didn’t. He stood when it would have been easier not to.” Egg swallowed. “He stood for what was right.”
Maekar’s arm tightened fractionally. “You think that makes a good knight?”
“Yes.”
“And you think that is enough?”
Egg hesitated. “It is for me.”
A ragged sound torn between a sigh and a laugh escaped Maekar’s chest. He rose then, slowly, joints stiff, and moved toward the bed. He did not command Egg to follow.
Egg came anyway.
Maekar sat heavily at the edge, then lay back with deliberate care. “Your uncle stood for what was right as well,” he said quietly. “It cost him.”
After a brief hesitation, Egg climbed up beside him. For a moment they lay apart, both staring at the dim canopy overhead, then Maekar turned slightly, very slowly, and opened one arm. Egg moved into it at once. The embrace was not desperate. Not frantic - it was steady. Maekar rested his chin briefly atop the crown of his son’s head.
“He would have been proud of you,” he said quietly.
Egg stilled. “Uncle Baelor?” he whispered.
“Yes.” Maekar swallowed. “He watched you, Aegon. He saw how you listened. How you stood. He told me once that you possessed something rare.”
Egg’s fingers curled into the linen at his father’s chest. “What?”
Maekar’s voice lowered. “A heart that does not harden easily.” The words broke slightly at the edges.
Egg pressed closer. “I'm scared,” he admitted.
“I know.”
“I don't feel brave.”
Maekar’s hand moved slowly over his head. “Bravery is not a feeling,” he said. “It is a choice.”
Silence again. Outside, the wind keened faintly along the tower walls.
“In the morning,” Maekar murmured, “we give him to flame.”
Egg nodded against him. “And then?” he asked.
Maekar’s arm tightened just a fraction. “Then,” he said softly, “we carry him with us.”
Egg did not answer; he only held on. Maekar closed his eyes at last. “You are my son,” he said, barely above a whisper, as though reminding himself.
“And I am proud of you.” The words seemed to cost him everything. Egg’s breath hitched.
In the dim chamber, beneath old draperies and flickering candlelight, a grieving prince held his youngest child as though he might anchor himself there. Sleep began to claim Egg at last. His grip slackened slightly, though he did not let go entirely. Maekar looked down at him. In the half-light, the boy’s dark Targaryen eyes were half-lidded, lashes heavy. So small, still.
“Aegon,” Maekar said, his voice rough. “I will speak with Ser Duncan on the morrow.”
Egg’s eyes fluttered open again. “Truly?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
Maekar brushed his thumb once over the curve of Egg’s cheek. “If you are to go,” he said quietly, “you will go with my blessing.”
Another sigh escaped him, ragged and tortured. “Though gods know I should be keeping you.” His voice faltered, hoarse and small, hardly more than a whisper. “After losing Baelor, I should be keeping you.”
Egg blinked hard, fighting sleep and tears alike. “Can I stay tonight?”
Maekar studied his youngest son carefully.
The question was so small it scarcely seemed to belong in the chamber of a prince. For a heartbeat, Maekar could not answer. The wind pressed against the shutters. The fire shifted in the hearth, embers collapsing in a soft sigh.
“You are staying,” Maekar said at last, voice low and rough. “You have not left.”
Egg made a faint, tired sound that might have been relief. Maekar shifted carefully despite the ache in his ribs and drew the boy closer, pulling the heavy coverlet up around his shoulders. Egg’s body was warm and slight against him, all bone and stubbornness and breath. “You need not ask,” Maekar murmured. “Not for this.”
Egg’s fingers tightened weakly in his shirt, as though to test the truth of it. “I don’t want you alone,” Egg whispered again, though his voice was fading.
Maekar closed his eyes. “I am not alone,” he said, and this time he meant it. He bent his head and pressed his lips to the crown of Egg’s shaved scalp - not a prince’s gesture, not a measured one, but a father’s. Egg exhaled slowly, the fight going out of him at last. His lashes lowered fully. His breathing deepened, uneven at first, then steady. Maekar watched him. Watched the way sleep softened the crease between his brows. Watched the small rise and fall of his chest beneath the blanket. Watched as one hand, even in dreams, remained tangled in the linen at his heart.
The fire answered with a faint crackle.
“Gods help me, Aegon,” Maekar whispered into the darkness. “You are not a thing to be kept.”
His arm tightened around the boy, careful, protective. “Nor would your mother forgive me if I tried.”
Outside, somewhere deep in the castle, a bell tolled the passing hour.
Maekar lay awake long after. He counted his son’s breaths. He felt each one against his ribs like proof - proof of warmth, of life, of something the world had not taken from him. When Egg shifted in his sleep, seeking him, Maekar curled slightly despite the pain and sheltered him closer, wrapping himself around the boy as though grief itself might try to steal him before dawn.
The bell tolled once more in the distance. Dawn would come soon enough; the pyre would be built, the flames would climb, the realm would watch, and Baelor Breakspear would burn. Maekar’s jaw clenched in the dark, and for a moment the grief rose so fierce it threatened to break him - a madness of sorrow that made him want to tear stone from stone and call his brother back from the fire.
Instead, he lowered his brow to his son’s and closed his eyes. Almost, he could have let his boy go. Almost. Maekar had never feared steel. He had never feared battle. But this, this yielding, frightened him more than any blade. In the darkness of his bedchamber, with his youngest son pressed into his side, he found himself unable to overcome this intense flurry of fear and grief that threatened to drive him mad.
“You will not wander hedge-roads like some forgotten boy,” he murmured into the hush, so softly the words barely stirred the air. “If Ser Duncan will have you, he shall come to Summerhall.”
Egg made a small sound, half asleep, not understanding. Maekar’s hand tightened faintly at his back. “You will serve him,” he went on, voice low and iron-bound even through the ache. “But you will not be far from me.”
Outside, the wind pressed against the shutters again, and somewhere deep in the castle a guard coughed. Maekar closed his eyes.
“Gods forgive me,” he whispered, though whether he spoke to Baelor or to the woman he had once loved, even he could not have said. “I will not lose him too.”
Egg’s breathing deepened fully then, small and steady against his heart.
Maekar held the boy and listened to the dark. For a heartbeat, grief surged again - wild, senseless, mad. Baelor in the mud. Baelor’s blood on his hands. Baelor stepping between, as he always had.
Maekar shut his eyes against it. He saw his brother as he had been - calm where Maekar was hard, patient where Maekar burned. Strong enough to yield when yielding was needed. He saw Dyanna too, as she had stood in Summerhall’s gardens years ago, sunlight in her hair, telling him gently that love was not possession.
Baelor would have let the boy go.
Dyanna would have let him go.
They would have been strong enough.
His arm tightened around Egg despite himself. “I am not,” he whispered into the darkness. The admission was small, but it cost him more than any command he had ever given.
“I am not strong enough.”
Egg shifted in his sleep and burrowed closer, one hand curling instinctively against Maekar’s heart. The simple trust of it undid him more than any battlefield ever had.
“Forgive me,” he murmured - to Baelor, to Dyanna, to the gods who had taken them both. “I cannot lose him too.”
Outside, the bell tolled again - slow, solemn, counting down the hours until flame. Maekar did not sleep. He lay awake in the dark, holding his youngest son, and knew, with a clarity that hurt, that others might have been brave enough to let the boy ride away.
But he was only a father.