#did rhaegar learn the “healing magic of a child's lips” from rhaella? you betcha

[syndrossi]

As requested by @textbookchoices, a fluffly ficlet of Daemon with a headache being taken care of by the twins. Takes place some indeterminate time a few weeks in the future.

x~x~x

The only thing worse than listening to Reyne drone on endlessly was reading his whispers gathered from informers around the city, which somehow managed to be more useless than even that. Rather than bother attempting to consolidate them into a summary, or even remove those unrelated to the Forked Spears, Reyne had apparently given him the entirety of a day's collection of rumors.

So now Daemon was more informed than he ever cared to be about a wine merchant's messy affair with his wife's brother and sister-in-law, and how the man had purchased poison from a known peddler in Flea Bottom, but was not yet even a quarter of the way through the rest of the whispers.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and massaged the growing pressure at his temples, feeling the beginnings of a similar throb in the center of his forehead, sharp and radiating outward in tune with his heartbeat. It was then that he realized Jon and Rhaegar's chatter had stopped at some point.

"Eat this."

Daemon nearly lashed out in his surprise, turning the motion at the last moment into the throw of an arm around Jon's shoulder. His son gave him an appraising look, then stuck a sweet roll in his mouth when he opened it to make an apology. Jon then ducked under his arm to hop onto the bench with him.

"You have not had enough water," Rhaegar said to his left, setting a cup down in front of him between two piles of parchment.

"Am I raising maesters now?" Daemon grumbled, once he'd taken a bite of the roll and set it down to sip at the water.

"Have we tried to leech you yet?" Jon retorted. He looked pointedly at the roll until Daemon took another bite.

"I am fine," he said. "It is merely a headache."

His sons looked up at him as one, and he read the worry beneath Jon's dark frown, and the careful study in Rhaegar's gaze. The concern was a newer development these past few weeks, and he was not sure when precisely it had begun or what had merited it. It did not matter how many times he reminded them that he was the parent, they seemed determined to protect him from ills as innocent as a summons deemed too early in the morning.

“We are playing maesters,” Rhaegar said after a moment. “And as your maesters, we say that you must finish a meal, then lie abed.”

“Who am I in this game?” Daemon asked. He was not fooled by his son’s attempt to frame it as a game of pretend, but if he could turn it into something light-hearted and fun for them, then it would not be time wasted.

“You are a prince under a curse,” Rhaegar informed him. “One that saps you of strength when you read too much.”

“That is not a curse,” Jon said drolly. “That is simply the effect of reading too much.”

“Some princes are immune,” Rhaegar replied, almost in a singsong, before focusing back on Daemon. “Now eat.”

Daemon took another bite. “Do maesters not brew terrible concoctions for such ills?”

“You are right.” Jon called for Rolen, who disappeared on a task that suddenly left Daemon fearful of what he had unleashed, but when he returned it was with tea leaves, hot water, and a teapot with several tea cups beside it. “Behold, a terrible concoction.”

Daemon drank the tea, which Rhaegar had sweetened to match his exact preference, somehow. Despite the reprieve from paperwork, however, the headache had settled in, and with the afternoon sun glinting through the windows, it was beginning to crest past unpleasant. He play-acted the willing patient under their examination, but it had become a struggle to hide his discomfort.

“Nap,” they said in unison, each grabbing a hand.

Standing up was as bad as he’d feared. Daemon squeezed his eyes shut, breathing slowly until the spike of agony receded to manageable. His sons had gone silent again, and he breathed an apology, then followed them through slitted eyes to his chamber, where Jon moved quickly to draw the curtains shut.

He was eased out of his boots, belts, and tunic, and Rhaegar stood up on the bed to deftly undo his braids as well, and when Daemon turned to thank him, his cheeks were caught between his son’s hands. “There is healing magic in a child’s lips,” he said with a quiet surety that Daemon half-believed, then kissed his forehead. “Where else does it hurt?”

When Daemon pointed to his temples, each was met with another peck, and as he hugged Rhaegar to him after, somehow the pain did feel lessened. His son bade Jon stand on the bed next to administer his own maester’s treatment, although he looked more self-conscious about it. Daemon kissed his cheek after, murmuring his thanks.

His pillows were pounded and fluffed, Jon with slightly more care than Daemon could tell he wanted to attack it with, but his splint had only just recently been removed, so he appreciated his son’s caution. Finally, he was directed to lie back, only to find that their ministrations had not ended there. Rhaegar perched on the back of his pillow, fingers light on his temples as they moved in slow circles, his son humming a soft melody as he worked.

Daemon found himself growing drowsy as the minutes passed, the darkness a balm. He lingered on the verge of sleep, headache all but faded to background discomfort, when a jolt of fear shot through him, causing the melody to halt as he sat up, heart pounding. “Where is Jon?”

“He is reading your papers,” Rhaegar said, and Daemon only then realized that he’d wrapped his other son in a protective embrace. Once Daemon eased his hold, Rhaegar added, “Shall I open the door so you can see him?”

“No,” Daemon said, willing his heart to calm lest he spook his son too badly. “No, I—”

I sometimes feel as though I might lose either of you, if you fall out of my sight for too long.

Rhaegar slipped out of his arms and cracked the door open anyway, so that he could see Jon turn to them in alert confusion from where he was seated at the table, where the tall stack of parchment had somehow become four smaller ones.

He is fine. They are fine.

He leaned back again, and this time Rhaegar settled against his side, his hum slowly starting up again. The flickering light of the hearth’s fire was a pale orange glow against his eyelids as he closed them, and he found himself turning to his other side, discomfited. That ungrounded fear eventually eased, leaving only the light pressure in his skull behind.

Safe. We are safe.

Then sleep.