a dream of winter's fury // book one // a hunt of stags
Averil II
summary: averil is chronically ill and jaime is very unhelpful about it
warnings: blood, descriptions of infection
word count: 1017
ao3 link
He was bleeding again. Another damned wound under his arm. Whatever blasted disease had begun cursing him at thirteen had not ceased no matter how many tonics he took. And it always came at the worst times, it seemed, whenever he had to pretend he was not in constant pain. At least he had his milk of the poppy. Sometimes he wished he could take enough of the stuff that he’d lose his mind entirely. Better to be mindless and painless than the alternative.
In his tent, he wrapped bandages around himself, watching them soak up with blood and purulence. His nurse rushed in and out, fetching his medicine from one of the supply carriages. Silently, the nursemaid crafted a pot of tea that Averil could savor. He wished it could be paired with pastries and other sweets. That would certainly make him feel more at ease.
The life of a knight means a life without indulgences, Averil thought, before he snorted at the very notion. How many knights had sired bastards, he wondered? The man that trained him had three, after all. Averil’s stomach twisted at the thought of his siblings. And the man who fathered them. In his dreams, he could see Jaime’s golden hair falling in his bliss-stained face.
Averil grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut as his memories began to transition to Jaime’s bedfellow. There was once a time that he thought his mother could do no wrong. The perfect, blonde-haired lioness with fields of blazing Wildfire in her eyes. Oh how things have changed. Averil wished he had different blessings from his Targaryen ancestors; perhaps he could have saved his relationship with his family. And saved his title of Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.
“Here you are, Ser,” the nursemaid said, handing over a cup of medicated tea. She was a pretty woman, with round cheeks like apples and soft, golden-brown eyes. She had her hair up in a cap, but sometimes an auburn curl would fall from the back. She was kind, and treated Averil with great respect.
A rarity, Averil thought, sipping the hot, herbal concoction. She always made it with sugar, just how he liked it. It was kind of her to make treatment more palatable for him. Another rarity, he surmised. A gem in the tangled web of King’s Landing, and, then, the Kingsroad.
Am I not still a spider amongst those threads? He pondered, thinking of his father’s master of whisperers. Varys is the real spider. I am just a stag surrounded by hungry lions.
Like it was on queue, a shadow appeared in front of Averil’s tent. His nurse helped him put his shirt back on, before greeting the guest with a curtsy. Averil looked up, his raven waves falling loosely into his eyes. He winced as he adjusted the fabric around his body, the sleeves rubbing against the bandages and therefore the wounds. Just because he was used to it didn’t make it any more pleasant.
“Your condition never gets in the way of things,” Jaime said, almost in a way that sounded like a compliment. He had his golden armor on, and his hand rested on the hilt of his sword. “It’s a wonder.”
“Spare me,” Averil said, leaning back on his cot. “I don’t need your encouragement or lack thereof.”
“You’re in a particularly foul mood it seems,” Jaime teased, crossing his arms. His white cloak billowed slightly, the evening wind from outside carrying into the tent.
“When am I not?” Averil groaned, kicking his black boots off of his feet and sending them to the ground.
“Whenever you’re on duty. You’re always too focused to be in any particular mood. And when you’re alone with your nose in your books.”
“How would you know what I was like when I was alone?” Averil asked, bristling, his brow furrowing.
“I know everything about my former squire,” Jaime said.
He’s just taunting you, Averil told himself. He’s looking to get a reaction out of you. It took him a long time to realize that was something his uncle liked doing. It took him less time to realize that people in general liked doing it to him. Perhaps it was some sort of game to everyone, to see just how far Averil would go without falling apart. No one had seemed to find his limit yet— at least not in many years. He wasn’t looking forward to the day that someone finally could break through his barriers.
“What do you want from me? It’s almost bedtime. And I’m on reprieve anyway,” Averil questioned, crossing his legs at his ankles and settling into his cot. It was certainly less comfortable than his bed. He could only hope they’d choose to stay at an inn at some point and not just camp.
“You were dismissed rather unceremoniously,” Jaime said. That smile never left his face. It was irritating. “I came to make sure no one had your head.”
Averil blinked. “Is that supposed to be a joke at my expense?”
Jaime scoffed. “You’re not as fun to tease as you used to be.”
“I’m not a boy anymore, you mean. Not innocent and gullible.”
His uncle shifted his weight. “You’re still a boy, Averil. Compared to all the men around you.”
“I’m seventeen. I’m of age. I’ll be eighteen on the eleventh moon.”
“And it is the third moon. And just because you’re ‘of age’ doesn’t make you a man.”
Averil huffed. “And what exactly makes one a man? Bedding a woman? Killing a man? Some divine wisdom?”
“You’ll know when you get to that point,” Jaime said, turning on his heels towards the tent. “Do get some rest, will you? You’re a growing, healing boy.”
Averil would have thrown something if he had the strength in his arms. He would have to settle for a glare, and for falling into his cot. Perhaps the path to becoming a man meant getting some good rest. Gods knew he had never gotten the chance before. He just had to pray that his night was dreamless. And bereft of pain.
