Rowaelin Children Headcanons
So, children are rare amongst the Fae, but as we all know, Rowaelin are Rowaelin.
Their eldest born is a girl with shining golden hair and pine green eyes like her father. She cuts her hair herself- all the better for fighting- and is always covered in cuts and scratches. She inherited Aelinâs fiery spirit and wilfulness, never one to refuse a dare from anyone, least of all Manorianâs son- handsome bastard- and insisted that she train with her parents. She inherited no magic from them, but that didnât discourage her. If anything, it made her more determined to become skilled in most forms of combat, so that she was never considered weak, or helpless. Sheâd run through Oakwald with her Aunt Lysandra, outspeeding her even when Lysandra was in her ghost leopard form. Lysandra treasured those outings. By the time she was 15, she was known as âThe Steel Furyâ throughout Terrasen, both because of her favoured weapon- the Sword of Orynth, given to her by her Uncle Aedion- and because of the flaming temper that rivaled even Aelinâs. Her name was Lyria.
Her younger brother, the second born, was a natural scholar. He had silver hair, just like Rowan, and Aelinâs Ashryver eyes. He had a natural affinity for wyrdmarks, learning the spells as soon as he could read. While he was less explosive than his elder sister, he was the master of sarcasm. Just imagine a snarky silver-boy being chased through the halls by a furious-looking Lyria swinging a club. That was a pretty common sight in the Castle of Orynth, much to everyoneâs amusement. Dorian had a particularly soft spot for him, and theyâd be seen in the Library of Orynth, both poring over the books, and comparing their favourite reads. Aelin would frequently join them, wailing that Dorian had replaced her for her son. His name was Sam.
The thirdborn, albeit having Rowanâs silver hair, green eyes and dark tan skin, was in every way Aelin. He inherited her magic, the endless well of fire, and everywhere he went, heard the title âHeir of Fireâ. He once asked his mother what it meant, and she only smiled sadly. He would relentlessly explore the palace grounds, looking for abandoned hideaways and secret passages, which he found an abundance of. He was usually joined by Lyria, but she would get bored and go to hunt down another beast. Usually, heâd escape to the hideouts he found to avoid Aelinâs insistence that he learn how to control his fire. An accident during his younger years involving his flames had resulted in a scar that ran down the left side of his face, from his temple all the way down his neck. He had no intention to use the fire ever again, or ever learn to control it. He enjoyed pulling pranks on his siblings, usually joined by Fenrys, while Rowan turned a blind eye and chuckles as he set up the traps around the castle. Heâd be long gone when a piercing screech followed by an âIâll kill you!â echoed through the castle, hiding in one of the secret passageways. Fenrys would frequently ruffle his hair and help him plan the pranks. His name was Connall, and Fenrys sometimes even saw some of his brother in him.
The youngest child was everyoneâs favourite. Her eyes, blue as the summer sky, would always be sparkling with joy. She never brushed her hair, letting it stick up around her face like a silver halo, and loved more than anything else when her father picked her up and swung her around. Her magic, inherited from Aelin, was her water affinity from Mabâs line. She never practiced it extensively, but was always the one to take care of Lyriaâs cuts and bruises from sparring. Aelin would almost weep with pride at the sight of her tiny girl, sternly talking to Lyria about the alarming rate at which she got hurt. Lyria would profusely apologise, prompting a glowing smile from the tiny fae child. She loved pretty dresses just like her mother, and would always warn Rowan against crumpling her dress with a glare when he picked her up. Heâd then press a kiss to her forehead and ruffle her thicket hair. Aelin named her Marion.
Aelin would treasure the moments when she could just relax with her family, book in her lap, Rowan leaning into her side with a hand on her swollen belly, children squabbling around her. Her being here, them with her, it was all proof that the war was behind them. Theyâd won. They were happy. But that still didnât stop her waking suddenly in a cold sweat, terrified that it was all another one of Maeveâs illusions.
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