I enjoyed this episode. It was quite entertaining. I’ve lowered my expectations so… yeah. I like the fact that lthe conflict was more political than litteral fighting on a battlefield, which reminded me of the pre-dance intrigues I loved so much. It seemed a bit superficial and theatrical at times (the banquet and giving food to the smallfolk).
Yes, the characterization is definitely lacking, especially for Alicent who litteraly is a new character at this point. The Daeron stuff was ridiculous. But hey. They’ve erred so far from the book that I expected it at this point.
It was nice to be back in King’s Landing to see Rhaenyra being confronted to the role she’s longed for years. I like following her point of view.
My man Corlys was rightly upset, I was like girl- that man gave up everything for you, show some compassion.
I also noticed the vaaaast amount of foreshadowing – tb it was a bit heavy handed but they’ve got to install so many things… That show definitely needed more episodes per season.
Special mention to the scene where Rhaenyra sees Jace in a hallway, it was so devastating to see him again. I am absolutely not ready for the rest of the show. + Tessarion was so gorg.
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Hotd requests are open by the way! You can check my pinned post 🔗 for more informations. I also write for the entire asoiaf universe.
someone had to speak about the total chaos under hotd characters tags it's like you can found all the show characters except the one you searched for :)) !
Summary : Princess Daella makes you an offer you can’t refuse. Your stubbornness almost takes you to an early grave but thank the sevens, Prince Maekar is here for you – with a frown and clenched jaw – but here nevertheless.
Note : class difference, post ashford, hurt/comfort, maekar x female reader (no physical descriptions), slow burnish, impossible love, age gap (he’s mid forties/reader is around 33), book spoilers.
“Your new preceptor ?” You incredulously repeated, wondering if you had heard right.
“When my grandsire gifted me this harp, he expected me to play it for him someday. I’ve let it gather dust for too long…” Prince Daella replied, guilt evident in her big, clever eyes.
Then, he sadly died, never to hear me play a single note. Also, Father keeps badgering me about performing in front of the court for King Aerys’ nameday. The realm’s most influential lords and ladies will be in attendance, and, even though I have such a short amount of time to prepare, I think I might succeed with your help.” The Princess confidently told you, words pouring out of her like a Riverland stream, her slender arms crossed as she leaned against a bookshelf. “Well, I’d rather read, write, or garden, but it seems not a skill dashing enough for a noble lady who makes her debut at the royal court.” Daella said, huffing. Her lavender eyes rolling so hard you thought they might get stuck while you observed silently, stunned that she even deigned to explain all that to you.
“Why me ?” You asked, pulling at the collar of your dress, which suddenly felt too tight. You were burning up in that maid attire – was it you or just the sunlit room ?
“I heard you the other day, as I was right next door, in my solar. I thought that for some reason, my preceptor had come back to practice for his own recitals. Thought that he finally had stopped being such a joyless old man : he always plays those old pieces that bore me to no end… The way you played – I see now that it doesn’t have to be so rigid… So controlled. Perhaps I might learn better from someone who isn’t making me hate the instrument I’m supposed to be a master at before the end of the year.” The Targaryen Princess explained, barely able to look you in the eyes while fidgeting with a strand of her hair, body leaning on a leg and then the other.
“If you must know, my Father had the same idea I did and came to me first, not knowing I was about to suggest the same thing. That way, you can be reassured that no troubles will come from him. Of course you must tell no one. I mean, with you being a maid and all that. No offense, but people would talk.” Daella explained innocently, looking at you from the corner of her eyes.
“None taken, Princess.” You replied with a small smile. She’d need more to offend you.
“I have to be honest, your situation as a maid must stay the same ; your pay won’t increase very much. I thought that perhaps the surplus we used to give to my old preceptor could go to the reinforcement of the Summerhall Guard. Ill weeds grow apace, is the saying, and some have grown too wild lately.” The Princess told you with a knowing look, her hands clasped behind her.
You shifted in your seat at the thinly veiled allusion to that guard, remembering Eldyn’s ominous warnings. The movement sent a jolt of pain into your injured arm. Since that day, your palms had healed well thanks to Eldyn who had recommended you use salt. You should have used some on your arm, as it kept getting worse each day – you could barely move it now. That morning, you had been barely able to even get up from your mat.
“Indeed, Princess, they have. Do what you must.”
You did not care about the gold – not truly. No amount of gold coming from the Targaryens could have ever bought back your titles, lands, and castle. Moreover, you weren’t about to bicker and stupidly miss out on such an invaluable opportunity.
Being able to play the harp again, to spend time away in this study, teaching the niece of the King… It was enough. Brilliant. Impossibly fortunate for someone in your position. Almost too good to be true. Thinking about it made you flinch.
“So, let’s begin then ? You have a lot of work upon your hands…” The Princess affirmed unceremoniously, still not knowing your name.
“Rivers.” You told her. A bastard’s last name for anyone born in the Riverlands. Your name. The truth of you.
“You want me to call you that? Are you sure ?” The princess asked, trying to be sensitive while taking a tentative step toward you. You nodded, lifting your gaze as you stood in front of your new student.
“Yes, it’s my name.” Better own it, you thought.
Daella smiled, shrugging her shoulders lightheartedly before going to sit on the little footstool you had noticed a few days ago. She sat on it and looked at you expectantly, waiting for you to start your first lesson.
You marked a pause, feeling faint while standing still, arms fidgeting with your apron. A scared part of you wondered if keeping the hard yet simple life you had managed to create for yourself was perhaps wiser. It might have been strenuous, but at least you had a newfound sense of stability, and found comfort in knowing what the next day would look like. Should you keep your head bent, avoiding trouble ? Or, if you chose the unknown, accept getting closer to the royal family and all the troubles that might come from it. What if that opportunity backfired on you ? What if you failed in teaching Daella the harp in only a year ? All the blame would go your way… And wouldn’t a baseborn maid and preceptor attract ill attentions ? Jealousies ?
The Princess visibly thought that she could keep this a secret, but didn’t she know that in every wall, rats were watching from every single crack in the stone ?
Indecisiveness was paralyzing you.
Then, appearing from nowhere, the memory of Maekar Targaryen came to you – dressed in his armor, standing at the foot of the castle tower, eyes locked with yours after beating the man who had hurt you. The vividness made you gulp. The shade of his hair, the glint of moon on steel… Why had he- no, you could not refuse this new hand of cards. And if things ever went sour, at least you’d have tried.
“Your posture, Princess, your- your arm is too rigid, and you are leaning forward too much ; this can strain your back.” Your voice was a bit unsure, a bit tight at first. The Princess listened to you, all ears, waiting for your next instructions.
This young woman of twenty years old could have been a dragon-rider if she had one, and you, yes, you, were teaching her something.
“Loosening your wrist would be better, and angling it this way too, yes, like that…”
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The lesson was done, an hour spent correcting the Princess on basics she had been taught wrong. Well, not wrong per se, but not fitting for her. She’d been taught by a perfectionist, someone who made her sit up as straight as a stick, who wanted her to play each note exactly on time, without any thought, any feeling, any heart poured in her pieces. The result was clear, technically correct, but flat, with the lack of passion that would make an audience tear up ; that leaves a trace, that makes hearts beat in unison while listening.
You had seen her eyes widen in surprise as she played, feeling and hearing the stark difference between a perfectionist, too controlled of an approach and a less constricted and more authentic way of playing her harp. Of course this was just the beginning, but the moment had been impactful, and you had felt her enthusiasm grow as you kept guiding her.
It was not traditional, deemed an extravagance even, for a noblewoman to step out of the traditional, rigid frame of playing. Yet, you knew deep down that the Princess would have ultimately failed under the constricted care of her famous preceptor. Daella seemed like a very observant and shy young woman who would only open up and show her colorful personality in the comfort and safety of her space. In the past, not knowing her at all, she had appeared very different when you had crossed her path. You had even thought her cold and pretentious, which couldn’t be further from the truth.
You wondered if her father was the same : guarded and cold in the eyes of the court and then very different when the door closed.
Your instincts told you that yes, he wasn’t the cold-hearted man everyone claimed he was. Even the other night, when any members of the court could have seen him, he had been sort of chivalrous, nodding to you as if to tell you that yes, the brutish guard had been dealt with.
No matter what everyone said about him – cold, distant, gruff – he had not seemed incapable of warmth when his eyes had been fixed on you. He wasn’t adored by the crowds, wasn’t as popular as his brother Baelor once was, but at least he was respected by all.
Many of your peers felt safer now that he had come back from King’s Landing. There would be fewer people who’d dare to act like they answered to no one.
“Rivers, that chandelier isn’t going to shine by itself – no matter how long you stare at it. Use those idle hands, otherwise you won’t have bread with tonight’s gruel. Again.” The housekeeper scolded you while dusting a row of vials, an irritating smile plastered on her austere face. “Maester Alwin’s instructions were to be done by the hour of the wolf. He hates it when servants linger here while he’s away. If he loses anything, he’ll accuse you of it ! And trust me, that old scatterbrain loses everything. ”
Housekeeper Briggs, who was in charge of the maidservants, was still harsh and demanding but thank the Sevens, she was less tyrannical and mercurial since the effervescence of Prince Maekar’s arrival had died down.
“Of course, as you wish.” You laconically replied, mouth speaking out of habit. You shook your head, trying to ignore your faintness and nausea.
“Are you well Rivers ? You look clammy, sickly... More than usual, that is.” The housekeeper asked, examining you from below. Thanks, what a pleasant exchange.
“Hmm, this room’s stuffy, that’s all. The southern heat gets to me.” You replied flatly, trying not to lose your calm.
Taking your soft cloth, you painstakingly descended the ladder and dipped it in the bucket of ashes before going back up.
While polishing the silver chandelier, you eyed your distorted reflection after each stroking motion, staring back at your tired and pained face. You had to extend it to reach some crevices, and even if you changed sides, the throbbing gash made you wince when you moved a certain way. It wasn’t deep, nor wide, but it had become hot and burning, turning your entire arm swollen and red. You had complained to that kitchen maid who sometimes helped other servants when they had a cut here or a problem there. She had given you herbs and spices to put on the wound, but obviously it hadn’t given you any relief.
“When you’re done, don’t forget to sweep the fall out and light those wicks before closing the door. The key is on the desk. Understood ?” The older woman instructed you after she was done putting some dried, boiled wrapping cloth in some baskets. The old Maester only trusted her when it came to cleaning his shelves.
“Yes, housekeeper Briggs.” You said, trying not to sound too faint.
The older woman wished you a good night before closing the door, which made you roll your eyes, knowing you were far from done. The old Maester had given you two hours to clean his office from the ceiling to the ground.
“Old cunt.” You cursed loudly now that Briggs had left.
The door to Alwin’s study opened at the same time and you fully expected the old Maester to barge in. Most nights, the man went to bed early – in case someone ever required his expertise during the night. But tonight, he had apparently made an exception.
A bright head of white hair erupted from the doorframe.
It wasn’t Maester Alwin.
Prince Maekar Targaryen halted right in his tracks when he noticed you – you, standing in the Maester’s private office, perched on a ladder like a night owl with ashes in your face to complete the picture.
“You.” Prince Maekar Targaryen acerbically said at your sight, almost vexed by your presence, nose slightly crunched and eyebrows even more furrowed than usual.
Your heart missed a beat, throat suddenly too tight to swallow the sour taste his reaction had just left in your mouth. Bitter disappointment filled you. Hadn’t he nodded at you with intent a couple of nights ago ? Hadn’t he told his daughter to take you as her new preceptor ?
“My Prince.” You ludicrously bowed, making the ladder shake. Losing your balance, you felt yourself fall. The Prince took a large step toward you and stabilized you by grabbing your calves in his two hands of steels.
“You foolish girl, do you want to break your neck ?!” The Targaryen man admonished you, his mask of constraint thrown out the window. You were grasping the chandelier, looking at the top of his slicked blonde hair hovering near- oh.
Now somewhat stable, you hastily stepped down, grabbing the wooden handles of the ladder while feeling your face burn in embarrassment.
“Sevens-” You yelped as you descended the ladder with the grace of not a swan, but rather a boar, wishing for nothing more than to vanish away from Maester Alwin’s claustrophobic room.
Your feet finally touched the ground, but the edges of your vision suddenly darkened, small bright spots accompanying a new wave of nausea. Your knees buckled without warning, and once again, Maekar caught you, this time unknowingly grabbing your injured arm.
“Oh fuck !” You swore, all sense of propriety and etiquette annihilated by an excruciating, blinding pain. You almost fainted on the spot. “My arm ! Let go-” You screamed out, doubling over.
You felt something at your waist, taking you somewhere, calling for someone, telling you something.
The next thing you knew for sure, is that you opened your eyes, arse sat on a comfortable but old, dusty armchair, the face of a kneeling Maekar Targaryen in front of you. He had rolled the sleeve of your gown, revealing the red, pus-filled, swollen and nasty looking gash. His eyebrows raised in unison and he gasped in shock at the poor state of your forearm.
You felt ashamed, terribly embarrassed. Why ? Because that’s all you were made to feel these past few months. Shame every time you saw your reflection in a mirror, every time a Lady of the court looked at you with distaste, every time Briggs reprimanded you after you had worked tirelessly – every time someone said Rivers like it was poison in their mouth.
“Sorry. Don’t bother...” You whispered, mind half gone somewhere far. “This is beneath you, my Prince. I’ll- I will-“ You couldn’t find your words anymore, but felt like this wasn’t something he should have concerned himself with. This was undignified. Dirty. And so, despite the faintness, the exhaustion and the pain, you tried to get up and roll down your sleeve.
“Maester Alwin will be here very soon so don’t move or else I’ll call my guards to pin you to this chair, if need be.” Maekar Targaryen told you with a completely serious face, eyes blinking as he observed you, seemingly ready to get up and fetch said guards. He’d do it, you knew.
“I’ll wait alone. Don’t trouble yourself with me, my Prince.” You whispered, using precious strength.
“How can I trust a woman whose arm is a day away from rotting to do the sane thing and seek the help she needs.” The Prince replied, trying to control his anger, lilac eyes narrowed at you in exasperation.
In that moment, the whole situation suddenly seemed ridiculous and your crystal laugh echoed in the small room, the sound so weirdly foreign now. Maekar looked at you as if you had grown a second head, a snarky eyebrow raised at your antics before he rolled his eyes.
He got up and leaned on Alwin’s desk, his ringed hands supporting his weight against the unpolished wood. From time to time, he looked at your forearm before his eyes darted toward your face, as if to verify that you were still awake.
“Why do you care ?”
The words had escaped your mouth before you could put them back in. Inhaling sharply at your impulsive mistake, you lowered your gaze, too scared to see disdain written again on Maekar’s face. Tongue clicking against the roof of your mouth at your own lack of self control, you waited for his reaction, gut tangled in apprehension.
“Your father was a smart man. A great man, even. Disinterested, wise, reliable… How could he make such grave mistakes ?” Maekar asked, obviously not expecting you to answer. Eyes downcast still, you felt tears threatening to fall. “He should have known that remarrying would put you at risk eventually – why didn’t he give your hand in marriage ? I wonder.” He spoke as if you weren’t there, his deep voice suddenly devoid of its usual prickly, sarcastic edge.
“Must you say it ?” You internally cried out, teary eyes slowly raising to meet his with such cutting defiance and overflowing emotions, that you felt your jaw shake on its own. “Must you fiddle with the knife that is still plunged in my maimed heart ?” You wished to tell him with your gaze, your face tense and full of thunder.
Maekar’s mouth slightly parted at your silent response, hands loosening their hold as he straightened.
“Speak freely.” The Prince ordered you, intrigued by your reaction. You shook your head, unamused by his sudden curiosity.
“Well, your Grace. Don’t you think he tried ? Don’t you think he did everything in his power to protect me from his past actions ? Guilt, anguish, and regrets took him to an early grave... See, no respectable man wanted to marry a bastard, and the only one who did were not worthy of being sent to the Night’s Watch ! After the great spring sickness eradicated half our people, he had no gold to spare in a generous dowry, he- he didn’t want to give his firstborn daughter to some violent lunatic !” You exclaimed, inhaling as you put your free hand over your beating heart. “No one ever let him forget the terrible mistake he made all those years ago...” You finally admitted, feeling your anger turn into sorrow.
“Trust me, I know what that is like.” Maekar said mournfully, getting up and turning his back to you.
Oh. Surely he meant what happened with Baelor. You had heard the tale when it happened – some, mostly rebels, would spread rumors in all of Westeros of “Maekar the Kinslayer”, “The bitter, jealous man who, with a swing of his mace, had killed his brother in a fit of rage”, all of it lies and propaganda at the Prince’s expense.
The Targaryen lord wiped his face with his hands and went to the door, knocking on the wood with his rings.
“Well, what the fuck is Maester Alwin doing ? Has he gone back to the citadel during the night ?! His Prince requires his presence, not the fucking milkmaid !” Maekar bellowed through the door, frustrated to no end. You heard a guard’s noisy armor clink as he sprang into action, leaving his watch to find the Maester.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“Mind your tongue.” Replied Maekar without pause.
“You told me to speak freely.” You replied as fast, shrugging your shoulders in feigned ignorance.
“Do not mistake my leniency for weakness, Rivers.”
“Then answer me, my Prince. Being uncharitable to the sick is a great sin.” You taunted him, voice cracking, suddenly feeling both freezing and burning.
Maekar crossed his arms defensively, angling himself away from you, and answered only after marking a pause, which you interpreted as him trying to find the most appropriate response.
“Why wouldn’t I ? You were harmed by a guard under my command. If he thought himself able to hurt you, it means I’ve failed in some ways.” He wasn’t looking at you, but you were.
“Is that the only reason ?”
You wished you could say that this tomfoolery was an effect of the fever, but you did not have any strength left for such a lie – and you were never a liar.
Maekar turned ever so slowly, almost sinisterly, in that barely lit, cramped, windowless study. His cold, harsh stare had darkened, eyes narrowed in a slit as those of a defensive snake – or dragon in his case. You could see in his tight jaw and white knuckles how outraged he was at your improper behavior, at your audacity. Still, there was a glint in his eyes, an edge he wasn’t able to conceal, a hint of envy at your lack of constraint – at the freedom you were suddenly allowing yourself.
The door opened with a crashing sound that made your head pound.
“My Prince ! Forgive my tardiness ! I was away at the stables – a mare-” Maester Elwyn cut himself to breathe, perching his withered hands on his shaking knees. He looked in worse health than you, face red and drenched in sweat, panting, apparently at the brink of passing out.
“Her arm is festering. Take care of it.” The unimpressed Prince said, his mask of regal superiority instantly back on, though his fists were still balled up at his sides. Old Maester Alwin nodded fervently and comically limped toward you.
Perching some kind of goggle on his hairy nose, the old man leaned forward, still out of breath, inspecting the wound while mumbling to himself.
“Why didn’t you come sooner, girl ? Had you waited for a day or two, that nasty cut could have killed you in a matter of hours. You’re feverish already.” He scrunched his nose, crinkling his eyes to take a look at your clammy face while touching your forehead. You had nothing to say and stayed silent. They were both right. You should take better care of yourself in the future and stop being so stubborn.
Then, without preambles, the man pinched your good arm. Of course, you yelped, snatching it away. Maekar took a step forward.
“Don’t move, wench ! I’m trying to help you.”
“By pinching me ?!” You accused the old man, thinking him daft. The Prince was watching the exchange from behind, eyes on your arm.
“See, impatient girl, how the skin stays pinched up instead of retracting normally. It means that you are in dire need of water and rest.” Maester Alwin declared while pointing at the skin that did in fact stay pinched. Again, you chose silence.
“I will do what I can, my Prince, but she might be useless for a couple of days.” The old crock seriously inquired as if you were a commodity, turning back toward Maekar to see if it was alright with him. You rolled your eyes, irritated by his rude choice of words.
“Better useless for a few days than dead, don’t you think, Maester Alwin ?” Replied Maekar, his deep voice dripping with unenthused sarcasm. “Before I leave, your presence is required at the guard’s barracks tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, of course my Prince, of course...” Repeated the man, making himself small – which he already was. He was very thin, almost gaunt. Next to him, Prince Maekar looked as tall as those illustrations of northern giants, the ones you’d seen in the encyclopedias you used to read often as a child.
“Heal her.” The Targaryen Prince ordered, his words final and almost a warning. Without another look, he left, closing the door abruptly, the movement sending a wave of air that smelled like him your way.
Leather, a bit of sweat and some masculine fragrance – clean, distinct but not empowering.
The old Maester went to pick a vial filled with something that looked absolutely putrid, and when he came back in front of you, uncorking the bottle with a popping noise, he looked at you with a watchful, intrigued expression.
Ignoring Alwin’s suspicious staring, you drank what he gave you, gagging at the atrocious taste. You assuredly found yourself thankful when later, the Maester started to clean your wound with a salve that burned more than salt ever could.
When he was finally done with you, the sun had started to rise and you had slowly drifted into fevered sleep. At first, you dreamt of a white dragon with lilac eyes, of night owls wielding maces… Then the fever intensified and when your father appeared to you in a dream, standing by your side with his hand in yours, a tear or two rolled on your burning cheek.
Hi guys! I sincerely hope that you enjoyed this new chapter, it was quite long to edit but I finally managed to finish it! What do you think of Daella’s offer ? Did you like the second part with Maekar ? I had a blast writing it (especially when they bicker like an old couple lol) Tell me what you think!
As always, if you want me to tag you, do tell me ♡ here is my masterlist and requests post if you’re interested for more.
tag list 🦢: @saltycomicsparentingfish , @evyiione , @bbblackmamba , @theprophaecy thanks for reading!
🦋 Alirium of Naath. No other shade. The lines are distinct as if drawn with quill. They are said to cause death to people around them while living but so far I remain alive. - Helaena's journal 🦋
Chapter 3 of uncaged hearts is written but I need to edit it still so it will come out either tonight if I power through or tomorrow for sure! thanks for reading xx can’t wait for episode 3 of hotd to come out btw
Summary : Lying on your strawmat at night, the day’s events won’t stop replaying inside your head. To add insult to injury, the summer heat is so intense that you decidedly can’t find sleep. Trying to find a little respite from the tepid air, you get up, not knowing that you are about to receive an ominous warning from a new familiar face. Then, you catch Maekar doing something unexpected and sleep definitely escapes you for the rest of the night. But this time, you can’t blame the southern heat for it.
Notes : maekar x female reader (no physical descriptions), slow burn, impossible love, class difference, age gap (he’s mid forties/reader is around 33), spoilers. Warnings : mentions/allusions to assault and abuse (nothing graphic), depictions of violence, era/canon typical behaviors.
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The heat was sweltering and inescapable, like nothing you’d ever experienced before. You felt your skin burn and your thin nightgown was uncomfortably sticking to your skin, already drenched by sweat.
Sleeping on a simple strawmat thrown to the ground, with seven other girls scattered all around the small dormitory, you turned and tossed, trying to find a position where you could maybe get some sleep. Some of the girls snored, others groaned, or sighed in frustration from time to time.
The window was open, but no air was coming in through the bars. Stone walls and ground were still warm to the touch, holding on to the hot, blazing heat the sun had brought all day upon them.
A girl was sitting near the window, her face hidden by the darkness. You could only see her pale hand, lit by the moonlight filtering through the barred windowsill. She was trying to fan herself with a rag she kept spinning in a circular motion.
After a while, unable to find sleep, suffocated by the bodies and the humid, tepid air, you decided that you had enough and that you preferred to sacrifice your precious sleep for a small respite from the heat.
Discreetly, you got up quietly, trying your best not to disturb the girls’ sleep. Some of them woke before dawn. You stepped over arms, splayed hair, legs, and bodies, agile and focused to avoid walking on anyone.
When you reached the window, you glided against the wall, wincing because you caught yourself with the same arm that guard from earlier had rammed in. It was sore and achingly stiff and your palms stung painfully, making you clench your teeth as you tried to repress a gasp.
Now that you were near the other woman, you saw her face – with great surprise, you realized that she was the redheaded young woman that had helped you earlier. Your brows furrowed while you eyed her, having not expected her to be here at all. She had never slept here before. Perhaps she was new and had changed position ? You wondered. She had looked like a farm girl, not a maid…
But obviously she had been allowed to be here for some reason, otherwise the headkeeper would have never let her in.
You wanted to thank her but hesitated – she did not spare you a glance even though you sat at arm’s length from her.
Gathering your hair with your hand in a bun, you let the thinnest, barest of breeze cool your nape and back, sighing in discomfort.
Even during the hottest summer in the Riverlands, you had never experienced such hot and humid weather. At least the temperatures were bearable at night. And, during the day, the lakes, vegetation and lush forests would provide shade during the day.
“This guard, don’t let him get near you.” A voice suddenly said, startling you out of your memories of green, mossy bark, of wildflowers and rivers singing as water flowed through rocks.
“What ?” You repeated, wondering if you had dreamed the voice, her words ringing through your ears without making sense.
“The guard. Don’t. Let. Him. Get. Near. You.” She enunciated slowly, as if you were slow, apparently exasperated by your lack of attention.
You were puzzled by such a statement.
You hadn’t let him near you – the man had crashed into you like a boulder and had the audacity to spit at your feet. Still, unease and anguish rose in your heart. She had warned you with so much seriousness and gravitas.
“He’s a horrible man, so no, I don’t plan on getting near him anytime soon.” You told her blankly, laying your bare legs down on the stone. Indeed, you remembered the dark anger in his voice, the hatred and disgust, as if you were a cockroach standing in his path.
“He’s taken an interest in you for a while ; I just feel it. You should leave your position.” The redhead told you mournfully, a grim expression plastered on her face.
“Leaving ? For that ?” You snorted gracelessly. “If I had to leave a place every time someone had humiliated me, I’d have fallen from this side of the world already.” You whispered back, chuckling sadly.
“Listen, I saw that look on many a lord’s face when I was still serving in the Pikes – they looked at those noble ladies with anger and a little of something else.” She looked at you briefly before averting a pair of eyes that looked like they had seen too much already. “You don’t have to believe me, but just remember that men can be terrifying creatures at times, some of them scare me more than krakens, especially that one.”
Her words felt like a punch in the chest, her sinister admission leaving your breathless, your mouth parting as you imagined the worst. She had to be wrong. She had to.
“I’m both a bastard and a maid who scrubs the floors and washes stains out of frocks and bedsheets. I’m covered in soot and dust all day. Perhaps that brute just hates me and everyone that does not have enough gold to make him behave. But thank you for your concerns nonetheless.” You tried to convince her as much as you did yourself. A half-sleeping girl grunted, shushing you, before turning away.
“Don’t be sot. Please. We’re no fools.” She accused you, shaking her head before bending her neck back to let her skull rest on the stone. “No. We’re not. But I’ll keep my eyes open.” You said, your breathy voice almost inaudible as you angled yourself toward the window, leaning your upper body on the sill.
The moon was high in the clear sky, the dark aquamarine canvas pebbled with bright silver stars. From your tower, you could see and hear the guards guffawing in one of the castle’s yard below, talking crudely as they ate and drank.
“You are far from home now, just be careful.” The redheaded young woman reminded you as if she knew everything about you already. Her tone was a bit softer, more empathetic. There was something in the way she seemed so sure of herself, as if she could read you like an open book without even having met you before.
“What is your name ?” You asked your comrade as you grabbed the steel bars.
“Eldyn. You ?” She asked in return, coming next to you as she looked at the sky.
“Rivers.” You told her simply, this time without shame and fear.
She nodded, and the two of you looked at the men who had stopped patrolling to talk, torches glowing in the light.
“How do you know those things about me ? About him ?” You asked, hoping for the truth.
“I sense things. Some people have such darkness shrouded in their heart… That man-”
Suddenly a door was roughly opened outside, in the yard, and something shone under the moon, bearing the same pale, silver shade.
You heard a powerful voice shout, the authority and richness reaching you despite the height and distance. Then, the clean, sharp sound of a slap echoed. Both you and Eldyn leaned forward, clutching the bars and pressing your gleaming faces against them to get a better view.
Prince Maekar was savagely lambasting them and Sevens you were thankful that you weren’t one of them in that moment. The Prince was enraged, throwing the guard’s bottles of ale against the walls and kicking the now empty wooden plates they had put on a makeshift table. He pushed them around, his own guards in tow, waiting for orders behind him. He pointed a gloved, accusatory index at them, before waving his hand in dismissal. The handful of guards scattered like rats to their respective posts.
Strangely, only one had stayed. Maekar Targaryen forcefully pinned the only one left against the tanned stone walls of his castle.
“Look ! It’s him ! That guard who hurt you !” Eldyn exclaimed, a hand on her mouth, earning a curse from one of the women behind you.
You were speechless. Elated.
A large grin formed on your face as you watched Prince Maekar push the guard against the wall once more with the strength of a bear.
You were looking in awe, unable to stop yourself from chuckling in agreeable disbelief.
“Will the two of you shut up ?” Someone frustratingly asked, in their good right.
“Sorry.” Eldyn and you said in unison, trying not to make more noises. She sat back against the stone, holding her laughter in while hugging her curvy frame while you kept watching Prince Maekar with bated breath, smiling with eyes wide open, scared you’d miss anything. You saw the Targaryen Prince hit the guard before he released him suddenly, as if touching him had tainted him. The dark-haired man stumbled to the ground, scared, just like he had done to you this very morning.
You hadn’t discerned the words he had told the guards, but you had a good idea what he could have said. These were the men that were supposed to guard his seat in his absence. His daughters. His people. And here they were chattering, drinking ale and eating like pigs instead of staying alert, knowing rebels were only waiting for a moment of weakness to infiltrate a breach.
As you clenched the bars and pressed your head once more, rejoicing in the sight of the ruffled guard who fled the yard with his tails between his legs, you saw Maekar regain his serious composure. He wiped his brows, trying to catch his breath. Suddenly, he turned his head toward you, fast and precise like a hawk, leaving you no time to hide – to pretend like you hadn’t seen a thing. Like you weren’t observing him like a bird perched in its cage.
And no time to hide your wide, thankful smile.
He looked at you for what must have been less than a minute, but time seemed to have stretched as the two of you stared straight at each other. You in your thin shift, with your hair down, strands clinging to your temples, hands gripping the bars. Him in his Targaryen armory, poised but still red with rage, out of breath, eyes anchored in yours.
There were worlds between you now, but a few months ago you could have eaten at his table. He would have called you my Lady and would have clapped politely and perhaps complimented you for your skill with the harp. And that guard- that guard would have been long dead or maimed – if your father had been merciful on that day – for daring to spit on you, hurt you and insult you.
But now – oh, now…
Maekar made a few steps toward the bottom of the tower you were in, and ever so slightly, nodded his white head of hair toward you.
Forehead still pressed against the warm metal, your hands instantly released their hold on the bars in disbelief. You felt no prickling pain in your palms, no aches in your arm.
You weren’t hot anymore, nor sore, nor tired ; but your heart was pounding against your ribs like a wild animal, sending rushes of blood in your entire body.
Something of a foreign kind was furiously burning in your chest, and, still aware of his intense and piercing gaze on you, you had the boldness and gall to nod back.
How much of his anger was spent in your name ? You were in no position to affirm. In truth, it didn’t matter.
A part of him had defended you. You.
Prince Maekar licked his lips in a flash, eyebrows creased as always, and turned around while adjusting his collar. Then, he talked to one of the knights that followed him and made a sharp, swift turn to go toward the path that led to the ramparts.
Before you could see him disappear, his broad and tall silhouette muddled by the dark and distance, you could have sworn that he had taken a last look toward you.
That night, no sleep ever came to you, and not for the next few nights either.
Hi guys, I hope you enjoyed this second part, please tell me what you think! I love a righteous/protective Maekar so the end of the chapter kinds of reflect that. Part 3 is in the works btw, if you want me to tag you, do tell me ♡ here is my masterlist and requests post if you’re interested for more.
Summary : After your beloved father passed, your stepmother exiled you, stripping you of all titles and riches. Forced to become a maid at Summerhall in order to survive, you try to bury your painful past. The task seems almost impossible, especially in a castle where your status of bastard is thrown in your face at every corner. But when Prince Maekar Targaryen, brother of King Aerys I, catches you playing his daughter’s harp, your fate is once again about to change into something unforeseen – but will Maekar Targaryen bring you salvation or another ruin ?
Notes : part 1 = 4.5k words, female reader (no physical descriptions), aged up maekarlings, slow burn, impossible love, class difference, maekar x you, age gap (he’s mid forties/reader is around 33), spoilers! (set after great spring sickness) Warnings : mentions of abuse, physical violence, grief, trauma, insults, awful stepfamily, era typical violence.
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𝐘ou were standing in front on the ceiling tall bookshelf, eyes roaming in wonder along the countless spines of thick volumes while holding a bristle brush in one hand and a bucket of dirty water in the other. The metal handle was digging in your palm, the damn thing heavy enough to make you lean on one side, like a dead weight pulling you to the riverbed…
212 AC, Aerys I is King of the Seven Kingdoms, crowned after the Great Spring Sickness. Maekar Targaryen is not named Hand of the King, the title going to his bastard-born uncle, Brynden Rivers, known as Bloodraven. Insulted and feeling betrayed, the Prince decides to leave King’s Landing and goes back to his seat : Summerhall Castle. His youngest daughter Daella, twenty, is the only one of his children still living there at court…
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𝐘ou were standing in front on the ceiling tall bookshelf, eyes roaming in wonder along the countless spines of thick volumes while holding a bristle brush in one hand and a bucket of dirty water in the other. The metal handle was digging in your palm, the damn thing heavy enough to make you lean on one side, like a dead weight pulling you to the riverbed.
Once – in a life that seems foreign nowadays – you had a bookshelf of your own. Oh, not as extensive, of course, not as impressive, yet precious to you all the same
You still had delicate hands back then : unmarred, with elegant almond shaped nails and all soft skin. You used to turn pages with a graceful finger, peacefully seated at your desk, words coming alive under candlelight until you couldn’t stay awake any more.
And now – now, you could only look and grimace at the pitiful state of your poor hands. Your nails were uneven and lined with dirt. The skin of your palms had become calloused and your fingers were now littered with a constellation of tiny, scattered scars from the past months of labor.
Never in your wildest dreams, or nightmares, would you have imagined that you’d end up here – disowned, exiled, working as a maid at Summerhall castle, especially in the service of House Targaryen, far from your lands and people.
Yes, you had been a Lady once, of high birth at that, well-read, deemed a true beauty, and, most importantly, cherished by your father. The only ally you ever truly had.
Destined for greatness, you had all the qualities most noblewomen longed for. You could have been married to a powerful Lord, even a Prince – if only…
If only you had not been born in bastardy.
You had learned the hard way that no beauty, no grace, no lively spirit, no wits, nor gold could ever make anyone forget, forgive, such a terrible, egregious flaw.
Indeed, you had learned the hard way, when your step-mother, in accord with her father and children grown, had made you decide between the silent sisters, death or exile. Your dear father’s body was barely cold, the marble grave freshly sealed, when you were thrown out, left to fend for yourself with the clothes on your back and your mare as only mean of traveling.
The woman had birthed the legitimate heirs to keep your father’s lineage and name going and now that the Lord of the castle wasn’t there to temperate her hatred of you no more, to remind her that you were his firstborn child, loved all the same, there had been no one to stop her - to protect you from her.
All the estate and heirlooms of an old and noble house were left in the care of a greedy stepfamily, happy to dilapidate and take over lands and people they did not care about. It repulsed you – the betrayal. The blood and sweat of your ancestors spent in vain. You tried not to think about it, but here at Summerhall, you were constantly reminded of the life you once had, not so long ago.
“Rivers, If you want a slice of bread with tonight’s pease porridge, you better keep those hands busy.” The housekeeper snarled at you from behind, taking great pleasure in rebuking you.
On a tranquil day, the woman was already harsh and prickly, but now that news of Prince Maekar’s arrival had reached Summerhall, she was impossibly unforgiving, and even cruel.
“Of course, as you wish.” You addressed her blankly, repeating the sentence she had instructed you to reply with, trying to repress your simmering anger by biting the inside of your cheeks.
Taking a last, mournful look at the books, you forced yourself to turn away, walking out of the royal library while feeling the housekeeper’s penetrating glare sending daggers at your back.
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There was a yard, outside the kitchen, always busy with carts, horses neighing, working hands walking from one side of the castle to the other as a shortcut or going down the path to the farms, crops and stables.
Putting a hand on your brows to shield your eyes from the placating southern sunlight, you stepped out, the sound of gravel satisfyingly crushing beneath your worn boots. There was a corner in the shade where everyone threw dirty water down a pipe that must have lead somewhere. It reeked like one could not believe but at least it wasn’t far.
Blinded by the summer sun, you walked slowly, trying not to splash the water on your freshly washed clothes.
“Move along !” A somber, gravely voice suddenly erupted from your left side. You barely had the time to lift your head, before a heavily armored guard intentionally collided into you with such strength, that you landed three feet from where you’d just been. His purposeful strides and forcefulness had been so great that when his extended elbow had rammed into you, the edges of his armor had slashed the fabric of your gown, digging in your forearm’s flesh. Your left side had taken the brunt of the shock, the impact violently maling you stumble backward and launching you in the air before you fell in the sharp, hot gravels. He had knocked your breath out of you, leaving you dizzy and confused as you stared at your scratched, bleeding palms. Of course, the bucket of dirty water had landed in your lap, further ruining the rough-spun, grey-blue dress and white apron.
You silently gasped in shock, panting.
The guard did not stop but instead slightly turned his head and spat before walking away, his long, dark, wavy hair floating in the air as people hastily made way for him.
You were still on the ground, completely stunned yet enraged and humiliated as everyone stared at you. Some with pity, some outright mocking. Hot tears welled in your eyes as you painfully picked yourself up from the ground, dumbfounded, staring at the silhouette of the towering, armored guard. He did not spare you another glare while he audibly snickered before disappearing behind the corner of a tower. He was surely going to the guards’ barracks, you guessed, wiping your bleeding palms on your side, the painful friction making you wince.
That man was as tall as he was brutish. Was he just a Knight ? Or was he also a commander of the guard ? Where- where is the chivalry ? The mercifulness and aid toward more vulnerable than him ? You wondered, questions piling in your mind while you managed to catch a full breath, coughing as air entered your lungs.
The yard was busy, as always, but not overcrowded. There had been plenty of space for him to step away. Or, if he truly thought himself too important to move out of his way for a servant, he could have afforded you enough time to do so.
Around you, people went back to their tasks as if nothing had happened while you held your injured arm close to you, still stunned as you looked around like a lost child waiting to be found. No one had said a word to the guard, not even that tall and broad baker who always lifted huge sack of grains ; nor did that young lass who worked in the sables, with arms as thick as one of those horses’ neck he cared for.
How could you blame them ? That man might have killed them right then and there if they had uttered a word, spilling blood for nothing. Those men had wives and children dependent on them. You were no Lady, not any more. No one would intervene to defend your name and honor now that there was nothing to be gained from it but hurt.
Servants and smallfolk learned to bend and keep quiet, to endure and fend for themselves. One had to – if they wanted food to fill their bellies with, a strawmat to sleep on and a roof to shield them from summer storms. There was no charity for the poor. Not after the plague. Not during a drought. Honor and chivalry wouldn’t feed hungry mouths.
“Get up, girl.” Suddenly said a young woman who was walking toward you. She must have been around your own age and the both of you well past the age of a girl. Like you, she must have been around thirty. Putting down her basket of eggs on the ground, she sighed loudly and then roughly brushed the back of your dress. “Put some salt on your hands, there’s shite everywhere on the ground.” The redheaded farmhand told you as if she was annoyed at the mere sight of you, a frazzled mess who was on the verge of exploding. Her face was hard and full of unbridled annoyance. There was a knowing glint in her eyes.
You send her a curious glare, heaving breaths flaring your nostrils while you used your sleeve to wipe tears that were so very hard to contain. You wondered why she was helping you when she looked like she wished she was anywhere but here, actually helping you.
She did not look away and neither did you.
After a brief moment where the two of you stood still and silent, gauging the other in a wordless match, eyebrows creased and eyes narrowed while examining each other’s face, she picked her basket dramatically and left, audibly mumbling to herself.
Having regained your wits, you looked around, suddenly feeling exposed.
Leaving the busy yard, you hurried back to the kitchen and decided to head the advice of that peasant woman. Lathering your cut palms with sea salt, you clenched your teeth so hard you feared they would break, groaning and gasping while the atrocious burn of salt on raw flesh traveled as far as your shoulders.
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After a long day of sweeping, of making beds and scrubbing, you had finally thought that you were done, but no, of course not. The housekeeper had ordered you to go to Daella’s study – a servant had apparently fainted because of the sweltering heat and a tray had exploded into pieces after landing on hard stone.
Though you theoretically should have been done with your day of work now that the late afternoon had come, everyone else was busy because the Prince of Summerhall was coming back in a matter of days now and you had been sent to clean the mess.
Pearls of sweat dripped on your temples while you knocked, apologizing before announcing your presence. You were met with plain silence and there was no guard standing at the doors either, indicating that the room must have been vacant.
Softly, you opened the door and closed it behind you.
The smell of parchment, polished wood and beeswax permeated the air, the smell reminiscent of better days, so comforting and pleasant that you closed your eyes briefly, inhaling loudly a couple of times.
Opening your eyes after the briefest of respite, you observed the study – it was composed of two adjacent rooms, separated by a wide wooden arch. The walls were made of dark polished wood and the floor was made of uneven but beautiful, grey stones. One side was dedicated to receive a small gathering of the Princess’ closest Ladies as well as a harp, half-hidden by a painting easel, the two arranged in front of comfortable armchairs and a small table. The other room had a desk and massive, ceiling tall bookshelves, filled to the brim with a wide array of vastly different things. From strange mathematical instruments to rampant plants, from drawings to carved sculptures of dragons, exotic artifacts and more importantly, an overflowing amount of parchments and books.
Through her collection, you could see how peculiarly creative, curious, open-minded and bright Princess Daella must have been.
It was extremely impressive and surprising for a Princess of twenty. You surmised that her Father must have been quite uncharacteristically tolerant toward his youngest daughter. He was known to be strict and rigid and few Ladies of such high ranks were allowed to indulge in their thirst for knowledge. Generally, they were encouraged to marry and give heirs, to perfect the boring embroideries they had been accustomed to produce and perhaps entertain their skills at singing or dancing for the numerous feasts they were always invited to.
Your father had indulged you too in the past. He used to say that your mother was a free spirit as well : like you, she enjoyed music, reading, writing… Though he promised to reveal her identity eventually, his death killed any hope of ever filling that void. And now, you were here, dustpan and brush in bandaged hands, in this simple but intimate room – so much so that it felt like you were overstepping and intruding by being here alone. So, taking your brush and rusty dustpan, you crouched toward the broken glass, the smell of sweet tea still strong enough to make you salivate. You carefully picked a piece of glass between your fingers, putting it front of your eyes and in the direction of the tainted windows. letting the filtering rays of the afternoon sun shine through the amber hues of splattered tea.
The same color as father’s eyes, you remarked, warm and rich like honey.
Sadness gripped your heart and your throat felt tight while you brushed the floor, clenching your jaw until you had collected all the sharp pieces. You swallowed back your pain, instead trying to appreciate the quietness of that room – the rare, rare loneliness and silence. There were no bustling bodies hurrying in hallways here, no chatter, no names shouted from opposite sides of a room. Just peaceful quiet, perfect for reading, writing or playing beautiful melodies.
Done cleaning the floor – after taking your sweet time – you stood. From there you could finally take a good look at the Princess’ instrument. It was a harp, placed only a couple of feet in front of the plush armchairs and small table.
Oh, that harp. There was truly no words to describe it. The frame was made of a deep and rich, golden wood. Its front was carved in the shape of a three-headed dragon, the roaring heads menacingly protruding from the top. It was a big thing. Heavy. Weighty. Solid. Masterfully designed. A work of art.
It must have been horribly expensive, you thought, as your feet took steps on their own toward the instrument. Strange, you realized, not knowing the Princess to be a talented harpist – you had never heard her play. Not that she wasn’t an accomplished young woman, but having an entire room devoted to an instrument of such rare, and fine beauty she’d seldom played was an extravagance you did not believe her inclined toward.
Oh. How the strings called for you, their silvery glint tempting as it caught your wide, curious eyes.
You were a very skilled harpist, but again, that was before. In a life you had to forget and lock away for good. Remembering who you once had been was an extravagance that could only hurt you further. You were now a maid, and maid did not play instruments. They dared not touch them, not even with the softest cloth. Maids might have sung when no noble ears were there to hear them – while laundering, while kneading dough or scrubbing floors – but they did not play the harp. They had no time, no right- not enough agency to do so. Not here, not in this life. But yet…
Here, in this empty room, with no one else but you… Where was the hurt in pulling a few strings ? Everyone was busy in the halls, in the Targaryen Lord’s quarters and in the kitchen. So… Just one note… One note to hear how incredible this harp must have sounded like.
Was the crime not lying in no one ever touching this grandiose harp ? You rationalized, heart trying to convince the mind.
Putting the dustpan on the ground, you apprehensively wiped your hands on your clean apron, making sure there was no dust or shards of glass on your skin. You felt your raw skin burn under the poor excuse of a bandage you had wrapped around your hands, but the need to touch the harp was stronger than the pain.
With a panting breath and a tentative smile you could not repress, you kneeled, not bold enough to sit on Princess Daella’s green, velvet footstool.
Carefully, most slowly, you pulled a string with your index, feeling the wire graze against your fingertips. And though you had spent hours playing and practicing in your own study for years, the sensation felt queer, almost foreign.
The single note echoed in your ears, ringing through your entire ribcage like a wild roaring cry. The sound was crystal clear and layered, strong yet delicate.
“Beautiful…” You whispered, tongue clicking against the roof of your mouth.
Your kneecap dug in the flesh of your leg, against the hard edges of the stone floor, but you payed it no mind. Thrilled, you pulled one string after the other, letting your mind wander to that peaceful place where playing the harp always took you. You forgot your place, your fate, your burden as you closed your eyes, feeling yourself light as a feather while you played. Time seemed to slow as the familiar melancholic tune your father used to love so much echoed in the study.
After playing only the first part, a little voice in the back of your head told you to stop while you still could, before you plunged too deeply. Opening your eyes as you finally broke the spell, snapping back into reality, you were about to stand when the study’s door opened without a knock.
“I’m impressed by your progress daugh-”
Maekar Targaryen, the Prince of Summerhall, and brother of King Aerys I was standing before you, towering in the doorframe and absolute in his intimidating, regal presence.
You scrambled to put the harp down, haphazardly bowing as you mumbled nonsense.
“Apologies, my Lord.” You finally managed to utter, planting a knee to the ground as you bit your lips, feeling a pit of burning shame in your stomach. No. This can’t be real.
“And who the fuck are you ?” He asked unapologetically, his narrowed eyes piercing everywhere inch of your skin.
“Oh, I’m but a lowly maid, my Lord. Please forgive me for my impudence. I should’ve nev-“ You tried to say before he abruptly cut you, raising a wide, ring adorned hand, his silver white eyebrows so tense they looked like two sharp edges of a sword glinting under the moon.
“This harp was gifted by King Daeron II, you senseless girl. Who in the seven hells do you think you are to dare touch a Princess’ possession ?” The offended Prince demanded, taking slow steps toward you as you scrambled to get up, involuntarily stepping back as he advanced.
“I’m no one.” You replied, clasping your bandaged hands in front of you. He abruptly stopped advancing and locked eyes with you, hoping you would say something incriminating.
“Your name ?” Retorted Maekar, jaw tight and fist clenched. The room seemed small with him in it as he tilted his head forward, examining you suspiciously from head to toe.
“Rivers.” You croaked.
“A bastard then ?” Replied Maekar, huffing, surprise with hints of sarcasm lacing his deep voice, the severe and austere mask not leaving his angular face.
You nodded sullenly, not knowing what else to say. A bastard, the rotten fruit of dishonor, a stain – you had heard all the insults in the book and was now waiting for him to add one that you hoped would be more lyrical, coming from a Prince. Your heart was pounding in your ears and you wondered if he was able to hear it from his position. Targaryens were no mere men. They were something else. You fathom he didn’t need to hear your racing heart to know how shameful you felt – it was written in plain on your face.
“A bastard maid who uses words like impudence, who has two straight, pearly white rows of teeth, who plays the harp better than a preceptor I pay more gold in a month that your monthly allowance would in a lifetime...” Maekar Targaryen mused cynically, circling around you like an animal its prey. You tensed, feeling your skin react to his proximity, goosebumps erupting on your skin, making you shiver despite the heat.
“You are either a liar or a spy, Rivers.”
He eluded cunningly from behind you, leaning on the wooden panels of the wall. You could hear the dark wood creak and groan, protesting under his warrior weight. “Or are you both ?” He almost whispered, both threatening and lethally captivating. He was the son of a King. A man of highest rank. Accusing you. “Explain yourself !” Ordered the Prince, frustated by your lack of answer.
Gulping, you parted your mouth, internally cursing your impulsive action, not knowing how this conversation would end for you. How could it end well ? What could he take that you hadn’t lost ?
“I am a maid, yes, and a bastard too indeed, but a liar I am not my Prince. I was a Lady not so long ago, daughter of an esteemed Lord, but fate, and his Lady wife, had other designs for me.” You explained, bitterness on your tongue at having to reveal so much about yourself and at admitting he had managed to pierce right through you. Fear was morphing into anger, especially now that you couldn’t see his menacing stance. A part of you was letting go of a little weight as you realized in a flash that you were never in control of anything – even as a Lady. Your life and fate were never in your hands and would never be.
You should have apologized profusely perhaps, kneeled and bent, but you could not find it in you to care and belittle what remnants of dignity you had left. What else did you have to lose now ? Maybe it was time for you to upkeep your father’s promise and stand straight, chin high ni matter what.
“You still lied, wench. No one ever is “no one”, especially those who make such nonsensical claims.” Maekar Targaryen replied, serious and solemn as he placed himself back in front of you, lilac eyes examining your face.
“Omission is no lie my Lord.” You dared, exhaustion making you bold as you lifted your head, eyes meeting his defiantly.
“I could have your tongue.”
“Maids don’t need their tongues – but please, leave me my hands my Lord, they’re the only precious thing I have left.” You trailed, pushing your luck, wondering if perhaps you were provoking him on purpose, tempting the very same fate that had forced you on such a perilous and hazardous path.
“Your father, would I know of him, girl ? Who was he ?” The Targaryen Prince asked, pressed, after marking a pause, trying to ignore your insolent drawl for your sake for some reason. His pale lavender eyes were boring holes in your skull as he impatiently waited for you to answer. You told your father’s name in a breath, the ancient name of his small but renowned, respected and esteemed house rolling on your loosened tongue. A name that was once yours. A name that had weight. Worth.
Before leaving home, you had taken the signet ring that your father had given you, attaching it to a plain silver chain, so fine that no one ever noticed it. Taking the ring from under your collar, you showed it to the Prince.
Maekar’s eyes widened in surprise, and, for the first time since he entered the room, he looked at a loss for word. He took the ring between his index and thumb, his skin grazing yours, examining it before letting it go. Taken aback, he lost his carefully crafted mask for a brief moment. Taking a step back, he looked away, sighing.
“What a shame – waste.” The words seemed to escape him. They coursed right through you, shocked you, unfiltered and sincere, a luxury afforded by his rank. “He was part of my garrison on Redgrass field. Lost many of his men. Ate at my table. Sung songs of victory in those very halls.”
You nodded, a disbelieving hitching sound leaving your dry mouth. You remembered the absence that had felt interminable as a child. The anguish. The doubts. Will he come back ? What will happen if he doesn’t ? Your stepmother’s coldness… Pacing your bedroom, imagining you’d hear him come home at any moment, hoping to hear the sound of hoofs against the gravels of your castle’s entry path.
Maekar looked at you, trying to muzzle his shock at the unexpected coincidence – suddenly seeing you as you were – as the pieces all started to fit. Perhaps was he seeing the resemblance of his war companion in the edges of your face, behind all the dust and tiredness.
But the moment broke. Once again, the door opened suddenly and without a knock.
“Father ! It is true that you are back earlier then !” Daella said, her usually timid voice replaced by boisterous excitement and joy. The young princess turned toward you, her happy and smiling face fading into a wary sort of curiosity. You crouched abruptly, picking up dustpan and brush, the sound of broken glass clinking against the rusty metal while you hoped she wouldn’t think anything strange had gone on between you and her father. He took a larged step back, looking thankful as you rose, all traces of his shock masterfully hidden behind the authority of a Prince.
“I hope you didn’t scold this poor girl, Father. None of this is her fault – another maid fainted after standing there, serving refreshments to us ladies while I practiced the harp. My musical skills are apparently lethal as well as underwhelming.” The young woman ironically jested, her hands fidgeting as she approached. Maekar seemed unimpressed, his eyes leaving yours to turn fully toward his daughter, but he did not comment, certainly because you were still there. You hoped to use Princess Daella’s timely and fortunate interruption to flee, wishing Maekar would forget you and your mistakes all together. But before you could curtsy and get out, the Princess stepped in front of you, shielding you from Maekar’s piercing lilac stare.
“I hope she is well now ?” Inquired the young princess as she took you in, her big purple eyes so striking you wondered if she could read your mind with them.
“Thanks to your intervention, she’s been allotted time rest and was given cold milk with a spoonful of honey. She is faring well.” You informed her, casting your eyes downward, feeling a drop of sweat running down your spine under the scrutiny of two Targaryen royals.
“Did you hurt your hands with the broken glass ?” Her inescapable stare now pinned on your bandaged hands, the tan cloth dotted with dark red.
“No, just a bad fall outside the kitchen’s yard this morning.” You hastily replied, brunt images of the guard colliding into you suddenly flashing in your mind.
“My handmaiden Lara said she saw a guard purposefully colliding like a battering ram into a servant this morning - in the very same kitchen yard. Said the maid was sent flying too. Was it you, then ?”
You were no rat, but you hated lying. So, what choice did you have left ?
“An accident Princess, nothing more.” You humbly replied, pretending to be unaffected, but more importantly trying to avoid any more trouble. “I wasn’t paying attention, it was mine fault only. My clumsiness played me a wicked trick once more.”
“Hmm.” Daella hummed doubtfully as she turned inquisitively toward her father Maekar, who was staring at your hands with an unsettling intensity, unblinking.
What else could you tell them ? Thankfully, she nodded as if the affair was done with. You could only hope that she bought your act as you turned you face away from them, instinctively trying to avoid the weight of their gaze. You were standing alone, facing them, at the mercy of their benevolence.
“It is late, maid. Go.” The deep, deep, voice urged, dismissing you. You audibly breathed out a breath you did not realize you’d held and bowed swiftly, neck bending awkwardly before you went straight for the door, not even looking back, not even thanking them.
Closing the thick wooden door in a muffled thud, you walked briskly, your energetic pace sending hair flying in your face while a small smile graced your lips. The glass clanked in the dustpan with each large step, the melody and rythm leading you with a spring as you savored the small victory.
Making my return with another Maekar/reader fanfic. What can I say ? The hyperfixation on akotsk is never ending lol. Anyway, what do you think of this new chapter ? Of this new character ? Thanks for reading and interacting my fellow Maekar aficionados, part 2 is already written and will be posted soon ♡ (if you see any spelling mistakes please tell me btw)
