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Imagine Maekar Targaryen is the king of Seven Kingdoms and you become his queen.

Warnings: mediæval like; smut; drama; canon divergence; fluffy; long post.

***

• Intro

To bury a husband is not an experience some wives expect to go through in their youth. Unless this is the case of a disastrous arrangement.

Yours is not fit in this last case, although it shall remain a question of what future could have been had he lived longer.

What pains you is this eternal what if, the never knowing where that path would lead you both.

Gods could be cruel.

You were meant to become the next Targaryen queen consort. You were raised to be so from the days you were raised at court.

Perhaps this is what you grieve more: the death of a future so bright, the burial of a deeper affection: for the king’s nephew and heir was not a bad character, in these six years he was very kind to you: in fact you could have developed something other than friendship and admiration.

Where else should I expect to find a soul as gentle as was his?

Melancholy is drawn upon you as you take the black. Meanwhile, the court whispers:

“What will be of Lady Y/N Arryn, wife of Aelor Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone?”

***

• (I) A Path of Grief.

Maekar Targaryen should be numb by now. When news reach him that his last nephew has departed this world, he is appalled, but not entirely surprised.

Aelor was a sickly boy.

It does not, however, make it any easier to go through the process of grief again. The prince suspects this is another punishment sent by the Gods for the day his mace hit Baelor’s head in a trial he’d stood up for his son’s honor and subsequently took the promised prince’s life—which he never forgot, and still remembers the date yearly.

A punishment indeed as it occurs him that he, the fourth son of a beloved king, is the next heir to the iron throne.

Fuck me.

Trying not to dwell too much at this thought, which only leads him to be haunted by those he outlived, he in fact pursuits the healing for it: through the company of his children.

Rhae and Daella are growing and are almost in marriage age, which only increases his consternation, since he’s unwilling to marry them off. It’s been difficult since Aerion’s demise left a childless widow who remarried Prince Matarys… only to join him in death when Summer Fever took away his life.

At least Daeron seems content with his wife.

It is what it is.

“DEAR PAAAAAPA!”, a yell coming from Gods know where startles him.

Fuck me. I am not in age for this shit.

He scoffs as Rhae comes running and actually jumps in his back. And he surprisingly manages to hold her—though not as long as when she was a child.

“Good grief, Rhae! What was the need of that? Can you not see I am old?!”, he grumbles.

She gives him a mischievous grin, much to his concern.

“No, I cannot. I am blind. I am jestiiiing!”, she quickly adds when seeing her father is pulling a face. “Papa, I know deep inside you there’s a good humor waiting to be discovered. Why do you insist in burying it?”

Maekar casts a glare to Rhae, but softens a few seconds later. When he takes her arm, the prince leads the way right to the gardens, a spot outdoors he knows she favors.

“I’ve received bad news today, I’m afraid. Your cousin Aleor has succumbed to whatever malady that’s ripped his life.”

“Another one?! By the Gods, they spare none!”

“Rhae!”, snarks Maekar.

“But it’s the tr…”

“Show some respect! Your cousin has just died!”

Rhae does not say a word until they reach the gardens. Maekar knows silence is not his daughter’s best trait, so he waits for what is coming next.

Which, as predicted, does not take too long before she opens her mouth to speak something that might disconcert him.

“Does this mean you are going to be king then?”

Maekar takes a deep breath before patiently reminding his daughter that her uncle and aunt are very much alive and perfectly capable to produce a heir. Whether they care enough for each other to do so, that is a story Maekar is not intending to share with this lively child of his.

Rhae, however, gives him a look, a skeptical one, as if she knows well what he is not admitting it to her, but instead of persevering on the subject, she casually says:

“Regardless, my father, do you not miss a female company at your side?”

He stares at his daughter in disbelief.

“I beg your pardon?”

“No need to beg”, she flashes him a playful grin. “Have you not considered a wife for yourself, papa? You’ve been… well, how can I put it in words? You’ve been under constant stress with us all. And since Aerion’s demise, you’ve been withdrawing more and more to Summerhall.”

Maekar sighs, before softening.

“I find no need of remarrying, dear girl. I am a father of six…”, he interrupts himself, sadly, “five. I have male heirs. Why would I consider placing another woman in your mother’s seat?”

Rhae, in her own way, knows how to break his barriers and does so by conceding a spontaneous embrace. He gladly returns it, albeit awkwardly. But he likes her spirits, these always cheered him up. Thus, the anvil smiles at the concern she displays towards him.

“I wish you were happy, you deserve it, dear papa.”, she insists before adding: “Besides, if you become king in any eventuality, which Gods forbid it, you may need a female hand to guide your court. It is the role of a queen to do so, not of a princess, before you protest.”

“Unbelievable, Rhae. Un-be-lie-va-ble.”, Maekar shakes his head in evident disapproval, which only makes his daughter giggle loudly.

*

You remain in dark robes, respecting the grief process you and the entire court are going through. It is embarrassing that you are now seen as a burden by them all. Compassion has now been replaced at an unposed question your presence awakes at court: what to do with the widower of the presumptive heir to the iron throne?

In the meantime, Aerys, the current king and uncle of Prince Aelor, is found distressed by the lack of heirs of his own. He knows that who comes next in line is his younger brother and his bunch of children, something he’d rather avoid—more out of mutual distrust than other motives—and then there’s you, who remain living at court.

He does not tell you, but the current chief of your house, the brother who’s recently become the new lord of Eyrie, has encouraged the king to remarry you to the next heir to the throne.

The idea does not sit well with Aerys, however. Not at all. But at the same time, he does not wish to let go of you. You are a valuable asset for his house, specially as a dowager princess of Dragonstone.

Nevertheless, he must not ignore the succession rules. Thus, lamenting how it cannot be further ignored and how he regrets that the Gods took the lives of half of his family, he finally summons his brother to court.

All of this whilst he keeps an eye on you. You, who carefully play along the rules; you, who once was welcomed with glee by Rhaegal and his wife, an Arryn herself by birth. You, whose eyes look for an escape to go back home. You, whose destiny lies in the good will of the deities.

Aerys pities you. Truthfully.

A pawn in this game of thrones hardly ever has a happy ending.

So he judges.

*

Daella is very excited about going to court at last. To her father’s dismay this is all she talks about since the day he received a royal summoning.

“For the last time, Dae, we are NOT going to court TO FIND YOU A HUSBAND!”

His daughter pouts at him, but says nothing further, not in the best of moods. To fuel his distress, Rhae inquires:

“Is aunt Shiera going to be there?”

But one deadly glare of her father and his daughter limits to a heavy, dramatic sigh.

As for Daeron and his wife, they are less troublesome to deal with. Well… in theory, at least.

“Have you been drinking?”, hisses Maekar when noticing his son is too jolly for his taste. “Didn’t I teach you anything about duty? And your wife! She could be carrying your child as we speak!”

His heir too sighs, but unlike his sisters, he’s less prompted to a temperamental display.

“Good Gods, father. I’ve had only a glass of wine with my wife. Why are you…”, Daeron cuts himself abruptly when something comes to his mind.

Only to leave Maekar more exasperated. As if it is possible.

“What? What now? What do you see?”

“Nothing”, lies Daeron, apparently unafraid of the danger.

The lord of Summerhall has the look of a thunderstorm, but it seems this has little effect upon his eldest son. Anymore.

“Daeron Targaryen, quit with the bullshit.”

“Alas!”, Daeron rolls his eyes. “You already know what may come! You do not need my dreams to be told of the evident truth!”

But almost instantly he regrets saying so. His father’s inquiry is not about searching for a confirmation, but rather the opposite. When Maekar pales and his eyes wide slightly, Daeron softens quickly.

“I mean… The future is not very precise. My dreams…”

Maekar shakes his head. He turns his back away from his son, already feeling the claws of grief all over him.

No matter my efforts, the path the Gods lead me to is forged by the losses I was forced to endure. A family I loved was taken from me and for what reason? To concede me a crown I never pursued? I was happier being merely the fourth son.

To his surprise, it is his first born son who comes for him.

“It is easier for me to see you as a rigid, stern father who carries so many hopes and expectations toward his children”, muses Daeron. “It took me years, though, to see that you did the best you could with what you had in hands. I’ve never come to known a more dutiful father like you. And you lost too much. Your path has been… paved, shaped and determined by grief. I lament to it, I genuinely do.”

Maekar turns his head and holds his boy close, as if he is a young prince again.

“You are my first boy. My very first.” He swallows these uninvited tears. “And I failed you.”

“No, papa. You never failed me”, assures Daeron. “You cannot be faulted that I inherited an ability few of our kin possess. I just… never knew how to deal with it. And you are not guilty either for Aerion being who he was.”

A tear breaks his stern self control.

“He was a happy child once. I would have…”

“…died for us all, we know, papa, we know.” Daeron smiles softly. “But the best there is in each child it is only because of you; because you’ve never given up on us even in our worst days.”

That being said, the son gives his father an embrace that soothes the heavy burden a lonely heart and wrecked soul as Maekar’s needs.

***

• (II) The Prince of Dragonstone.

You are present amidst the select group of noblemen to welcome the king’s heir. His brother, Prince Maekar, is the lord of Summerhall and remains known to this day as the anvil due to his part in defeating the Blackfyre rebellion by his eldest brother’s side. Rumor had it, however, that the whole victory of House Targaryen was credited solely to Prince Baelor’s skills.

As it is, you shall meet this prince alongside the royal brother who despises his own wife—and you notice she’s not amidst her peers to receive Prince Maekar—, prefers the company of books—and maesters, if the malicious tongues should be taken in consideration—and maybe the dark arts. You have reasons to fear him, specially now that he refuses to let you free and be sent back to Eyrie.

Should I start to think I am being held a hostage here? Whatever for?

Unless… a thought suddenly occurs you. Is the king planning you to marry his brother, your late husband’s uncle? The idea does not ring well. But then again, were you not born and raised to be a queen? What other option is there for you: to go back home discarded and be perpetually reminded as the queen who never was?

Slowly, you leave your reservations aside so ambition drives your heart.

But you’d not expect, when he finally arrives with his own family, Prince Maekar to be the handsomest man you’ve ever laid your eyes on.

And that his eyes find your stare only gives you shivers, bringing you out of a numbing grief and imposing himself over any ambitions you’ve may be reconsidering to feed.

*

“Prince Maekar, Lord of Summerhall”, announces the arrant. “And his son and heir, Lord Daeron and wife, Lady Kiera of Tyrosh; his daughters, Princesses Daella and Rhae.”

You barely notice that these children are no longer children. Should it embarrass you that they are closer to you in age than their father? Maybe. But in such times this is irrelevant and insignificant.

Both of you are adults.

Both of you are royals.

And when his gaze lingers more than it is acceptable in you, perhaps, you cede a small smirk. For you are now certain that you shall have him as your next husband.

Whatever it takes.

Not only for the sake of titles and ambitions, but, truth be told, it is very possible that this man could give you what your late husband could not. Or so are the thoughts implanted under the influence of the Maiden, the Goddess whose one of many attributions include matters of love.

“Brother”, says Aerys, stepping forward to greet his heir properly.

“Your Grace”, greets Maekar, bowing respectfully.

“Welcome to court. I pray the journey has been easy.” Once his brother murmurs a few words, Aerys turns to his nephew, his wife and his two nieces. Then he looks back somewhat surprised at the prince: “I thought you’ve had two other boys?”

“Aemon is in citadel… with Egg”, he lies. “I’ve sent Egg there to spend time with his brother. They used to be close when they were young lads.”

“Ah I see. Well, welcome, welcome! A banquet shall be offered to you soon”, and then as if the king is remembered of your existence, he stops the pace and turns: “Alas! Where are my manners? This is the Dowager Princess of Dragonstone, Lady Y/N of House Arryn.”

Your face flushes as every eye is on you. And in each owner of that gaze, there is a mix of piety, compassion and understanding. Which may not be entirely helpful, when you recall how easily—and eagerly, perhaps—you aimed to remarry in order to become queen as you were told you’d be.

You cede a small smile, but say nothing. Instead, you dip to curtsy, calculating your manners so your heart remains unreachable and your eyes, unreadable.

But Prince Maekar remains watching you. When the distraction concerning your presence passes, his eyes are still fixed on your features, on the sadness in your demeanor—one of the kind, you recall it now, he too possesses.

You break the gaze when perceiving it.

A burden I cannot share nor relieve. It somehow resurrects mine own as well. A husband left me alone in this world, in a bed so cold, burying my expectations of a bright future with him when pain has bent to the will of this dysfunctional family for a longer time. Oh, Gods. Cease this punishment, this I beg of you! Grant me liberty of these chains. I miss my home, the cold of the mountains, the gelid breeze! Have I not paid enough for aiming too high? High as honor? That I dare not answer. I pledge you, Gods, to end this misery.

And just like that you slip out of the sight of courtiers.

*

He knows he should not have noticed you.

Ignorance is a blessing most of times.

But sorrow is one of the means to bond, some bards claim. And sorrow is precisely what makes your beauty so alluring and terrifying to see.

As if I have been reminded of a long trail of losses that paved my path to this unwanted throne.

It is the determination in your calculated moves that draw him to you, a maiden left unprotected. A maiden so fair that not even these torments could wipe her out of it.

And some time between the dinner he’ll have with his brother the king, and the prince’s settling in this court, he is brought to you. By invisible hands, by this rioting heart that protests to live amidst the weight of having survived them all?

Who could tell?

And you are there, paled, left on your device. Sitting in a random bench outdoors, keeping a distance from gardens, there is the fair damsel of Arryn.

Maekar does not know how to proceed toward you, though. It’s been a long winter since he’s last been surrounded by a female presence, reminding him of how bold he used to be when he first came to Dyanna.

Now, he hesitates. Whatever it is, his presence is perceived, it is felt and you stand quite abruptly.

“My lord! I had not seen you there, I apologize”, you dip to a curtsy.

Maekar then knows it is too late to go back now. He nods his head and takes a seat by your side.

“It is nothing. I should have announced myself. I came here in search for some fresh air. May I?”

You conceal whatever is troubling the peace of your mind by conceding his presence. It is usually inappropriate that you are found without a female companion at the side of a man. Even if, in matters of status, you are both royals and widowers.

But his charm is so captivating. You’d not refuse him anything, and Gods help you with that.

In silence you two stay for a moment.

“May I ask you something?”

Maekar is slightly surprised that you are the one to break the silence. When he nods, you hesitate before inquiring:

“Why has my lord spent so much of his time in Summerhall? I’ve spent so many years here and I’ve rarely seen you at court.”

You do not know, but this question is somewhat disturbing to Maekar as it reminds him that this beautiful widow was his nephew’s wife. He sighs heavily as if to dissipate this thought out of his mind.

“Because the Red Keep brings me memories I do not wish to relive.”

The sadness in his voice moves you. Maekar avoids your gaze when adding:

“And I’ve outlived them all. It is a weight too much to bear at times.”

You should not reach out for him, but there’s something relatable in his grief that makes you want to offer him comfort. Yet, despite the inner struggle, you opt to lock your heart.

“I am sorry to hear so, my lord. My experience may not be as intense as yours, but grief is a process that I somehow relate. It leaves food to thought for those who survive.”

Maekar’s eyes are on you again. Yours are focused in your hands and the rings on your fingers. He dares to lift your chin, captivated by this sensation of loss that binds one to the other. His touch gives you shivers, but when rising your eyes, you dare not to flee of his intent gaze.

It is the way his soft, but callous hand that offers a warm advance toward you, that opens way to something new to rise. Yet when he realizes how blunt he is, he intents to draw out his hand… but you take it, and hold it.

Surprise is evident in his eyes, judging himself inappropriate when he’s not in the least being so.

“You are gentle”, says the prince. “For which I am thankful.”

Slowly resistance begins to fade when his fingers intertwine with yours.

“In this world, where cruelty is the rule, to be gentle is an exception. I’d like to see myself in the latter rather than in former.”

Maekar considers your words, eyeing the hands newly intertwined. Despite the reluctance, it is how well moulded your hand is in his that his heart skips a beat.

“Life is not gentle, my lady. I lament that the death of my nephew tossed you into this crude reality, but we cannot alter it”, and in saying so, sounding more harsh than he intends, he breaks the spell and withdraws his hand, much to your disappointment.

“I should be more prepared, that is true, but I was raised upon songs and dreams.” You realize you sound so foolish that you furrow your eyebrows at yourself. A sigh denounces the frustration you’ve not mastered to deal with… since the day Aelor closed his eyes.

Maekar notices it, but says nothing. Silence hangs in the between of you, and extends to the point you suppose he’s departing soon. But he does not.

“We are all raised with hopes and dreams”, the prince says it so sudden that you are almost startled by his husky voice. “You do not have to live as if they are not there. It is good to have some optimism I suppose.”

“But you are not very optimistic, are you, lord?”

Maekar cedes a half smirk.

“I have no reason to be so.”

He’d think you will look away, find him a boring companion. Often the men say Baelor made friends and arranged allies easily, all the whilst he inspired little affection in others. That you do not correspond these expectations warms his heart.

“I believe you do, my lord. I understand you’ve been through a lot, but must darkness be all you will be acquainted to? You are loved by your family. Even the king knows so.”

“Again, you are moved by your gentle heart.”

You chuckle dryly.

“It is the truth I speak of, lord. I have no reason to make use of flatteries; that is a trick we, Arryns, despise.”

Maekar inclines his head back to you once again, more interested than he’d like to admit.

“Would you speak your heart out freely, my lady?”

You hold his gaze in defiance.

“Only if the circumstances oblige me to”, then you smirk. “Until then I follow the rules.”

An ambitious maiden, whose heart remains untouched by the vices of world. What a combination.

“It is prudent and wise to keep your heart well guarded”, he stands. “One never knows what the Gods will bring tomorrow.”

And so he goes, leaving you in a deeper state of disturbance completely unbeknownst to you than before he had come.

You sigh, frustrated.

*

Maekar’s mind wanders over you, the mysterious aura that your presence evokes. Underneath the dutiful demeanor, you play silently your game of thrones. A player like him should know better, though; however, he wills it to let it be played.

Alas! I should not! I must not feed these improprieties in my head! She is my nephew’s widow! Have I not lived enough? Have I not been tortured enough to wear old scars so no other ones can doom me more than I’m already doomed?

Lost in his exasperation, he does not see at first that his daughter Rhae is coming right at him. Tip-toeing, the mischievous princess has every intention in getting her beloved papa out of guard.

If only he was so… distracted, though.

Which he never is.

“I see you, Rhae.”

She sighs dramatically.

“But how?!”

Maekar turns partly his head to see her and his daughter is baffled to detect a shade of mischief behind his eyes.

“Do you think I do not know my daughters?”

She giggles lightly, leaning her head onto his shoulder. Since they are not in public—and not surrounded by courtiers—, Maekar permits himself to place an arm around his daughter’s shoulders and rub them gently.

“Where’s your sister, Rhae?”

“How am I supposed to know, papa?”, her smirk is wiped off when he gives her a look. “Uh… she’s at court. Dancing merrily.”

Maekar sighs heavily.

“Oh good Gods.”

“What is the worst that can happen?”, says she. “At least she is having her fun.”

The prince detests this kind of question. It is as if the Gods can give an unpleasant answer any time soon. The mere thought makes him shiver.

“Well, but we are not here to have fun.”

The thread is interrupted once a man of his brother is seen on their way. Rhae sighs as it means the familial moment is over.

“My lord”, the man looks at the princess. “My lady. His Grace has summoned your lordship to the iron throne.”

Maekar’s composed face remains unaltered, though behind his iron mask he’s fearful of what this might mean. He nods his head.

“Fetch your sister and stay in your private bedchambers. Occupy yourselves with embroidery”, so he orders his daughter. “I shall come for you in a moment.”

Rhae nods her head and dips to a curtsy. But the second he’s out of her sight, she decides to do something else: why not coming after you instead? For the princess realizes she’s not been properly acquainted with the only cousin that she has now at court.

*

When Maekar looks at his brother enthroned, his demeanor does not inspire any charisma that it could be find in Rhaegal or in Baelor, whom he loved best.

What is somehow frightening is that Aerys seems to reflect his worse vices, even though, unlike his brother, he would never negligent his duty—whether to his family or to the realm, or both.

The thought gives him comfort.

“Please rise, brother”, says Aerys, leaving the iron throne at last to welcome him. “I called you here because it is the time to elevate you as Prince of Dragonstone.”

A title once bestowed to Baelor.

Maekar’s heart races, if not breaks—the sensation is never pleasant. If he could give away his soul to bring Baelor and Rhaegal back, he would—at these words.

But his face shows no emotion. He stays where he is, as stern as he already is.

“It shall be as Your Grace commands me to.”

Aerys steps forward and the shadow of death becomes evident when his grave features show something there wasn’t before.

“Enough with the courtesy of addressing me as your king.”

“But you are my king.”

Aerys sighs, impatiently, waving his hand in a dismissive manner.

“Before that, I reckon we are brothers.”

Maekar hopes the shock is not evident in his face. They haven’t ever been close.

“You never treated me as such”, the subtle accusation breaks his efforts in concealing his sentiments. “You chose Brynden Rivers as your hand.”

Aerys sighs.

“I did as I saw fit. You’ll do the same when time comes to you.”

“I’ve never wished this bloody crown”, grumbles Maekar.

“And do you think I have? Fuck, Maekar, it was my wish to become a maester. The Gods laugh at us for desiring what goes against their plans.”

“That is a fucking excuse for being so absentmindedly throughout your realm and even before”, spits Maekar. “You could have done better, you know that!”

“I did what I could! It was not in my plans to have Baelor killed or that Rhaegal would slip into the divine hands!”

Maekar clenches his jaw. In a voice dangerously calm, the prince says:

“Are you suggesting I wanted this to happen? Do you not think I miss my brother less than you. I was closer to Baelor than you.” But taking a deep breath and holding the reins of his senses, he adds: “Well, why speaking of the dead? They will not be brought back to life.”

Aerys looks at his youngest brother, studying him with attentive eyes. An awkward silence hangs in between them two before the king says:

“I was selfish. I despised my wife and did nothing to produce an heir, trusting in the abilities of our nephews to do so. I have my own regrets, believe it or not, Maekar.”

A pause follows. Maekar sees his brother is struggling to breathe and he immediately offers his arm, but the king refuses it.

“My point”, he proceeds as if nothing happened, “is that you are not entirely wrong in accusing me of negligence. I too failed to see the weight on your shoulders with all these losses we were forced to endure, the demise of good Lady Dyanna being the first of so many.”

Maekar looks away at the mention of his beloved wife, the only woman he ever conceded his heart; the only woman who dared to entered in his soul. But what is worse, perhaps, is that, surrounded by the phantoms of those he lost—sensing the presence of Baelor as the peacemaker he always was in life—-, he laments not to ever made an effort in befriending Aerys.

“Fuck this.” He murmurs under his breath. “You are my last brother, Aerys.”

Differences have been placated at last. The king cedes a half smirk.

“You are the last Targaryen. The survivor. I lament for you, for giving you this burden to carry; truthfully I do, Maekar.” He makes a pause, this time accepting his brother’s arm. “You are every inch our father’s heir. He never loved you any less.”

“You cannot say that”, reprehends Maekar, sternly, though his voice comes out more embargoed than he’d admit. “I was always the spare.”

Aerys smirks.

“That is the blessing of being a spare, my brother. We are fortunate for being accepted for who we are, and that is the beauty of it. Though I suspect we could never surpass Baelor.”

Maekar holds him tight, as if to prevent him to slip.

I cannot lose this one too. Gods, preserve him!

“No, I’m afraid we could not.”

“He is proud of you, though. As Rhaegal. As I am.” Then he says: “Will you promise me one thing, though?”

Maekar does not think twice.

“Yes. Speak your terms.”

“Take the dowager princess of Dragonstone as your wife”, says Aerys not without a struggle. “Her brother demands it and I swore she’d be a queen.”

Maekar is perplexed.

“Fuck, Aerys. You cannot be serious.”

“I am.” Then he narrows his eyes, back to his usual self. “Promise me, Maekar.”

Was all of this scene a manipulation art? To bend me to make his will?

Maekar would not like to think so, but something about his brother’s eyes silences the sound of a wretched soul.

“I promise”, he murmurs.

When would the prince of Dragonstone fail his promise? Aerys knows it is not the character of his brother to do so. It somehow lightens his spirit, and releases his conscience of the burden all of this caused him.

*

Daella and Rhaella take a seat by your side. The two princesses are very curious to hear more of you. And you are disconcerted by this sudden interest on their part since that is the first time you speak to them.

But they sound so pleasant and gentle with you, so genuine, unlike any other lady that has ever come across your path, that is very easy to be fond of them.

In the meantime you gladly engage in a conversation with these sisters, Daeron turns at his lady wife and muses:

“What are your thoughts on Princess Y/N?”

Lady Kiera of Tyrosh, once the wife of a prince who almost became a king himself, relates to you in many ways. She casts a look at him and says:

“I sympathize with the Princess. But you already know that, do you not?”

Daeron rubs her shoulders.

“I do. It is a difficult matter to speak of.”

Kiera turns slightly at him.

“Life moves on. Besides…”, she cedes a small smile at the prince, “…you are not bad as a husband, Daeron, specially when you’re not drinking.”

They exchange glances that hold a deeper meaning, which only mirrors the due efforts of the pair in surpassing the first struggles that marked the early stages of their marriage.

“I appreciate my well deserved recognition”, he jests. “But as for Y/N, perhaps you could speak to her.”

Kiera’s smile slowly fades when she understands what is not being said.

“Daeron, what are you not sharing?”

Daeron breaks the gaze, deciding whether or not to share what he once dreamt.

“Just… be kind to her, will you? She’s been lonely at court.”

Then Kiera softens. For she remembers when she was left alone, helpless and confused when Valarr gave his last breath. Turning her eyes at you, she could see some part of this past in you, pleased at least the princesses are being so kind in easing this familiar pain.

Giving one last look at her husband, the lady moves to where you are, partaking in the conversation.

You look up and here you and the Tyrosh lady seem to bond just by an exchange of looks. It is as if both of you come to comprehend that all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

Thus, hope springs in the horizon.

***

• (III) The Anvil and The Maiden In Waiting.

Right before the king’s demise, which is about to happen anytime soon, Maekar is slowly given the hands of government.

Thankfully, previous experience with politics helps him navigate in these treacherous waters. In this meantime, however, a duty he does not neglect is his family.

In order to ensure his daughters are fairing well—and staying out of trouble—the prince comes to find you. Gods will it that your path and his cross one more time.

He’s surprised to find you engaged in a merry conversation with his princesses—and he’s long taken Kiera as his daughter too—, a sight so endearing to him.

There’s nothing to trouble his conscience and, what is more, is that he sees you smiling for the first time. A sincere, captivating smile that is so warm—not as warmer, though, as when you are brought to laughters. The sound of it… leaves him mesmerized.

I am reminded of hope. Is it what it is? How can it be? Unworthy of it as I am, I cannot gaze at the sun and not be blinded by its light. I cannot, nor dare I, to bathe in these rays of light, for dark is my soul and I am trapped in it.

It is subtle how your eyes find his. Surprise follows, but before something can be done about it, Maekar disappears of your sight, unable to tolerate this light that begins to shine upon him once more.

How long can he fight the feeling you inspire him, though? How long?

*

Perhaps it is best to go for a ride and you dare to send a lady of your trust—one you are certain that is not spying for the king—to go after the master of horses and have a mare prepared for you.

Once you slip in black silk with details of blue in it, tying your hair in two braids, you move outdoors. It is early and you judge to be unguarded when a husky voice gives you shivers:

“What is my lady thinking she’s doing? Going out by herself in this hour is not commendable to a princess of your station.”

You turn your head, just to find Maekar Targaryen, the current prince of Dragonstone, coming from only Gods know where.

“I assumed I could still engage in some liberties due to my station.” You flash him a defiant look. “Or must I be perpetually tied to my widowhood?”

Maekar steps out of the shadows and you struggle not to look at the dark leather that fits him so well. The prince may have perceived it, but makes it no evident of his notice.

“That you are free to do as you see fit is evident. I am not here to forbid you of doing what it pleases my lady. Nevertheless, a princess you are. May I at least escort you?”

As much as your pride advises you to refuse him, your heart riots against it.

“Aye, that I do”, you acquiesce.

Is it imprudent not to stay in your private quarters, dwelling in grief when you are gladly planning to be by his side?

Horses are brought upon the two of you, and Maekar helps you to mount your mare as he does his own.

“I see you’ve befriended my daughters”, muses he.

“They are delightful companions to surround oneself with”, you say. “You must be proud of them.”

“That I do.” Then he adds: “I am proud of all my children.”

It should be a delicate topic for you, a reminder that throughout these six years you haven’t produced any children.

“I’m sure you are. They give you every reason to be so”, you hope to disguise your disappointment, but something in your voice makes Maekar stop his horse and look at you.

This is the moment the Maiden has long been waiting forin: when pride is knocked out by something purer; when there is nothing sweeter than to perceive an affection blossoming like a flower in the early stages of spring.

You hold the reins of your mare when seeing he’s studying you, reading you like an open book.

“My lord”, you try to smile, but your lips quiver.

“I see you, Y/N. In truth we are not entirely different, are we?”, now he rides side by side with you. “Has anyone inquired how you’ve been fairing?”

You swallow these repressed tears. You part the gaze, trying to keep your head high.

“No.”

“Then allow me a gesture of kindness”, he stops your mare and his horse, and you are forced to look at him again: but what you see is not the iron so often part of his nature, but a soft heart that shows a different side of this stern man. “How has my lady been fairing since the demise of her husband?”

You cast a shocked look at him. It is here that Maekar notices how neglected you’ve been and unprotected. You’ve been contented to live according to rules, always vigilante of your deeds, never for a moment careless.

Words are the shelter of heart, but at times so poor in translating properly what has been so locked inside.

Now you and him ride slowly, through pasts and forests, there is so much to be said. And Maekar listens.

Oh, what a great listener he is.

Then he leads you back, conducting you towards what once was the dragon pit and is used nowadays as stables.

“We are defined by our titles and how we use them in the world”, remarks Maekar. “But keep in mind our weaknesses cannot be used against us so be careful in whom you place your trust.”

You recollect that some of the ladies at your disposal are spies and you sigh.

“I know. That I know well.” Then you turn at him. “How may I thank my lord for being a great listener?”

He dismounts and when he helps you do the same, his hands take a firm grip on your waist, making you almost lose your breath.

“You have no need to thank me, Princess.” Says he, whose eyes linger at your lips and perhaps to your neck, giving you shivers.

You look at him with eyes so intent that the prince finds himself in sudden fire. And though he fears to get burnt, some part of himself, the one long believed to having been buried with his beloved Dyanna, finds force to resist the riot of his reason.

“I am not an enemy”, he lifts your chin, seeing how easily you draw up to him; and just as easily he’d go to you. Each magnets towards the other, the strings of it all pulled by the divine. “I shall make sure to keep you under my protection.”

How does this man, once seen as stern, possess such a power before you? How does this prince make you weak, fragile and vulnerable? How does this prince awake in you a fire never before known and making you perceive all you’ve had was… cold?

“I shall never forget all that you’ve done to me, your lordship”, you incline your head to his touch, a soft smile curling up on your lips as his slender finger slowly rises to your hair.

But a noise coming out of the blue distracts you both, breaking the spell of the occasion. To your consternation, it is a lady of your trust who shows up.

“I beg your forgiveness, my lady, but the king has summoned you.”

You and Maekar exchange a few glances before the distance between the two of you grow again. Although this time the Prince of Dragonstone does not leave you as you walk inside.

*

In the meantime you are entering the king’s privy chamber, followed by his heir, Daella Targaryen is found in a conspiracy air behind her elder brother, the one who’s in current charge of his little sisters.

“Gods be good”, Daeron sighs dramatically when she tells him about his plans. “Last time you tried to use a love potion in Egg it didn’t work out. Why would you think by making our father, of all the people, drink such a thing the problems of our household could disappear?”

Daella pulls a face.

“When you say it like that, it makes me sound like I’m a horrific person.”

Daeron ruffles her hair.

“No. I partly blame aunt Shiera’s bad influence, is all. But I have hopes this will change soon.”

Silence hangs between the two of them. Rhae is entertaining her sister by law with some nonsense when Daella suddenly irrupts:

“What if we join father with someone? No potion? All naturally?”

Daeron sighs heavily, then he smirks at his sister:

“If I dance with you three times at court, will you drop this matter?”

“Is this a promise?”

“It is a fact.”

“Deal!”

*

How strange it is to see Aerys part, not so late after his nephew. Your eyes remain glued in his corpse as he lies cold.

You turn at Maekar, suddenly aware that he is now the king, and you curtsy.

“Your Grace.”

The new king is still in shock. His eyes stare at Aerys, who’d asked for forgiveness a couple of minutes ago.

Another brother who leaves me.

Maekar closes his eyes. And a memory of his youth comes back soon. They were all in Summerhall, a favorite residence of the Queen, his mother, because it somehow reminded her of Sunspear.

We would sit for hours to listen to the stories of the house she was a part of. We would run around and be mischievous. Baelor often looked after us and even then he was the only one who could convince Aerys to join us in the pool. We were all jolly fellows. We were young, fools, stupid. We did not need to prove ourselves. We were not corrupted by the vices of the world.

When he opens his eyes, Maekar comes to the sad realization that he’s the only one left. And then… at his side, you are there, so close… so dangerously close that he cannot refuse you.

Not anymore.

Whatever it is that burns him, burns you. But he resists it. Overall, in respect of the dead king.

“I promised my brother I’d be zealous to you. I vowed to protect your honor”, so he says, “which means I intend to make you my wife, Princess Y/N”

You are baffled by what you hear—not only because Gods have heard that secret desire in your heart—for he’s firmed in his decision.

“There will be talk, lord.”

Maekar side smirks at you.

“There is always talk, my lady.”

You step forward to short the distance between the two of you. Then you incline to kiss his cheek, lingering your lips in it, getting the new king out of guard.

“I should thank you then for looking after me”, she cedes a small smile.

Maekar locks gaze with you, taking your hand to his lips. Your face lightens up at as result. Despite the terrible circumstances, nothing is as bad as it promises to be.

Fuck me. I am doomed.

*

One of the first things Maekar, as a king, does is to summon his children back to court. Egg and Aemon, his precious boys, are now on their way to the capital.

“I shall not be crowned without them”, he insists, sternly.

Out of the public eyes, however, he manages to have some time with you. A few days before his sons’s arrival, you and him are at the gardens.

“How does it feel to know you shall soon be the stepmother to five little brats?”, asks he, with a warm smile he only gives to you.

You watch as your fingers intertwine, how perfectly moulded are your hands, and you look up at him. The gaze he gives you is so full of affection that makes your face go slight pink.

“I wouldn’t mind. These are lovely children. I shall love them as if they are mine own”, then you hesitantly add: “My lord is not expecting that more will join them, is he?”

Maekar looks thoughtful for a moment.

“No, I do not”, he rubs his thumb over your skin. “What I require of you is…”

“…help to deal with your offspring”, you chuckle. “Will they take me as their stepmother?”

The king tries not to look so evidently aghast at how you simply put in words what he could not. Or would not.

He clears his throat.

“I’ve always dealt with my sons, even if I’ve made my mistakes. They miss a feminine companionship I suppose. That I am forced to acknowledge”. And adds: “I shall not accept their refusal. You are the loveliest maiden of these bloody kingdoms.”

Even though his face is grave, remarking a stark contrast to his words, you smile warmly at him.

Oh, my husband to be. I could never not love you, draconian prince.

Very gently, you take the chance there’s just the two of you by yourselves to cup his face. Maekar leans against your touch and slightly turns his head to finally pursuit your lips.

And you sigh in content, finally released of this weight of repressed sentiments that were smashed by a combination of grief and guilt. But you let go of your ghosts as they let go of you.

That his tongue finds way to pair with yours only evokes a heat that runs in each other’s bodies. Maekar holds you tight, forgetting himself in the moment. And he would press you to sit on his lap if…

If steps were not heard.

And those steps were not… Daella’s.

(Thankfully though she does not see the intensity of the kiss.)

“Ah!”, she exclaims, completely surprised. “Father! Lady Y/N.”

Of course, Daella doesn’t need to think too much to realize what is going on right under her nose. And that you blush violently and lower your eyes to your feet does not help your case.

“Am I interrupting something?”, she smirks mischievously.

“Daella, that’s enough!”, Maekar stands quickly and just like that he flies to his daughter. “What are your businesses here? I thought I sent you to stay with your sister!”

Daella struggles not to have an access of giggles. Maekar, on his part, begins to worry that his stern frown is no longer having the same effect it once used to.

“Papa my dear, I came to fetch you because our brothers are here. But I can always come back later”, the princess giggles lowly.

“Daella, quit with the… Ah! Are they? Very well then”, Maekar quickly and discreetly casts you a glance. “My lady Y/N, perhaps you’d like to join us.”

It does not feel like an invitation, but you are surprised that he commands you to. Which only sends you that heat that troubles your inner stability.

Oh Gods.

“I would not like to be intrusive, Your Grace.”

It is Daella who, however, says:

“Please, cousin dear. You are family! We’d love to have you nearby.”

And she runs in giggles before her father reprehends her for speaking foolishness.

You are still blushing as you make your way to Maekar, who offers his arm:

“Daella is very lively”, he points it out. “And a gossiper too, as I fear.”

You chuckle.

“She means no harm. I like her, she’s young.”

Maekar gives you a look that you cannot decipher.

“She is very prompted to mischief.”

“As most ladies are.”

The king abruptly stops the pace to look at you and the fire in his eyes burns your soul, setting it alight.

“Will my wife be against me?”

You laugh quietly, tiptoeing to kiss him, beaming as he lifts you and spins you around.

“You are faulted for transmitting your charisma to your children.”

Maekar smirks.

“You will be the death of me, my precious falcon.”

*

It is a merry reunion. And you happen to notice that Maekar is dressed in the same colors his children are: even the princesses are dressing black gowns with sleeves in red, both their hairs tied as if they were twins.

Did he choose their outfit?!

It is refreshing for court to relive a Targaryen family—and in the best possible way, in spite of the temperament of his offspring. Daeron, recently elevated as Prince of Summerhall because Dragonstone is too somber and bloody a title, stands elegantly by his father’s side, though he smiles openly and Maekar is more reserved.

But there’s joy in his eyes. I can see it. He is a family man.

Egg, whose head remains shaved, has grown since you’ve met him six years before. A very tall and handsome knight follows him, evidently disconcerted for not fitting the court, a sensation you can relate somewhat.

Did I ever belong here, amidst these dragons? I could not say.

Aemon, who comes next, is as jolly as Egg, but he has the reserved traits of Maekar. He’s not as spontaneous as his younger brother, but it is because he’s been raised in Citadel. This particularly meeting is specially touching, for these two have not seen for two years.

They are all so occupied with each other… until Lady Kiera comes to you.

“My lady, you are part of this too, surely you must know”, she says with a warm smile.

“I am not sure I am”, you admit, hesitantly. “Though all of this reminds me of my family.”

“I understand the feeling. Perhaps the king will allow you to come back to Eyrie?”

You give her a small smile, but in truth you do not feel at all inclined to go back home. Not when the king is the home you’ve longed to belong.

Instead you say:

“And how did you settle? After all of those events?”

Kiera is the one of the family whose experience is the closest to yours, precisely why the two of you bonded since she moved to court with husband.

“It was difficult to mourn everything I believed I was meant to live. Gods have plans for us that we cannot understand. When I accepted that not everything I hold control upon, it all became easier.” And then she adds: “You too deserve second chances, my lady.”

Before you open your mouth to express your disagreement on it, you are surprised when Maekar actually slips to your side.

“My lady, why are you staying there alone?”, inquires he.

Your face acquires a shade of pink.

“I would not like to… to intrude, Your Grace.”

The king frowns his eyebrows at you calling him by his title. Then seeing how you cannot stop playing with your rings, he understands.

“Y/N”, he calls you by your name, giving you a gaze so fondly that you instinctively cede a smirk. “You are family too. Specially now. Come, my sons must be acquainted with their stepmother.”

You have not a single argument to postpone the inevitable. Your life will not be the same from this moment one.

Slowly every eye turns at you when the king takes your hand and brings you out of the dark right to the center of the court.

“I’d like to announce I shall espouse my lady Y/N of Arryn, formerly Princess of Dragonstone.”

You do not know what to expect as he announces the news to his family and courtiers… but the following warm on the part of his children is certainly not in your expectations.

“My lady”, Daeron is the first to greet you and a twinkle of amusement in his eyes denounces that he was already informed of his father’s intentions. “Welcome to our family. We are messy, troubled, but loving to one another. There’s nothing to fear.”

You chuckle shyly.

“Thank you, my lord.”

His wife comes next, embracing you warmly.

“I’m happy for you. Remember what I told you about second chances.”

You try not to look so emotional as you appreciate such a gesture.

“Thank you for being so gentle, Lady Kiera.”

Then the princesses come to you, these giggly ladies who took you under their wig when they finally came to court.

“I am mostly pleased to see I did not need to use a potion to bring my dear papa to the happiness he deserves it”, says Daella, smirking in defiance to a frown her father gives her.

You laugh quietly.

“How spirituous of you, my lady. I’m sure we shall be very good friends.”

As you speak to every child of his own, Maekar is pleased to see how welcomed you are. It was something he was preoccupied initially, and was ready to sacrifice his personal happiness if they did not accept this new union.

In order to transmit you calm, he gently presses his arm around your waist, and you are pleased to see how well this afternoon is going.

When you meet his gaze, you find his transfixed upon yours. Bewitched you are, in body and soul, for this man so severe, so stern, but soft too, a good father to his children.

Whatever road that’s led you to him, you see it now how worth it was.

Then his lips curls discreetly in a smile, fully aware of what this might mean, this new chapter of your lives.

***

• (IV) Redemption Of the Man, Salvation of the Prince.

It is close to the wolf hour and you are preparing to slip underneath warm blankets. It is a cold night and you feel a little tired after spending the day riding with the princesses and the princes, all of whom look upon you as the mother you’d never thought you could be.

It warms your heart. You needed that, you wanted children to dote on and this is the blessing the Gods give you.

It is a fresh starter. Gods be good to me this time.

As you praise the deities for this subtle change in your life, particularly pleased that your desires of becoming a queen shall be attended, a knock on the door takes you out of your thoughts.

The maid who looks after you gives you a quizzical glance. You instruct her to attend the door whilst you throw some robes over your line nightgown.

You are perplexed when being informed it is the king who awaits you. It also amuses you that, as a king, he does not command, nor forces his entrance.

He comes as a man, pursuing his maiden’s favor.

The idea brings a smile to your lips.

“Let him in.”

The maid opens the way and conducts the king to your privy bedchambers. She parts just as quickly as she introduced him, and here he is. In red robes, looking completely stern, all the whilst his eyes betray his composed manner.

He is fire. His presence evokes it.

But you are not frightened to get burnt.

“Lady Y/N”, he does not move, eyeing every corner of your quarters before focusing in you, in your wild hair and the robes that you try to conceal of his sight.

And you wish he’d have his way. Yet, this is a man, not a boy.

“My king.”

His gaze meets yours. Maekar is pleased with what he finds.

“I wasn’t expecting to find you sleeping this late an hour.”

You dare to shorten the distance between the two of you. He does the same, still timid, still reluctant, almost if expecting you to refuse him.

“Neither expected it of you, Your Grace.” It has been a while since you’ve last used your charms, but you stand quite before him and let the robes slip out of your curves, slowly untangling the lines of your nightgown.

Maekar sees it, every sign of it. He groans low, a sound so intense, as if the hunter is preparing to hunt.

“You were in my thoughts”, his hands meet yours, and the firm grip with which he holds your wrists already tells you what kind of man he is. “I had to ensure you are well.”

“I am”, you lift your chin, giving him a defiant gaze. “What is it you want of me, my king?”

He pulls you closer. Although he still holds your wrists, he releases a hand to play with your long hair, moving to caress your cheek. His fingers so slender slip to your neck and there he wraps it, gently, carefully, fondly. Never for once parting the gaze he shares with you.

“Everything. Your devotion.” His thumb moves from your neck to your lips and you open slightly to suck it in. Maekar hisses. “Has he treated you kindly?”

You smirk at the question posed.

“Do you want the truth?”

Jealousy flashes behind his eyes. His thumb leaves you, his hand moves to the back of your neck, slipping to your back… and gently pulling your hair.

“Yes.” He demands it, under his breath.

You hold back his gaze, barely breathing as his free hand moves boldly to the skirt of your nightgown, lifting it as he slowly leads the way to your bed.

“I was fire, but he was water.”

“Hum”, is all he says.

Eventually you release your wrists and lock your hands around his neck. You flash a mischievous smirk.

“What is this, husband to be? Tell me.”

You play with his short hair, before slipping your fingers to his chest, helping toss away his night shift. You wander at his broad shoulders, his chest, and the lust so evident fuels his evident arousal.

“I dare not say”, he snaps, taking a seat at the edge of your bed as you slip to his lap. Then he helps you toss away your gown, letting his gaze linger in your breasts, so round and firm. Precisely this is how your hand boldly moves to his manhood, cupping it gently and smirking wide as he throws his head back and moans.

“I dare you to”, you lean your body towards his, licking his neck before biting it.

“You may be scared”, Maekar chuckles, letting you have his way to him. Occasionally, he helps you with what you’re doing, and bloody Gods, the king likes to see you enjoy it. “This is just a… tease.”

You turn your head to give him a playful glare, rubbing yourself over him. At times you detest how self controlled he is, and perhaps this is out of your tongue without the good sense that for months had kept you in check.

Maekar gently removes your hand as if he’s punishing you. But in fact he has other ideas when he pushes you through your thighs and turns you to your bed, completely domineering you.

“I haven’t done it since my wife came to past”, says he, finding something nearby to wrap your wrists above your head. You whimper as he teases your entrance with his tip and the man smiles at the power so easily given to him. “But you, my lady, are the only woman who’s awaken the dragon in me.”

“Do not make me beg”, you breathe heavily as his hands move to cup your breasts, and it is how experienced his fingers are in dealing with your hard nipples that you struggle not to make a sound.

Maekar chuckles.

“My prideful falcon, resist me not. For I have not resisted you.” He leans his body over yours, diving in your eyes as he pursuits your lips. “The only woman who brought me to marital bed before the marriage ceremony is properly followed.”

“How sinful it makes us”, you moan into his mouth, kissing him hungrily.

Even then, he’s not entirely free. You want him to, and here is how humbled you are. He kisses you just as hungrily, his right hand sliding through your waist to your belly and then…

“Maekar!”, you break the kiss with such a sensual moan that the king’s eyes only darken with lust.

“Beg”, Maekar orders you, groaning when feeling how soaked you are.

“Please!”, you obey.

It feels so good. Even more when he knows no other man could give you what he gives you. He can tell by how you roll your eyes, how you chant his name that you were never properly loved.

Indeed it is strange that you are found in this desperation, seeking the control upon which you’ve long costumed to wear. But your armor has been casted away, and you are acquainted with the pleasures of flesh so often admonished by the sept.

And when his lips dive in your skin, when his tongue goes to where he wanted to be, for the moment his eyes meet yours, you feel desired.

For the very first time.

“Gods be good”, you are breathless, you want more.

Maekar smirks, taking his time in your weakest spots. It is as if your body is so familiar with his hands, and little by little, he fears for himself—oh, those repressed desires he never experienced with another woman who was not his wife, and thought prudent to bury them with Dyanna.

But you.

The exception of the rule. The dutiful daughter of a dutiful house. The widow princess, aspired to become queen, whose dark hair and darker eyes could only bewitch a draconian man—and yet it is a man indeed who can love this woman, no boy. No inexperienced boy.

And his tongue is thirsty for the pleasure he aims to give you. It is how you are getting louder, very proxy to insanity when his mouth is right where you never thought it would be.

So you ride his face and you do it good.

*

But naturally, you see through him. Just as restless as he is, it is your time to make him lose control. And when you grasp his manhood again, you mumble to his ear:

“Give it to me, my king. I am subjected to your needs.”

Maekar throws his head back and groans, but he hesitates. When his eyes pursuit yours, you know what he wants, but something holds him back.

Fuck me. I cannot…

Then you capture his unspoken desire. Your lips move from his jawline down to his chest, running down to where you know he wants you to be.

“Y/N… You don’t have to do so”, and it is how Maekar whispers your name, how soft his words are that you raise your eyes, your heart racing.

There is trust. There is lust. There is affection.

You know what you are doing. And a sly smirk convinces Maekar that it is too late to go back now.

So his hands are on your hair and he guides you to what he wants you to do.

*

Septs would be terrified if being informed of what he’s done to you—with your consent. But by this wolf hour, there is no self constrained king nor the humbled maiden when he pushes you from behind right to your womanhood; when he holds you tight, when he breathes your name out in your ear.

But the Gods champion for repressed lovers and it is no sin how you feel this man so close to you, when he pushes you below and loses all the control.

At last.

And nothing warms you more than to feel his seed right into your womb.

As Maekar tombs by your side, never parting the embrace, however, you find yourself dreaming with a child of your own.

Gods be good. Perhaps your wish might have been heard.

*

In the first rays of the rising morning, Maekar contemplates you in his embrace. The image of innocence scares him, as if you are too pure for this man so full of scars, a man who lost so many he loved—-and failed them all.

His demons usually torture him in the evening, but in you he found his forces, his healing.

He remembers the last words spoken to him by Dyanna, seconds before she’d slip to unconsciousness never to return again:

“I want you to be happy again, Maekar. Do not join me in my death. This I beg of you.”

Slowly, Maekar untangles of you. He takes a seat at your bed, running his fingers over his hair. He never planned to remarry, his heart would remain tied to Dyanna, but even now…

When looking at your serenity, can he excuse himself after all that was done between the two of you? No doubts can torment him.

No.

Out of respect for the wife he loved, he cannot expect you to be like her. No. But it is as if he’s out of his shadows again.

When contemplating you, he cannot not love you. Oh, to realize it! To come to his senses!

That I am half the man I once was, oh, my fair maiden! You are credited for the goodness restored in me. I have dreamt of you, no one will ever know this; that I have desired to give my life to you, and let you conduct it until my last breath.

Maekar goes back to bed. Having fought away his scars, he dives in this peace you evoke and transmit, obliging him to drop his guard for there’s no one left to stop him now.

As if there was, but himself.

He plays gently with your hair, smiling as you, even in your sleep, pursuit him and hold him tight, as if fearful to lose him.

You shall not lose me, Y/N. I outlived them all, I shall not leave you alone in this world.

Words that maybe have been whispered soundly, and that you may have captured. When you open your eyes, Maekar knows how he’s longed to be with you, longed to be free of the burden that for years has wrenching him.

“My king”, you smile softly, blushing as you feel his intent gaze upon your face, which makes you hide away in pillow.

“No, do not hide away from me”, Maekar gently makes you look at him. “Are you a dream, fair maiden?”

Your smile spreads and the affection in your eyes sparks so genuinely, so innocently, so freely. It is you who makes him want to forget a life spent in guilt and brokenness, who grants him the warmth of a lover.

“I fear to say I am real”, you bury your head in his neck, smelling his scent as his strong arms embrace you.

And you cannot believe yourself. A whole year spent in widowhood locked you in a world where you were a virtually prisoner of guilt, misery and fear. Were you yourself in these years of marriage?

I was content, or perhaps costumed to the duties that forged me, that led me to that path.

There were rumors you’ve heard initially that your husband preferred his sister, his twin, but that she died before your arrival impeded a match to concretize. And even if your father and mother by law welcomed you as part of the family, the whispers, cruel as they were, never ceased to torment you.

Partially moved by this trauma, you are suddenly shaken by doubts. You freeze, afraid of your own thoughts.

Perceiving the subtle change of moods, Maekar gently pulls you out of the embrace and looks at you rather preoccupied.

For I see that what troubles you, have troubled me also.

“My sweet damsel”, he lifts your chin and upon finding your gaze, he can tell your defenses are knocked down. “Tell me what bothers you.”

“I… I do not wish to ruin this blissful moment that we made haven”, you whisper.

“No”, Maekar is firm as he usually is. “Speak to me, Y/N. In a matter of hours we shall be officially married before the Gods. There cannot be any secrets between us.”

You sigh. You adjust yourself in bed and tell him of your fears, the result of insecurities you’ve never spoken so loud.

Maekar, inclined his back against the wall of the bed, is holding your hand firmly, rubbing your wrist with his thumb. He listens attentively, never for a moment breaking his gaze of you.

“We are humans”, says he, when you end. “We hid ourselves behind titles, we are creatures so fable, my dear. But these whispers should have never casted a shadow upon you. I cannot speak for my nephew, but I know his father raised him well. And even if you and him were inexperienced enough to conduct each other in these waters, I assure you that this will not interfere in our own marriage. I admit I feared for me likewise. I never intended to remarry, to love another woman, but…”

“But?”

The shock in your face tells him that he’s not been evident in his affection for you. Maekar cups your face with his hands and says:

“But here we are. I do not wish you to be anyone else. I want you to be you, Y/N. I love you as you are.” Then the king smirks. “I am not like Baelor not Rhaegal, but I cannot be accused of neglecting my marital duties.”

You chuckle quietly, slipping to sit on his waist and kissing his lips fondly.

“I love you, the anvil of my heart.”

Maekar chuckles.

“Really, now?”

You and him rest your foreheads and smile. No more shadows. No more fears.

Peace and healing, as presents of the Gods, bind these two poor souls.

*

“We would like to help you dress”, says Daella, when the family gathers for the morning meal. “Would you mind, my lady?”

You flash the princess of sand hair and lilac eyes a smile. You are content that the girls have accepted you so well, for from the first day a bond was forged between the three of you.

“I would be thankful with your help, Dae. Thank you. I hear there’ll be some music today. I expect you save a dance for me”, you smile, pleased to see her face lighting up.

Then she looks anxiously to her father, who only raises eyebrows. Dae and Rhae exchange giggles and discuss the marriage before Maekar turns at them:

“Remember to behave. You have a dynastic duty, my daughters. Do not forget I am king now.”

“As predicted by me”, muses Rhae mischievously, to Maekar’s disconcertment. “I demand credits where it is due. Sometimes most of them are granted to Daeron. Bit unfair.”

Daeron limits to give Rhae a smirk.

“Sister, be content that your wishes are hardly real. You are happier than you know.”

“Daeron”, reprehends Maekar. “That is not a good way to speak to your sister.”

Rhae smirks back at his brother. Then Egg says:

“Papa, I have been to Dorne.”

Maekar gives his youngest son a look.

“This knight of yours is taking you to dangerous places and every night I can barely sleep because…”, he stops exaggerating when you place a hand over his arm and give him a gentle look. Maekar raises his eyebrows, but understands the subtle admonishment. “Well. Anywho, what is Dore like? We’d like to hear your stories, son.”

Egg’s eyes are open with surprise, but his face lightens up. Maekar gives him a small smile and listens all the way his talkative son—and the one whose uprising seems to have better conducted by the hedge knight than his own, a thought he doesn’t like to dwell on—and his adventures.

Who does not listen to him, though? His precious boy is charismatic and likes to be listened. Maekar knows it, thus he listens.

Despite the evident frowns Egg earns, and some interventions Aemon made to prevent their father to be stressed, there is pride in Maekar’s eyes as the stories are told.

“So you punched a boy because he spoke ill of our father?”, inquires Daeron, interested. “I taught you well.”

Maekar reclines back in his chair, holding your hand. He gives you a look, and you smile at him, discreetly. Then he runs at his son:

“As much as I am appalled by your loyalty to me, my dear boy, which only shows us how great is your character, you cannot punch every man who disagrees with your old papa.”

“You are not old”, says Egg. “Otherwise you’d not marry the fairest lady of all the kingdoms.”

Your face reddens and you have to take a sip of sweet ale before thanking your stepson for being so kind. Maekar too doesn’t stay behind, taking pride in his son’s manners.

Then the conversation moves to Aemon and the amount of curiosities he was eager to share with his father. You admire Maekar for listening to his sons and daughters equally, and this only melts your heart.

“Very well, children”, says Maekar. “Ceremony will begin soon. Let us not be late.”

That being said, he stands.

And each one follows a different path.

*

Rhae is brushing your hair carefully and Daella is choosing a gown. You pray the Gods that she is sensible to choose a good one.

“Dear Y/Nickname… if I may call you so”, the eldest of the pair looks at you perhaps waiting for some admonishment in the manner of their father, but upon seeing none comes, she proceeds: “Will you kindly arrange me a match? Or ask dear papa to do so? I am reaching a marriage age and so far I see nothing nor hear anything about it.”

You turn at her gently.

“My sweet girl, your papa loves you so much that he wills it to keep you near home. Why would you like to rush in marriage?”

Daella sighs.

“Because I want to be happy in having a family of my own. I want to…”, she blushes, “…have what you have.”

You take her hands and lock with yours. The princess sits by your side and admits to have considered using a love potion too.

Slowly, you convince her that this is not the right way to conquer any good lord’s affection—and you also persuade her in leaving marriage ideas aside.

“If you part now, who will join me in feasts and dinners? Who will be by my side when I require good ears to gossip with me?”

Rhae and Daella exchange glances and chuckle. Eventually, these princesses cling onto you and you are content to have them with you. A few moments later, you are dressed in a light blue gown with pearled-white sleeves.

Your hair is let loose and an iron tiara with rubis is placed over your forehead.

The princesses smile at you.

“Your Grace, shall we?”, they say at the same time.

You take their hands and let them conduct you to the ceremony.

Finally, you are where you are meant to be. And your reign thus begins.

***

• (V) The Just King & The Good Queen.

A series of tournament is offered to commemorate the first year of King Maekar’s ascension to the throne and that of his marriage to you. Knights, hedge or not, come from the many parts of the realm for the prize and the chance to write their names.

To Maekar’s consternation, Egg has shaved his hair again.

“Why? Why the fuck would you do this to me, Aegon Targaryen?”

Egg puts his puppy face and says:

“Because I do not wish to be misunderstood. Papa, if I simply show up by Ser Duncan’s side as a Prince of the realm, this won’t sit well with other competitors.”

“But you are the prince of the realm! You are my son!”, Maekar runs his hands over his hair. “Are you embarrassed of me? Of us?”

Egg gives you a look, as if asking for you to interfere. You chuckle at his silent request.

“Husband, there is little need to be overdramatic. Hairs grow back again. And the prince has a point, you know. Let him squire Ser Duncan as he’s been doing for years now.”

Maekar shoots you a glare, but you are too costumed with his stern manners to back off.

“Y/N, I was never truly used to the way of things.”

“Papa”, Egg sighs. “Please.”

The king closes his eyes, then nods.

“Very well. But you are not taking part of the jousts. Do you understand?”

Egg smirks, eyes twinkling with victory.

“That I shall not. I am a great squire, papa.”

Maekar walks toward his youngest son and presses a hand over his shoulder.

“That I know.” Father and son exchange complicit gazes before he says: “You are my greatest defender, after all.”

Egg smiles the brightest. Then he turns at you and surprises you with an embrace.

“Thank you”, he whispers.

You press a kiss over his forehead and grant him the blessing he needs. Your eyes are puddled with water when this delightful boy leaves.

Maekar turns at you, understanding the sentiment very well.

“It is so difficult to keep them together at home”, muses he, frustrated.

You tiptoe to press a soft kiss against his cheek. Maekar casts you a glance, holding you close, as in silence you comfort him.

*

Nothing amuses more the deities than the daily drama of those mundane creatures upon whom they exercise their influence and power.

When Lady Kiera gives birth, she’s doing so for the second time—Maekar is by now a grandsire of a boy, named after himself (Maegor) and a girl, named Daerra, likely after his first wife—, you cannot help but wondering if you are as barren as a friend of Aelor once mused in an occasion that your then husband did not stand for you.

It is the duty of a wife to grant her husband’s heirs. I understand Maekar already has successors and I would not like to mess with it. But I fear that I shall always be looked down for not doing my duty.

Yet, you dismiss these thoughts when you pray or attend the house of silent sisters. Duty is what you know, and you do so perfectly.

Until one morning, just as Maekar is preparing to head to Summerhall in order to pay a visit to his son and heir all the whilst trying to keep his daughters out of Ser Duncan’s eyes—he was shocked to find out that Daella was infatuated with this peasant knight—,you are found nauseous.

“Gods”, you grumble. “This is… Ugh.”

You take a deep breath, but eventually manage yourself.

This is not a good day to feel sick, pull yourself together. A maid comes to help you dress and though she advises you to stay and not engage in a relatively long journey, you are too stubborn to take the advice.

“I am an Arryn”, you tell her. “And we do not quake before any obstacles.”

*

“You look unwell”, observes Maekar. “You should have taken the carriage.”

He clenches his jaw, concern flashing over his eyes. The king is irritated that you are evidently trying to conceal your well being state from him. Specially when he knows you well—to the point of knowing your rules.

“I can and I will rule by the king’s side as I should”, you do not even think twice before snapping back.

Maekar shoots you a glare.

“My children have unfortunately influenced you, I see.”

You turn your head and smirk, amused.

“Are you blaming them for my sad tendency in being headstrong?”

“It is true, though. You and the three youngest brats that other night… when I wanted to spend time with you”, he groans.

You laugh quietly.

“Why, Egg’s stories of the tournament were very amusing. Where is he, by the way?”

Maekar sighs heavily.

“He was supposed to go with us, but I needed to send Ser Duncan to do something for me with Brynden Rivers.”

You flash your husband another smirk.

“Must you send the good knight to your rival simply because he is handsome and chivalrous and earned Daella’s affection?”

The king looks at you, shocked.

“Fuck me, Y/N. Why’d the… Are you fucking supporting them?!”

To his annoyance, you laugh. But the cheerful sound of your laughter is cut short as you are taken by a new wave of nauseous.

Maekar’s grumpiness is quickly substituted for his concern.

“Y/N. Perhaps we should go back.”

“No, no. I am well”, you flash him a smirk.

“Fuck me, you’re not. Stubborn woman, what are you feeling?”

You’d make a jest about it, but the look your consort gives you does not indicate any acceptance of sarcastic remarks. You sigh.

“I feel… tired and my stomach is restless. It must be something I’ve ingested.”

Maekar rides by your side.

“If you need to make a pause…”

“No. I shall not humiliate my husband in searching of a peasant house to save his wife of a general embarrassment”, you remark in between giggles.

As expected, the king does not share your good sense of humor. He sighs again.

“For fuck’s sake, this is not…”, then he pauses, when an idea so subtly slips his mind.

Could it be?

You raise your eyebrows at the silence he is in. But you do not have enough time to inquire about it, for thankfully you and him arrive at Summerhall.

*

The staying in Summerhall is peaceful and warm. You are filled with amusing stories by your stepchildren. The evening is just as cheerful with the grandchildren of your husband.

As the king spends time with them, you are occupied with embroidery when Daeron comes to take a side next to you.

“Greetings there, dearest”, you smile at him, placing aside your work. “How do I find you?”

“Well, my lady. I pray you are better of your sickness”, he gives you a knowing smile. Once perceiving the confusion stamped in your eyes, Daeron chuckles. “I have my way of knowing things. I would like to show you my appreciation. My father needed someone like you to guide him right.”

You flash him a warm smile in turn. Taking his hand in yours, you squeeze it lightly.

“I appreciate it. In truth, your father and I are not so different. We are both moved by a sense of duty, a sense of honor that may turn us too strict. At the end of the day, however, we are family, Daeron. May you never forget it.”

“Aye. And what a family we are, my lady Y/N”, says Daeron, somewhat prophetic.

*

Maekar holds you against his chest, his arms wrapped around your growing belly, his face almost buried in your neck.

“I am fertile even at this age”, muses he amused.

You chuckle low.

“Do not be so foolish, Maekar. Your Valyrian handsomeness is so tempting that little wonder your late wife gave birth to six children”, you laugh quietly, turning slightly to see him blushing. “Furthermore, your seed operates under magic, as rumored it is that your Valyrian ancestry is filled with it, for you placed a son in my infertile womb.”

Maekar is on his elbow and smiles at you. He caresses your face, eyeing you with such a devotion that you sigh in content.

“Silly woman. I do not deserve your praises.” He brushes his lips against yours. “My queen, my wife, my heart. Fuck. I am at your mercy.”

“As I am at yours, mine own liege”, you kiss him softly. Then you stroke his beard and then his silver hair. “I love you.”

“I love you.”

That night, Maekar Targaryen comes to believe, for the first time in years, that it is possible to find peace amidst torments, that it is possible to love and be loved even in the midst of war against one’s vices.

There is always light in dark.

***

• Epilogue

You are lying in your bed, admiring the man who takes permanently hold of your heart. Many see and know him as the stern king, with a past marked by tragedy.

But it is precisely tragedy that makes this king a just one, a good ruler as his father once was and better, according to many scribes, than his predecessor. He may not be like Prince Baelor, but he’s worthy of many praises.

They see his crown, not the man he is underneath.

Noticing the weight of your gaze, Maekar, who’s now dressed for bed, raises his eyebrows at you.

“What is my beautiful wife looking at?”

“At the husband she is perpetually infatuated with.”

His eyes burn you with a long glance that moves from your brushed dark locks to your line nightgown.

It does little to help his case that you are charming him. And he possesses no strength to resist it.

“You are my perdition, woman.”

You laugh quietly, hands around his neck, lips already brushing over his jawline to his neck as he inclines his body over yours.

But the intimate moment is interrupted by a sound that soon makes you and him jump out, startled, for the door opens and your four year old princess Daenerys is running to your bed, not minding to stay in between you.

Maekar sighs heavily, closing his eyes briefly before stroking his daughter’s hair as you hold her little hands:

“What is it, my lovely?”

“Mama, I want to stay with you and papa.”

You and him exchange a few glances.

“My dear Dany, what is the matter? You know you have your own private quarters to sleep”, says Maekar, delicately, all the whilst permitting his daughter to climb over his chest and rocking her gently.

“I had a dream.”

Maekar gives you a look, and you try to calm him by holding his hand, locking it with yours.

“What dream, my sweet girl?”

“I dreamed about dragons and fire. A fire that will burn, a dragon that will fly from ashes”, then she casts a look at him.

Maekar falls silent, before carefully placing his princess in between them. You are singing a lullaby, placing her to sleep. Once she does, you turn at him.

“My dear, I told you there is magic in your ancestry”, you flash him a smile that disconcerts him.

“Y/N, she possesses the same abilities of Daeron.”

You stroke his face and give him a reassuring smile.

“We can do this, Maekar. You raised Daeron well, and today he is a better man than could’ve been, you know it. What we can offer is the best there is in us. To aim it as high as honor.”

He leans to peck his lips.

“Will there ever be peace?”, chuckles the king.

“Well, what I know is that I conceived again”, you grin.

Maekar and you exchange complicit glances. Not all is lost as long one has the other.