𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: arranged marriage; strangers to lovers; some angst, fluff, smut in later chapters; soft!daeron; sad and drunk daeron but oc will love him the way he deserves; 3rd person pov
𝐚/𝐧: hii, this is literally my first time writing here, i'm too obsessed with this drunk targaryen boy so i decided to write a (hopefully!!!) multi-chapter fic for him! :) some parts of the story will follow the plot of akotsk but obviously it's canon divergent. pics and divider from pinterest.
Prince Daeron Targaryen dreamt of a rose garden one night. A red fox appeared among the flowers and looked him right in the eye. Upon waking, he had to return to his duties as a prince and take a wife.
Myrtilla Tyrell lay in her rose garden, reading about the magnificent bygone era of dragons. A letter had been addressed to her: a prince asking for her hand in marriage.
𝐜.𝐰.: +18 nsfw!; fluff, smut; wet dream (heavy makeout, dry humping, breast play, petting, fingering); female masturbation; first kiss; mentions of drinking, cursing
𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: After the prince's visit, Myrtilla battles with her pent-up emotions. The time of her travel to King's Landing for their wedding nears, and their meeting at the capital strengthens their bond.
𝐚/𝐧: we're getting freaky guys so minors dni; also sorry, this posting fast thing didn't really work out, but this chapter is longeeer
The Tyrells stood in the courtyard, servants preparing luggages and horses for their guests' leave. Myrtilla's night was mostly spent with racing thoughts and contemplation. Was she about to marry a mere drunkard? Or was the prince plagued by something far beyond her comprehension?
Her eyes were fixed on Daeron. Dark circles marred his undereyes. His violet orbs searched for her blue ones as well. Myrtilla gave him a sympathetic smile. There were many things yet unsaid between them, both of them knew that.
"We are looking forward to welcoming you all in King's Landing next week, my friend," Prince Maekar said while putting on his black leather gloves. "The wedding is highly anticipated by many, our family is very excited."
"We are, too, your grace, we will arrive a week from now," Lord Tyrell replied, "Have an undisturbed journey back, milords." He bowed and gestured to the servants to bring the horses to the guests.
Daeron stepped forward and took Myrtilla's hand. His lips ghosted over her knuckles, much like yesterday. But instead of pulling away, he leaned in and whispered in her ear, "I will write to you, my lady," he looked at her and smiled, and Myrtilla's stomach flipped in excitement.
"Wait, my prince, I almost forgot. I made this for you," Myrtilla took out the embroidered handkerchief and handed it to Daeron, their fingers brushing during the exchange. His fingers roamed the meticulous pattern of thread.
"This is beautiful, thank you," he smiled and nodded to the girl.
The Targaryens and their guards bid farewell to the family and rode off to the wide road winding among the grassy hills. The sun was high up in the East, the morning air was still a little bit chilly.
Myrtilla could feel a pair of peering eyes on her, of course coming from her sister.
"What did he say to you?" Gwen inquired in a singsongy tone.
"None of your business, young lady," Myrtilla replied yet she fought hard not to smile widely. She couldn't wait for the prince's letter to arrive. What was his purpose? Would he address his hungover state this morning? Did he know she had seen him in the evening beside the wine? Perhaps he would compliment her again, like he had done in the garden. His courting flattered her greatly, and although she would not call it love, she sensed that their developing feelings were mutual.
She resorted back into the castle with the others, not wanting to be alone in her whirlwind of emotions. She found her lady companions, chatted, embroidered and rode out with them. The activities took her conflicting thoughts off her mind. Although she had many doubts, many questions and fears, she didn't feel miserable. Her soon-to-be husband did not seem to be the worst, after all.
Three days later, Myrtilla lay on the velvety grass of the castle garden, beneath a blossoming cherry tree. Her brows furrowed in focus as she wrote in her journal. She had recently started to document her days, thoughts and anything, really, that caught her attention. She felt herself to be more grounded like this. Less than a week from that point on, she would marry a prince and that fact alone was enough for any sane person to be bursting with anxiety.
Suddenly, a feeling of déja vu came over her, and soon she found out the mundane reason. Much like the day she had found out about the marriage arrangement, a sibling of hers approached with heavy footsteps. But instead of her Nosey Parker sister, it was her eldest brother, Gawain. Myrtilla involuntarily flinched as the young man stepped beside her.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I brought you something," Gawain said, hiding something behind his back. He had always been kind to Myrtilla. The two of them were less temperamental than Gwen and Robyn. The younger brother was only a year older than Myrtilla, so when their parents were busy caring for her, Gawain had the misfortune of looking after the little rascal. Hence, Gawain grew closer to his younger brother and they paid little attention to Myrtilla as little children. But as they were growing, Gawain and Myrtilla bonded through their love for history and political matters, and they continued to maintain a good relationship as young adults, as well.
"Show me," Myrtilla's hand reached upwards with grabby fingers and a grin on her face. She hoped it would be what her heart desired.
"On one condition," Gawain said, revealing the mystery object to be the letter, indeed. "You tell me about him."
"Why? Are you so keen to know about my romantic interests?" Myrtilla joked, but she was dazed as why her brother inquired about Daeron.
"You're still my little sister. I want to know if you will be in good hands," the dirty blond young man looked deep into her eyes, radiating genuine concern. Myrtilla was a little surprised. They hadn't had a heartfelt conversation in a long time, but it warmed her.
"Sit," she asked and scooted over a bit. She paused as Gawain sat next to her. "I don't know where to start... He's very well-mannered, of course, but I don't think it's just a façade to impress me. He dreamt of me, you know. It must mean something. I think, I hope he will fancy me. And see me, as I am. But I'm frightened, Gawain. This family... they scare me. Talks about his character scare me. And most of all, it scares me how I will never be this free, this careless as I am now. I know it's my duty to marry good, but I don't want this to end." She opened her arms to signify she meant her life in Highgarden, with the people she loves.
"I can't even imagine how you must feel. It's exhausting to have such conflicting feelings. In another life, I hope I am a woman so I can come back here to give you advice," Gawain smiled and his comment made Myrtilla chuckle. "But now, I only say this: you can always count on me. I would do anything to ensure you're safe and content. I hope this will clear your mind a little," he said and handed the letter to the girl. "Besides, you can always run away..." he added with a grin. Myrtilla rolled her eyes and giggled, but replied kindly.
"Oh, I am no damsel in distress! But thank you. I really am."
"Read, we will talk later." Gawain left her alone, grateful to him and hopeful towards her soon-to-be husband.
Myrtilla gently cracked the seal and opened the textured paper. Her eyes found his words immediately, written in the same messy, yet charming fashion.
My Dear Myrtilla,
"Oh, what an endearing start," she thought.
My visit to Highgarden was the most pleasant journey I have had in a while now, and the reason for that is quite simple. It was you. Our time spent together brought me wonderful revelations.
First, that my dream was indeed about you. Whatever god is responsible for my dreaming was merciful that night and gifted me with the vision of my future wife. Perhaps our betrothal was not in the hands of our fathers, but a higher power.
"Gods, the way he wields his words," Myrtilla sighed to herself, amazed by the prince's poetic disposition. She read further.
Second, that there are more things I wish to discuss with you before our wedding. I will not be the perfect husband. I will not be a dream come true. But to me, you are just that. And I will do best as I can to provide for you amongst the whirlwinds of my family and royal duties.
A poem came to my mind when I arrived back at Summerhall, and it fits how I saw you upon our walk in the garden.
The lily has a smooth stalk,
Will never hurt your hand;
But the rose upon her brier
Is lady of the land.
There’s sweetness in an apple tree,
And profit in the corn;
But lady of all beauty
Is a rose upon a thorn.
When with moss and honey
She tips her bending brier,
And half unfolds her glowing heart,
She sets the world on fire.*
I hope you find this poem to be as beautiful as I see you to be, and I certainly hope I do not offend you. I am honoured to greet you in King's Landing next week and take you as my lady wife.
Yours,
Daeron
Myrtilla was speechless. This man who she called her betrothed not only thought of her so highly but dedicated a poem to her, too? Her heart fluttered at the thought of seeing him again next week, and every day from that point on. She felt so besotted by him. It confused her, really. Daeron was nicknamed "The Drunken" for a reason, she had seen it with her own eyes, too. She was nervous about how it would affect their relationship but the growing warmth within her was far greater. Perhaps she was foolish for this. She didn't care, for now. She decided to write him a reply letter the next day.
Warm, wet lips caressed her neck as she lay in her own bed, the white linen covers forgotten and scrunched up somewhere on the edge of the bed. Sandy blond waves tickled her shoulder and her rosy cheeks.
It was Daeron. Her prince. On top of her, his hips slotted between her thighs. His lips were surprisingly soft as they found her face. He kissed the corner of her mouth, then claimed her lips in a searing kiss. It was messy, he tasted her tongue with such passion that made her neck and cleavage flush in a deep shade of red.
"My prince," she sighed into his mouth.
"What do you want, darling?" he whispered, barely opening his violet eyes.
"Keep touching me."
She didn't have to tell him twice. His hands snaked down her neck, then cupped her breasts over her nightgown. Myrtilla sighed as his thumb grazed over her nipple, sending shivers down her spine.
He kept kissing her fervently, letting out soft groans himself while grinding his hips into hers.
"Fuck, you're so beautiful. Sweeter than the finest wine."
Myrtilla moaned into his mouth at that, and raked her nails down his side and along his bare back.
"Please," she sighed, not knowing herself what she was pleading for. But it felt like he knew exactly what she wanted, Myrtilla thought maybe he could read her mind.
"Shh," he shushed her, "let me help you, darling."
He snaked his left hand down her thighs while holding her head with the other. His fingers started to push the fabric up her body, scrunched up at her neck, until she was fully exposed to him.
"Gods, look at that. You are breathtaking, my sweet girl."
She sighed and pouted in frustration, waiting for him to finally do something to her burning, naked skin.
He had mercy on her and cupped her breasts again, the skin-on-skin contact causing goosebumps to appear on her limbs.
Daeron's lips detached from hers, a small string of spit hanging between their lips. His mouth then travelled lower, giving open-mouthed kisses to her neck. He listened to her moans and soon he found the most sensitive part of her skin there. He gently sucked, earning a breathy sigh from Myrtilla. She felt his lips curve into a smile against the red mark he left on her neck.
Simultaneously, his fingers pinched her left nipple. She arched into him, their groins rubbing together as they humped on the bed. The prince's head dipped lower, Myrtilla looking at him with wide eyes and mouth ajar, waiting for his next move.
His lips closed over her right nipple, his left hand still massaging the other one. The sensation was almost too much for Myrtilla, even though he wasn't even close to where she wanted him the most. His tongue circled her stiff bud and she could see his spit glistening on her breast.
His eyes found hers and she swore she could see the flames of desire in his dark pupils. Her hips moved involuntarily against his thigh that was slotted between hers. His lips let go of her nipple with a wet pop and grinned wickedly.
"Do you want me to continue?"
"Please do, I want you..." Myrtilla begged timidly.
"Where do you want me?" He whispered into her sternum.
"Lower," she said, raking her fingers through his messy hair, a sudden rush of confidence taking her over, likely a result of her growing desire.
"Here?" he asked as his hands roamed her ribcage and stomach.
Myrtilla shook her head, pulling his hair lightly to urge him back to her lips. He gave her what she wanted and kissed her, licking into her mouth.
"Then here?" he teased as he caressed her thigh, smiling into the kiss.
"Daeron, please," she groaned, growing so impatient she could have shoved his hand between her legs. But her pride and dignity wouldn't let her. No, she would wait until he couldn't resist her.
The prince was painfully hard, she could feel it against her thighs and he was breathing heavily, too. His hands finally ghosted over her undergarments.
"How about here, my flower?" he whispered into her ear and she nodded, dizzy with anticipation. That was all he needed.
His fingers found their way into the waistband of the cotton covering her lower half. She shivered as his skin made contact with her mound.
"Oh, you're soaked already," he stated, closing his eyes at the velvety feel of her skin covered in her arousal.
Myrtilla's lips formed and "O" and her brows furrowed at his contact. She had never had a man touch her in any way, let alone this intimately. But she trusted him, desired him, more than she would have liked to admit to anyone.
His middle finger found her clitoris with precision and started circling it softly. Her hips jerked a little from sensitivity. It felt wonderful, maybe even better than her own fingers. It seemed like he knew her body better than herself, if that was possible.
She let out a few breathy moans unwillingly as reaction to his ministrations and Daeron smiled into her neck. The bastard, he knew she was enjoying it.
Suddenly, he switched his technique and swiped his fingers over and inside her folds. She missed his finger on her clit but didn't complain. Her senses were heightened by excitement and pure, unfiltered lust.
He removed his hand from under her smallclothes and she almost whined in frustration. But then, he brought his hand towards her face and swiped two fingers on her kiss-swollen lips, asking for entry. She opened her mouth and took the tips of his digits in, circling her tongue over them. She could faintly smell and taste herself but she didn't mind, the whole scene felt incredibly sinful and she loved it.
Daeron removed his fingers when he considered them wet enough, bringing his saliva-covered digits down against her cunt again. Then, the same middle finger gently prodded her opening and Daeron looked deep into her eyes to ask for consent.
"Go ahead, darling," she sighed, blinded by everything about him. His heat, his smell, his proximity. He carefully slid his finger into her tight heat, still untouched by any man.
Myrtilla sighed at the sudden intrusion, although it didn't hurt. Daeron kissed her hairline, her cheeks, the tip of her nose while easing his finger into her. When he was knuckle-deep inside her, he started to slowly move in and out. He listened to her breathing, chest rising and falling faster when he hit her sweet spot. He bent his finger to reach that particular point inside her walls that made her moan and fingered that in an increasingly faster pace.
"Do you want another one?" he asked her, voice deepened by desire, and Myrtilla nodded against his chest, resting her head below his chin. One of her hands fisted the soft pillow on the bed, the other clung to his bicep.
Daeron added his ring finger into his actions, and Myrtilla felt so full already. His digits were longer and thicker than hers, reaching spots inside her she hadn't before. The sensations fogged her mind completely as she writhed against his body.
Myrtilla didn't register how long they kept going, it could have been seconds, minutes, or hours even, all she felt was the immense pleasure he provided her. She felt her peak approaching and she pleaded,
"Please don't stop!"
Daeron didn't even dream of it, he kept his pace and felt her walls gripping his fingers, her wetness coating his entire palm now. He kissed her with a burning passion and Myrtilla felt the band inside her stomach tightening, ready to snap at any moment, when...
Her eyes shot open, suddenly sitting up in her bed, heaving vehemently. "What in the gods," she thought, immensely shocked and frustrated by her dream. It was just a dream. Unfortunately.
The sky was still dark grey, dawn approaching but the moon was still up. She felt embarrassed, cheeks turning rosy as she thought about her betrothed and what he was doing to her in her unconscious, sleeping mind. Yet, her whole body felt hot, yearning for some relief. Of course it wasn't possible to make the prince satisfy her right away, being miles away from her, especially not before they are wed. So her hands travelled down her body.
Her fingers collected the soft cotton of her nightgown and pulled it up, exposing her underclothes. She snaked her right hand under the fabric, finding herself wet already. The dream did feel extremely realistic, so her arousal didn't come as a surprise.
She circled her sensitive bud delicately, working herself up. She wanted to recreate the scene her mind had created, although she knew it wouldn't be as euphoric. Daeron wasn't there, his warmth didn't engulf her, his mouth wasn't on hers, and his fingers weren't between her legs.
She had to deal with her overwhelming sexual frustration herself. She massaged her sweet spot increasingly faster, breathing heavily. She imagined her prince atop her, her mind's eye replacing her fingers to his thicker ones.
When she deemed her core wet enough, she eased her middle finger inside her hole, sighing from pleasure and relief. It felt good, much like in her dream, and she kept picturing Daeron's presence, doing sensual acts with her under the moonlight.
She added a second finger, filling herself more. Although she knew her body well, having spent quite some nights touching herself before, she couldn't help but feel an ache in her chest to find out what it feels like to lie with a man. With her man. Daeron.
Lewd images of their envisioned coupling filled her mind and soon she felt herself approaching her climax. She pulled her fingers out and rubbed at her clit again, immense pleasure taking over her senses. Her whole body felt electric, and then she reached that delicious peak.
Myrtilla felt utterly exhausted, both physically and mentally. Her chest was rising and falling as she lay on the sheets. She shamefully swiped her fingers on the hem of her nightgown and pulled it down to cover her body.
How flustered she felt... Having just pleasured herself to the thought of a man she had only known for such a short time. After she had felt repulsion towards the mere mention of marriage. Yet, every atom in her body longed to get to know him, to feel him, to be with him.
The day came when as soon as the sun emerged on the horizon, all servants gathered to prepare the Tyrell family for their journey to the capital of the realm. Busy noises filled the castle, chests were filled with clothes, food and everything of use during their travel.
Myrtilla was awakened by Clarah, the young blonde woman opening the curtains of the homey bedchamber.
"Good morrow, my soon-to-be married lady!" she chimed kindly, voice buttery soft. Myrtilla loved her handmaiden. She would call their relation a friendship, although Clarah was always humble and never overstepped the boundary between a lady and her maid.
Myrtilla smiled and rubbed her eyes. The realisation kicked in that in a few days she will be many things entirely new to her current self. A wife, a princess, and gods know what other titles came with this arrangement. But she felt excited. She imagined how lively it would all be. A lavish wedding, a beautiful court, new people.
The soft wings of butterflies filled her stomach as she sat up in her bed. She would see Daeron soon. She would feel his eyes on herself again, hear his mellow voice, touch his hand. Her mind was suddenly clouded by embarrassment as she remembered her lewd thoughts and actions connected to her prince. But she didn't have to wait much longer to get to know him more intimately.
"I am so grateful you will stay with me. I would feel so lost without you, Clarah."
"Of course I will, milady. I would never let a foreign handmaiden take my place by your side," Clarah said playfully, also excited about the changes in both of their lives. They knew their friendship would last even when Myrtilla was married into the Targaryen family.
She ate her breakfast quickly, not wanting to lose time and perhaps delay their departure. Clarah dressed Myrtilla in travel-fitting garments, ones that endured days of carriage-ride. They packed for the journey, picked some of her finest gowns, although she would have plenty new ones there, she knew. When they were finished, Myrtilla joined her family in the main hall.
"Is everything ready, my dear?" Lord Tyrell asked his daughter. Myrtilla nodded, her growing nerves seemed to have got her tongue.
"How exciting! I have never been to King's Landing," Gwendolyne shrieked, disturbing the silence, and Myrtilla chuckled. She hugged her little sister, sharing the girl's restlessness.
"My darlings, let us embark, if everything is all set," Lady Tyrell stepped into the hall. Maids and servants carried the family's luggages, others bringing the carriage for the ladies and horses for the men.
Myrtilla sat beside her mother, with Gwen across her. She was still grinning, Myrtilla's heart warming up from her sister's joy. Their mother was restless for another reason, her pursuit for perfection and order took over her nerves.
Myrtilla held out a hand for the Lady, and she looked at the girl with surprise. She took it, then, immediately relaxing a little. Myrtilla didn't know many things. But she knew that one of the most important values of life was human connection. And she did know that well.
Days of travel tired the family. Gwen was now leaning her head on Myrtilla's shoulder as the carriage bumped along the road. Lady Tyrell was anxiously embroidering a handkerchief as a distraction from the fact that they were nearing their destination.
Myrtilla was looking out the window, admiring the landscape. Suddenly, among the hills emerged the first tower of the Red Keep. She straightened up a little in her seat and Gwen jolted awake.
"Look! The King's castle!" Myrtilla pointed towards the reddish stone building looming in the distance. Gwen gasped and climbed over to the window to take a better look.
"We are so close!"
"Sit down, darling," Lady Tyrell chided the girl, "Get yourselves together, girls, be presentable and neat."
Myrtilla looked into a tiny mirror she carried with herself. Her skin was dewy, so she patted a finger over her face, tidied up her hair and fixed her jewellery. She hoped her appearance and character would make a good impression on the rest of the royal family. She hoped Daeron would fancy her.
The stench of the heavily populated city hit her nose, grossing her out. The carriage approached the city gate and Myrtilla took in the stones of the houses, the loudness, the wide variety of activities and the people of various nations going on about their days.
"King's Landing is just as repulsive as I remember," her mother said, frowning, "it will take a damned amount of time for you to get used to this foulness."
"I am sure I will. The Keep is more pleasant, I suppose."
"Indeed, I have visited one of the balls there years ago, but I miss Highgarden already."
"Must you be so adverse? I do not want you to impose any more worry on me." Myrtilla felt utterly exhausted and irked by her mother's remarks.
"I'm sorry dear, you are absolutely right." Lady Tyrell gave her hand a squeeze and smiled apologetically.
The Tyrells entered the castle's gates, guards and servants helping them immediately. Myrtilla glanced towards the main entrance and Prince Maekar stepped out, a crossed look on his visage. His eldest son followed him. Daeron looked... tired? Upset? Myrtilla couldn't really tell. His hair was more disheveled than last time, the bags under his eyelids more prominent. She still found him beautiful.
"My Lords, Ladies," Maekar greeted as the men dismounted their horses and the ladies got off the carriage, servants aiding them. Myrtilla looked down, the ground was fairly muddy, staining her light gown, but she couldn't care less. Her eyes searched for Daeron's. The prince smiled and stepped in front of her.
"Lady Myrtilla, I'm happy to see you," he said quietly, ever so gentle. He took her hand and pressed a soft kiss to it. Her heart fluttered, then she curtsied,
"My prince, so am I."
"Come, let our guests settle in," Maekar called out, inviting the Tyrells inside. The great hall was extensive, marble colums stretched up to the ceiling like giant trees. The stained glass windows let in a wonderful refracted light, shining colourfully on gilded embellishments. Myrtilla couldn't even get hold of the splendour surrounding her.
They were oriented to their chambers where Myrtilla changed her travelling gown with the help of Clarah, now she put on her delicate gold ornaments and a blushy pink dress embroidered with floral patterns.
"Milady, the prince will love this dress," the handmaiden exclaimed.
"I hope so, dear," she replied bashfully, "he looked rather disarrayed, don't you think?"
"Yes... maybe he's nervous as well and had to pour some courage into himself." Clarah insinuated Daeron might have drunk, making Myrtilla even more anxious.
"What if he's drunk all the time? How will I deal with a husband like that?"
"I'm sorry, milady, I did not mean to upset you. And I'm sure the prince can moderate himself, his father definitely orders him to do so."
"You're right... anyways, I have to go now, I don't want to be late for the feast." With that, Myrtilla was escorted to the dining hall, guests and royal family members already surrounding the large table.
She found her seat next to her sister's and right across Daeron's. The prince slowly sipped on his goblet, but he immediately put it down as soon as he saw the girl.
"You look wonderful," he said, just loud enough for her to hear, not wanting to bring attention to himself. Myrtilla smiled widely and mouthed a "thank you".
At that moment, King Daeron entered with his guards and took up his seat on the upper end of the table.
"Welcome, dear guests, Lords and Ladies! Let us feast upon this remarkable occasion, a fruitful betrothal between two powerful houses. May these two young souls entwine in happiness and love. To the royal wedding!" the King spoke, raising his cup, the others following.
Myrtilla looked at her prince after the King's toast, blushing at the possibility of love blossoming between them. Daeron's expressions were hard to read, but he was looking so deeply into her eyes, with calmness and admiration.
The feast was lavish, spent mostly with merry conversations, Lady Tyrell's scolding of Gwen not sitting properly, and Myrtilla studying the prince's every movement. He was doing the same, constantly stealing glances at her face, hands and gestures. When it ended and they all left the table, Daeron stepped beside Myrtilla.
"I wish to take you on a ride and a walk near the city, to a lake, if you do not object," he said, while offering an arm for her to hold onto.
"Of course not, I would be very glad."
"Then it is settled, meet me by the entrance when you're ready."
Myrtilla nodded and rushed to her room. She asked Clarah to dress her in riding attire, and braided her hair into a long plait cascading down her left shoulder. Her stomach flipped at the thought of being alone with the prince again.
Sort of... two guards followed them as they rode their horses through the forest surrounding King's Landing. They were far enough, though, not to hear their conversation properly.
"Actually, I do not enjoy riding so much," Daeron said, "although the reason for that is the violence I attribute to it. I loathe tourneys and any type of combat knights usually enjoy."
Myrtilla giggled, "You really went out of your way, didn't you? I like riding, like this, on a peaceful trail."
"Well, if the company is good..." he trailed off, smiling and eyeing Myrtilla as their horses hacked along the road.
"Does your family force you to compete in tourneys?" she asked.
"Not all the time, but I had the misfortune of entering the lists quite a lot. I'm a horrible knight," he sighed, "Gods, why am I flaunting my weaknesses and unmanliness in front of my wife-to-be?"
"I do not disparage you for not liking fights, nor do I question your manliness, Daeron. Your virtues lie somewhere else, which I appreciate very much."
"Like what?" he asked, eyes wide at the girl's honesty.
"Poetry, art, intellectual merits. Those are more important to me. You're excellent at expressing yourself. And also at courting me." Myrtilla said before she could think. But it was true. The prince's kindness affected her more than she would have liked to admit.
"I am glad, my lady. I mean every word I say to you. Spending time with you, talking to you constantly uplifts me." Daeron smiled and nudged his bay horse closer to Myrtilla's grey one.
"We will leave them here," he pointed to the clearing past some trees. "I will ask the guards to look after them. We will be safe alone, the lake is very close, if that is alright with you?"
"Of course, I cannot wait to see it."
After dismounting his horse, Daeron helped Myrtilla off of hers, hands gripping her waist, their first physical contact since her arrival. Myrtilla thanked him and they began their short trek to the lake. The clearing was littered with poppies, the spring grass bright and lively as the warm breeze combed through the blades.
Myrtilla let out a small gasp as she caught a glimpse of the emerald lake. The glittery sunrays danced on the water, and Myrtilla felt herself at home, the sight reminding her of the beauty of the Reach.
"Daeron, this is wonderful, I can't believe such bliss is so near to the city. Do you come here often?"
"No, not anymore. I used to come quite a few times with my brother, Aerion. Fishing. We liked fishing." She could see a flash of sadness in his eyes. She didn't bug him about it.
Daeron carried a bag, and pulled out a blanket for them to sit on by the lake.
"Come, I hope this will suffice."
"Of course, everything is perfect, thank you," she smiled and settled on the cloth.
Daeron laid some leather-wrapped items in front of them. Fruits, sweets, small cakes, and of course, wine. Myrtilla looked up at him, but his eyes were already fixed on her. She opened her mouth slightly, yet no words came out.
"Ask away, darling," he said, clearly knowing she wanted to say something. Her heart fluttered at the term of endearment.
"Do you drink because of your dreams?"
"Yes." Such a plain answer.
"I apologize, I do not wish to intrude..."
"No, not at all. I want to be earnest with you. We will join our lives, after all," the corners of his mouth curved into a slight smile, "I drink. Sometimes quite a lot. It is a well-known fact at court, a great shame to my family. The greatest for my father, to be specific. I was ashamed of it for a long time, hells, years. Then I got used to it, the looks, the whispers, you know. I'm not ashamed anymore. At least not until now. I feel the greatest shame when I drink in front of you."
"You need not, I can assure you. I do not disdain you for it. Are these dreams really that horrifying?"
"Most are. They are more like prophecies. An impressive talent for an unimpressive man. Death and destruction cloud my mind at night when I don't drown myself in my cups."
Myrtilla's brows furrowed with concern and sympathy. Her betrothed wasn't a mere roistering drunkard. He was tortured.
"I'm so sorry. It must be... I cannot even imagine."
Daeron smiled and took her hand in his.
"You are too kind. I wish I was different. I wish I could cope with it differently. The gods really played out all their ironies with my "gift". You deserve a husband who is not drunk half his life, Myrtilla."
"I will have you as my husband. I do not wish for another. And I do not ask of you to stop drinking altogether. We will figure it out together." She gave his hand a squeeze and offered him a kind smile. She meant every word. Yet she was afraid. He could sense it.
"If I contain my drinking, I become sick and dream ferociously. If I do drink, I'm a useless piece of a man. I try to find the balance. It's wavering. But I will try. I will try my best for you." Daeron looked deep into her eyes, a kind of sadness planted on his visage.
"You're a kind man, Daeron. I only ask of you one thing: do not break my heart."
"I wouldn't dream of it." He tucked a strand of loose hair from Myrtilla's face behind her ear.
They talked and laughed in the sunlit meadow by the lake. Myrtilla stuffed some crunchy green grapes into her mouth while Daeron bit into a lemoncake. He turned around suddenly.
"I have something to give to you."
"A gift? You spoil me today!"
Daeron turned back to face her and let out a breathy laugh, "You deserve it. Here, I had this made for you, to wear for our wedding tomorrow."
He held up a marvelous necklace, gold adorned with sparkling gemstones in shapes of roses. In the middle, a large red diamond, catching the sunrays in glory.
Myrtilla gasped and looked up excitedly into Daeron's gentle eyes.
"What!? This is the most magnificent jewel I've ever seen, thank you!"
"I'm glad you think so. May I help you put it on?"
"Yes, please."
Daeron scooted closer to her, knees touching on the blanket. He leaned in and snaked the necklace around her collarbones, attaching the clasps together. He didn't pull away.
Myrtilla felt her breathing become uneven from the sudden proximity. Her eyes alternated between looking into his violet orbs and down to his slightly wet lips. Daeron did the same.
"Will you allow me to kiss you?" he whispered.
"Yes."
With that, his lips latched onto hers, ever so gently, pecking her quivering mouth for a few seconds. She had never felt the butterflies in her stomach flutter so violently.
He pulled away just enough to look into her eyes to search for permission to continue. She looked at him wide-eyed like a doe, waiting for more.
Daeron brought a hand up to her face and cupped her jaw. He attached his lips onto hers again. They were surprisingly soft, tasted like wine and something sweet, like vanilla as the tip of their tongues touched lightly. She hoped she was doing alright, this having been her first kiss, after all. He didn't pull away this time. She estimated their kissing to have lasted for half a minute when they heard the rustling of branches. One of the guards emerged from the trees.
"My lord, we must return to the castle for the dinner feast."
They pulled away, both annoyed at the intrusion.
"Alright, we shall be back in a minute," Daeron replied and the guard disappeared once again. Myrtilla smiled and let out a small, breathy giggle, dizzy with the feel of his mouth on hers just seconds ago. He smiled back at her and rested his forehead against hers. She closed her eyes and all worries seemed to have flown away for a minute with the warm breeze by the lake.
𝐜.𝐰.: none; fluff; girly complains a lot but who can blame her; complicated mother-daughter relationship
𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Myrtilla slowly comes to terms with the fact that she will be married to Daeron Targaryen. She receives a personal letter from him, which prompts her to look forward to the prince's visit to Highgarden.
𝐚/𝐧: so sorry this took me quite long, i will try to hurry up and write the next chapters sooner :)
Soft sunrays shone through the blush-coloured curtains of Myrtilla's bedchamber. She slept soundly throughout the night, her relentless tears in the evening made her head hurt but the sleep come faster.
She awakened to the heavy door slamming against the stone wall. Her eyes popped open, the sudden brightness hurting her pupils. Her brain felt foggy from the undisturbed sleep, one that made her forget what happened yesterday.
"Heard you will be a Targaryen princess!" Gwendolyne shouted as she burst into the room, immediately jumping on the bed next to Myrtilla.
She just groaned and brought a hand up to her face to rub the sleep out of her eyes. All memories from yesterday came onto her mind at once. The dragons, the Targaryens, the betrothal.
"I do not wish to talk about it," she mumbled.
"I don't get you, I would do anything to become a princess," Gwendolyne grinned, too young to understand the sacrifices a woman must make in an arranged marriage. In a position where their family stood, a crucial house of Westeros, a girl can only dream of romance and freedom. Myrtilla knew this, she should know this.
Yet she couldn't help but mourn her old life. She felt childish and miserable. She was grown now, a young woman who knew exactly what her duties were. She was smart enough not to object or, gods forbid, run away in hopes of leaving this all behind. She knew what she had to do, but the weight on her heart began to pull her down to the abyss again.
"I will not be just a princess, I'm being thrown into a dragon den," she growled to her little sister. "They will tear me apart and my drunk husband probably won't do anything about it."
"You're so dramatic sometimes, no, all the time! It's not the end of the world. You will have plenty of freedom. And beautiful gowns. And ladies-in-waiting. And feasts."
Myrtilla rolled over to her side, facing Gwen, looking into her eyes with a somber frown.
"I already have those here. I do not need a royal court to live out my dreams."
And she did have dreams. Dreams of learning, crafting, making something. Her biggest aspiration was to be impactful, not just to her nuclear environment, but to the realm, to people of the present and future. To change how people see the world. She dreamt of writing a history book herself, perhaps. Of course, it was wishful thinking. Who would reach for a chronicle on a library shelf written by a woman?
At that moment, two maids stepped in and brought her breakfast into her chamber alongside some fresh sheets and her gown for the day. Her handmaiden, Clarah followed behind, carrying a silver tray with a letter on it.
"Good morrow, my ladies," Clarah greeted both girls and placed the tray on the bedside table. "Lady Myrtilla, a letter came for you today, Lord Tyrell told me to bring it to you immediately."
"Thank you, Clarah, I will read it after breakfast." Myrtilla glanced at the letter and her eyes were met with a wine-red seal. The Targaryen house sigil in the middle of folded white paper.
The kind-eyed, blonde handmaiden nodded and left the room with the two maids, leaving the sisters alone again.
"Can I open it?" Gwen grinned from ear to ear, excited as she noticed the seal as well.
"Absolutely not," Myrtilla shook her head and bit into her usual morning hard-boiled egg. "Now shoo! I will meet you in the garden, let me live in peace for a few minutes." Myrtilla placed a smacking kiss on Gwen's honey-coloured hair on the top of her head.
"You will tell me about the letter, just so you know," the younger one pointed a finger at her sister and stormed out of the bedchamber.
While chewing on some fresh berries, Myrtilla reached for the letter, equally curious and appalled. Why did someone at court send a letter directly to her?
She broke the seal with a soft pop, folding out the neatly enwrapped paper. Her eyes immediately started to decipher the black ink. The handwriting was slightly messy but legible, cursive letters leaning to the right. She read the words, her mind racing.
Dear Lady Myrtilla,
I am writing to you for the first time in order to personally express my desire to take you as my lady wife. I am aware that by the time this letter finds you, you will have already been familiar with the arrangement our fathers made. I wished to write you privately in this matter.
I may not be the one your heart desires, we only know each other by sight, from my family's visit years ago. When my father placed the list of names of my potential betrothed, my eyes found your name in an instant. You may remember me as an unimpressive youth, but your memory for me have remained to be a wonderful one. Your kindness and beauty that once enclasped my attention must have multiplied in these last years.
Hereby I ask you to nod approval to our betrothal and honor me to be your lord husband. If so, upon receiving your father's letter, I will set off to pay a visit to your home in Highgarden. I ask of you not to respond to my letter, if the gods are good to me, we will meet soon, if you refuse, I will take your rejection with dignity.
Yours truly,
Prince Daeron Targaryen
"What in the seven hells?" Myrtilla thought. She was truly bewildered by the fact that the prince had handwritten a personal letter asking for her hand in marriage.
Her previous perception of the prince, a shy, blushing teenager took a backflip with the mature and collected image of a man the letter suggested. She was pleasantly surprised by his honesty and quiet courage. Based on the letter, he must have had written and had sent it without anyone knowing. She appreciated his writing and placed the piece of paper in the drawer of her desk. She decided not to tell the contents of the letter to anyone, just like the prince. A piece of Daeron just for herself.
The following three days were spent busily, the servants of Highgarden working in a hurry to prepare the castle to welcome the prince and his father. The constant buzz of the staff and members of the Tyrell family overstimulated Myrtilla to the point where she locked herself in her room completely. She abandoned her customary walks in the garden, didn't even read or talk with anyone more than necessary.
The only thing she busied herself with was the embroidery of a handkerchief she intended to give to her betrothed. She designed the pattern of the Targaryen sigil surrounded by roses and vines. The white fabric gradually gained colour as the hours went by, red and green thread appeared neatly by the hands of the girl. Her deft hands worked monotonously which took the stress away from her racing mind.
The day before, she reread Daeron's letter countless times and analysed every word he had written. She imagined the prince's fingers holding the pen, scribbling his carefully composed sentences. She didn't know why she fantasized about this stranger, but he intrigued her. She tried to push down the feeling of butterflies in the pit of her stomach, but she couldn't wait for tomorrow to come.
After her morning bath, Myrtilla shuffled through her dresses in her wardrobe. Clarah stood behind her, folding the girl's nightgown.
"What about the emerald green one?" Clarah asked, sensing Myrtilla's frustration.
"That's too stern, only fit for formal balls," Myrtilla sighed. The warm spring day demanded a lightweight dress, which she liked better than the ones suited for cold weather. Her fingers raked over fabrics upon fabrics, when they landed on a periwinkle number.
"Let us see this one," she stated and Clarah immediately brought out the dress to help Myrtilla try it on.
She looked in the mirror while Clarah tightened up the corset and liked how the dress showed her figure in a tasteful manner. Her arms were bare, the clasps on her shoulders made with gilded metal. The skirt flowed all the way down to her toes, the soft tulle resembling a crystal-clear stream. She adorned her neck with a gold necklace, a small fox-head pendant sitting on the juncture between her collarbones.
"You look breathtaking, milady," Clarah grinned, "there is no way the prince will not fall in love with you at first glance!"
"You are much too kind," Myrtilla replied, looking down bashfully upon hearing the mention of her prince. She very much hoped she would make a good impression. Not just physically, she hoped their conversation will shed light on her personality as well. And she certainly hoped she will do nothing to embarrass herself. She used to be a rather clumsy child, a characteristic she often sees in her teenage sister.
Clarah braided some locks of her hair into an updo, but left most of it flowing down Myrtilla's shoulders. After some finishing touches to her look, Myrtilla left her bedchamber to find her family gathered in the main hall. Her two older brothers conversed at the end of the table, too busy with economic affairs to pay much attention to her. Lord Tyrell leant against the large table while his wife paced around anxiously. Lady Tyrell resembled Myrtilla in many ways. Not just in her physical appearance but temperament as well. Both were pragmatic in everyday situations yet tended to be carried away by emotions easily. Lady Tyrell's nervous steps assailed Myrtilla's ears as she entered the hall.
"Finally, I was going mad," her mother said, "I do not conprehend how the men in this castle are not fraught with restlessness."
"I'm here Mama, and trust me, I am."
"You're beautiful. You could have worn something more modest, though. Perhaps something pink."
Myrtilla knew this would happen. Her mother's praise didn't come as easily as she would've wanted. Undoubtedly, Lady Tyrell loved his daughter, yet couldn't help but make small reproachful remarks that hindered Myrtilla's confidence. So she sighed and let slide of it.
"Prince Maekar and Prince Daeron are said to arrive soon, shall we go outside?" Lord Tyrell sensed the tension between his wife and daughter and opted to break the silence with his proposition.
"Yes, that would be lovely, I need some fresh air. Where's my Gwen?" Lady Tyrell turned around to look for the girl, but she was nowhere to be found. Myrtilla often questioned if her mother loved Gwen more than her. During arguments, she had to fight the temptation to ask but never dared to do so. She never questioned her mother's love, yet the favouritism bugged her from time to time.
"I'm sure she's playing with Daisy outside, I shall look," Myrtilla offered and rushed out the castle. She heard the faint sounds of her mother's disapproval but didn't care. Suddenly, the nerves hit at once. Her braids tugged at her scalp, her jewellery jingled too loudly, and her corset felt too tight. Anxiety heightened her senses and she desperately craved the fresh spring air of the garden.
Gwen was indeed in the garden with the old, kind dog, their faithful companion since childhood. Daisy trotted to Myrtilla and she greeted her with a scratch to her ear.
"Your prince is on the way!" Gwen exclaimed excitedly as she jumped up from the grass.
"He's not my prince, yet. Besides I don't want any prince."
"The day I see you love a man more than your books, I will turn into a toad," Gwen mocked at Myrtilla which she returned with a death glare.
"I have a feeling you will like each other," the young girl said, and in that moment, the distant, but nearing sound of hooves and armour hit their ears.
"Go fetch the others," Myrtilla told her sister while looking into the distance. A few moments later, the silhouette of four horses and four riders appeared among the hilly landscape. A dark banner waved on its pole as one of the guards carried it, the emblematic red dragon parading in the middle. The dark riders appeared rather intimidating as Myrtilla stood alone in the courtyard, watching. Her eyes involuntarily searched for a young, blond man.
A few minutes later her family and servants arrived outside, ready to greet their guests. The four riders approached the castle gates which opened for them in an instant. The sound of horse hooves clopping on the courtyard stones could be heard, yet they couldn't drown out the rapid palpitation of Myrtilla's heart. She felt like it would burst out of her chest at any moment.
The Tyrells watched as their Targaryen guests dismounted their horses, servants readily helping to keep hold of the large animals.
Myrtilla watched them. Watched Daeron. When he abandoned his horse and turned around, her eyes averted his gaze. She could feel them on her.
"Welcome, your graces," Lord Tyrell greeted with a small bow, briefly shaking hands with Prince Maekar.
"Thank you for welcoming us," he replied.
"Did you have a pleasant journey?" Lady Tyrell asked after the prince kissed her knuckles.
"Wonderful, the Reach is the most beautiful part of the realm."
Myrtilla and Daeron stood behind their parents. Her heartbeat quickened as she felt the greeting approaching. Daeron stepped forward and greeted the Tyrells in the same manner as his father.
"You must be Lady Myrtilla," Maekar addressed her, giving her a genuine smile, which she returned.
"Your grace," she curtsied. From the corner of her eye, she sensed Daeron come closer. Until he reached her.
"Lady Myrtilla," he bowed and gingerly took her hand in his. His lips ghosted over her knuckles, careful not to overstep her boundary.
"My prince," she answered, her gaze meeting his really for the first time. She offered a smile, to wich she saw a beautiful glimmer in his violet eyes. He was incredibly handsome. In her memory, he used to be a lanky, awkward kid, but he grew up to be a clean-built, chiseled young man.
He let go of her hand but it didn't go unnoticed by her that he held it a few seconds longer than necessary.
"Shall we return to the castle? A lunch feast will be served soon," Lord Tyrell proposed, leading the guests into the castle. Myrtilla walked besides Daeron, too nervous to look at him despite wanting nothing more than to examine his features and emotions.
Lunch went perfectly, the chatter of conversations filled the dining hall. Prince Daeron was seated beside Myrtilla, both of them stealing glances and smiles at each other.
When the time called for a toast, Prince Maekar addressed everyone and spoke, "My dear friends, I am deeply content to strengthen our bond with this marriage. I truthfully hope it will be a fruitful and happy connection."
"Aye, let us drink to that, we appreciate this affinity greatly," Lord Tyrell agreed and lifted his cup, followed by everyone. Myrtilla watched Daeron drink from the wine, his expression laxing.
After the one-on-one conversations resumed while eating, Daeron turned to Myrtilla.
"My lady, I am pleased to finally meet you in person. Again. You've got even more charming in the past years."
"My prince, you're much too kind, I can say the same thing about you. I appreciated your letter greatly, I sincerely thank you," she answered with a bashful smile. Myrtilla found herself to act and feel odd. She had never before felt sheepish in the company of a man. Her usual strong, confident demeanour turned shy and nervous. She felt like it was because her life would be bound to this man. But in reality, he made her heart race.
They continued a little bit of polite talk during the feast and she found his company exceptionally pleasant. She laughed at some of his jests, his sarcastic disposition appealed to her greatly. She couldn't wait for lunch to end to privately converse with her soon-to-be husband.
In the afternoon, Daeron and Myrtilla resorted to the extensive gardens of her home. The prince offered an arm and she took it, interlocking into him as they walked in a slow pace.
"Highgarden is the most exquisite place I have ever been to. I assume it is a perfect scenery for artists and poets to be inspired," Daeron said wonderingly.
"Indeed, I am grateful to have grown up here. Do you enjoy the arts?"
"Yes, I do. I know it is unusual for a Targaryen prince to be more interested in poetry than jousting."
"Not at all, I love reading myself. Although I'm more absorbed by history and novels. I look forward to sharing our current reads with each other." The girl smiled and Daeron's heart fluttered.
"I do too. What else do you do in your spare time, my lady?
"I usually loiter in the garden, really," she giggled, "I read, write, embroider. Sometimes I go out riding in the countryside. I spend a lot of time with my sister and the other young ladies. My mother disapproves of my craving for adventure. She desires me to be a proper lady. Interested in court matters and such. I apologize, I do not want to burden you with this, your grace."
"Please, just Daeron. We are to be wed soon, there is no need for formalities."
"Very well, just Daeron," she smiled, "then you shall call me just Myrtilla."
He laughed softly, moving a little closer to her side. "And you do not burden me, I'm all ears. Besides, I feel for your issues. My father's expectations are hard for me to achieve as well. My mother was kind, she always defended me when he pestered me too much."
"I'm sorry for your loss, I can imagine her to have been a good mother. Mine is good to me too, but we have our conflicts."
"You resemble her, how come you have fiery hair?"
"My mother is of House Tully. It is a common colour there. I believe my mother is strict with me because she sees herself in me. She is hard on herself as well. But enough of me, tell me, why is your hair sandy instead of silver?" she teased.
"It must be my Dornish blood, I fear," he smiled widely. They walked in silence for a little, arms imtimately interlinked.
"Look, the flowers there are my favourites," Myrtilla pointed at an extensive flowerbed. They reached it and her eyes wandered over the wonderful plants, a myriad of colours littering the soil.
"They are almost as beautiful as you," Daeron said before he could think. The wine he drank earlier made his tongue move faster than his mind. Myrtilla turned her head, eyes wide with surprise. "I apologize, I was too forward—"
"Don't apologize, I'm not offended easily. Especially if you say something so kind," she smiled and her cheeks started to turn faintly pink. He found it to be adorable.
"These violets are the same colour as your eyes," she said to break the silence and save him from further embarrassment.
"You are right. And these roses resemble the colour of your hair," he pointed at a deep red rose vine, directly beside the violets. He thought of it as a symbol of their bond.
As if she could read his mind, she bent down to tear a single violet off its stem and put it into one of her braids next to her ear.
"I will carry it today, it's a token of our union."
At that moment, he noticed Myrtilla's fox pendant on the thin gold chain around her neck. He took a short breath in astonishment. Myrtilla shot him a questioning look.
"The fox. On your necklace."
"Hm? What about it, my prince?"
"I dreamt of it. I dreamt of you. I couldn't grab hold of the dream I had some time ago until now. It was of a fox, standing in a rose garden, looking directly at me. It was you, I believe. You are the red fox, my lady."
Myrtilla's lips parted softly. She knew about the talks of his prophetic dreams. It became reality when he told her this dream.
"I hope the dream was pleasant, if I am a fox, I mean no harm to you."
"I do not doubt it, it was a good dream. The fox was friendly," he smiled. Myrtilla's eyes sparkled back at his.
They stayed silent for some time, processing their emotions. They interlocked their arms again and headed back to the castle as the sun was starting to disappear behind the horizon.
Upon entering the walls of the castle, they bid farewell for the night. A servant guided Daeron to his assigned chamber, located on the same wing of the halls as the other bedchambers, including Myrtilla's. Yet, she didn't return to hers right away.
The girl headed down towards the staff's compartments. It wasn't unusual for her, she didn't make a fuss about mingling with the servants. She found Clarah's room and knocked lightly. Her handmaiden opened the door and ushered her in.
"Milady, how did it go with the prince?" she giggled, excited to hear about Myrtilla's experience with her betrothed.
"Clarah, I can't even tell you how great it was. He's unbelievably kind, attentive and clever. And so, so handsome!" Myrtilla squeeked, holding Clarah's hands. It was so strange to see the young lady like this. Lovestruck, sparkly-eyed and tittering. Clarah had never seen Myrtilla be so excited about a boy before, apart from some silly crushes that lasted for a month or so.
"I'm so glad, I sincerely hope he will make you happy, milady."
"Thank you, dear, I will speak more of it in the morning, sleep well."
With that, Myrtilla commenced her way upstairs to her chamber, adrenaline rushing through her veins. Even the extensive white walls of the castle couldn't contain her ever-growing emotions.
She reached the corridor to her room and walked past some wooden doors. She found one ajar. Prince Daeron's room. He stood by a table, pouring himself quite a few cups of red wine. Myrtilla's feet felt stuck, she couldn't help but watch the man curiously. She had heard of the drinking. Daeron "The Drunken", they said. She gathered the strength to make her legs move to leave the prince be in his privacy.
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: arranged marriage; strangers to lovers; some angst, fluff, smut in later chapters; soft!daeron; sad and drunk daeron but oc will love him the way he deserves; 3rd person pov
𝐚/𝐧: hii, this is literally my first time writing here, i'm too obsessed with this drunk targaryen boy so i decided to write a (hopefully!!!) multi-chapter fic for him! :) some parts of the story will follow the plot of akotsk but obviously it's canon divergent. pics and divider from pinterest.
Prince Daeron Targaryen dreamt of a rose garden one night. A red fox appeared among the flowers and looked him right in the eye. Upon waking, he had to return to his duties as a prince and take a wife.
Myrtilla Tyrell lay in her rose garden, reading about the magnificent bygone era of dragons. A letter had been addressed to her: a prince asking for her hand in marriage.
The warm late-spring sun shone high up in the sky in the afternoon, illuminating the magnificent garden of the Tyrell residence. Highgarden stood tall in the South-western region of Westeros, providing the capital of the Reach.
Myrtilla Tyrell, the third child and eldest daughter of Lord Tyrell, spent most of her days in the garden, among the myriad of plants, trees and flowers that overran the yard. Her sanctuary was hidden by an ivy-covered gate, leading to a smaller garden. In the middle stood a tall elm tree, casting a cool shadow to the soft green grass. Myrtilla sat with her back leaning against the tree trunk. Her fingers flipped through the pages of a history book from time to time. She borrowed it from the castle's extensive library, an activity that came as a surprise to no one. She often read various writings, from romances to poems, through history and encyclopedias.
A light breeze flowed through her auburn hair, which cascaded all the way down to her waist. The pleasant air tickled her exposed skin, as she wore light fabrics in the warm temperatures. She loved living in Highgarden.
She heard footsteps approaching, the sound of a skirt grazing the grass assailed her ears. She looked up from her book and saw her sister nearing the gate.
"You always leave me alone with the boring ones," the ten-and-three year old said.
"Gwendolyne, I crave peace like a breath of fresh air, and you always decide to disturb it," replied Myrtilla.
"But you're the only entertaining person, the maids don't talk much and the boys don't welcome me."
"Maybe it's because you're so bothersome," the older one said with a smile, clearly mocking the girl. She replied with the roll of her eyes.
"What are you reading?" asked Gwendolyne with a nosy gleam in her eyes.
"A history book about dragons. It's fascinating how these creatures roamed the earth once. I wish I lived in their time."
"I can't even imagine them, they must have been quite scary," Gwen shrugged her shoulders.
"I would not fear them. I much more fear their masters, at least the ones that remained here in the realm. Targaryens are either intimidating or simply mad."
"Do you remember when the king visited us here with his family?" asked the little girl.
"Yes, and that proves my point just right. The only nice one was the little boy, you played with him."
"He had a funny nickname, Egg, I think."
"Correct, he was really sweet," Myrtilla smiled. "But his brothers..."
"One was handsome, you told me," bugged the girl.
"Shut up, I was ten-and-five, most good-looking boys piqued my interest," the older replied.
"I wish I found a boy too to daydream about, they are all so boring here."
"You're unbelievable," sighed Myrtilla, clearly not interested in the topic of boys her sister was so preoccupied with.
"You're no fun. Enjoy your dragon book, I will look for Daisy in the stables," told her Gwen, alluding to the sweet dog who always roamed he area around the stables.
Myrtilla didn't look up from her book. "See you at dinner." With that, the girl walked away, her hands on the gate already.
"Oh, I almost forgot, father wants to talk to you before dinner," Gwen turned around.
Myrtilla finally looked up and furrowed her brows but only hummed in response. What on earth could her father want that concerned her? She tried not to dwell on it until the evening, instead, she buried her nose back in the book. The last dragons of Old Valyria interested her more than family duties.
A week earlier, Prince Daeron Targaryen sat by the window of his chamber in Summerhall. A book in his right hand, a cup of strawberry wine in the other. The poetry book was lightly placed between his fingers, but his eyes wondered to the sunlit yard of the castle. His mind was still racing from the strange vision he had dreamt that night. It wasn't frightening, like the usual ones, in fact, as strange as it seemed, he woke up with a pleasant tingling in his chest.
The dream was about himself, walking in a beautiful rose garden at night. Cool spring air caressed his face and his long, sandy-blonde hair. He heard a noise from the bushes nearby, when a lean red fox appeared out of nowhere. It didn't seem scared of the prince, its green eyes bore right into his violet ones. It happened fast but he couldn't get hold of the strange feeling it left in his head.
In the morning, his first thought was to look for answers in a poetry book, one that contained compositions of dream interpretation. He flipped through the pages and his eyes found one verse: roses. He read the rhymes about the flower, a symbol of love and femininity. He searched again, eager to find something about the fox as well.
Several pages after, another poem grabbed his attention, describing the fox as hidden knowledge. Intuition, attractiveness, intelligence. How cryptic, he thought. He concluded that both symbols lead to an oncoming duty of his that had to be fulfilled in the near future. He didn't know how fast it was approaching.
As he leaned on the stone windowsill, sipping the wine, he heard a knock on the door.
"Come in," he called. His father, Maekar Targaryen entered with a disapproving look as his eyes wondered to Daeron's cup.
"I wish to talk to you, son, if I don't interrupt your drink," he said in an uninterested tone.
Daeron placed the cup on his table, closing the poetry book as well. His father considered reading verses foolish, a womanly activity unfit for a prince.
"It's no surprise that the time is ticking for you to take a wife. I collected all possible candidates for a prosperous marriage."
Maekar stepped closer and placed a paper in front of Daeron. On it were written a plethora of names, all female.
"All of the families named here are politically advantageous. We need alliances, especially in the Southern regions."
"Alright, I will look through them soon," replied Daeron flatly.
"No, not soon, now."
Daeron sighed and skimmed through the page. Maekar stood there in the middle of the chamber, impatiently fidgeting with his rings.
Daeron read the many names, all of them major families that would provide great alliances. His eyes stopped on one, though: Tyrell. Myrtilla Tyrell.
He looked up and addressed his father, "Tyrell? Is Lord Tyrell willing to marry off his eldest daughter?"
"Yes, she is of the same age as you are and Lord Tyrell needs our support as well."
Daeron hummed and his mind started to wonder to his memories of Highgarden. His family had visited the capital of the Reach a few years before. He had been still a teenager back then, much like Myrtilla. He remembered her to have been lively and exceptionally beautiful.
Their brief stay at Highgarden had provided little opportunity for him to get to know her. If he remembered correctly, their only interaction had been a kiss on her hand, really. He had been a shy youngster back then, too afraid to speak, so as not to disappoint his father with his stuttering words. His drinking had only begun at that age, but he had contained himself at the dinner when they had all gathered. But he remembered how he had blushed every time his and the young girl's eyes had met. She had smiled at him a few times and his heart had skipped a beat every time.
His father cleared his throat, which brought Daeron back into reality, leaving the fond memories behind.
"So? Tyrell it is?" Maekar's voice split the silence.
"I think so. I remember the girl. She was kind to me. That is more than enough." Daeron gave a small, sad smile to his father.
"Then it is settled. I will write to Lord Tyrell immediately." With that, Maekar turned on his heels and left Daeron alone in the chamber. Alone with his thoughts.
The warmth of the sunset cast a golden glow onto Highgarden, where Myrtilla began her journey back into the white walls of the castle. Her steps echoed as she climbed the stairs to reach the main hall upstairs, where her father waited.
She entered and walked straight to Lord Tyrell, giving a soft kiss to his cheek as a greeting.
"What did you want to discuss, Papa?"
"You won't be happy," he sighed. "It is about marriage."
"Gods, no, whatever you want to ask of me, my answer is no," she objected, her eyes went wide and a frown began to form on her face.
"I know, I know, but you knew this day would come, eventually. You're not a little girl anymore. And I will be earnest with you, we are in great need of strong allies."
"But so soon?!"
"Daughter, a prince asked for your hand in marriage. Or more like his father, Maekar Targaryen."
She closed her eyes. Targaryens. Once dragon riders, mighty lords who conquered the land. Although a Targaryen king sat on the Westerosi throne, the family had long lost their power over the people. Still, their name carried such prestige that one could not reject a marriage proposal from a Targaryen prince.
"Which one of his sons is it? The maniac or the drunkard?" Myrtilla asked coldly. She remembered their visit, just as she and Gwen had recalled in the afternoon. One prince, Aerion, was infamously a menace, a spawn of evil whose mind was clouded by cruelty. He had been a young teenager back then, but he had already radiated a repulsive energy that made Myrtilla's skin crawl.
The older prince had built a reputation for himself as well, people whispered about his ability to see prophetic visions in his dreams. That is why he drank excessively during the day. But in her memory, their brief encounter years ago had left a good impression on her, he had been reserved but kind, and had frequently eyed Myrtilla in awe. She hated to admit it, but Gwen was right. She would be lying if she said she hadn't developed a small crush on the handsome prince during the visit. But that didn't mean she would give up her freedom as a maiden so hurriedly. Marriage scared her endlessly. To tie herself to a man who was practically a stranger had frightened her even more.
"Prince Daeron is the one," she heard her father's voice, bringing her back to the present.
"Ah, the drunkard then," her unamused tone contradicted the small relief she felt. The more sympathetic prince will most likely be her husband. She felt pathetic.
"Listen, 'Tilla, I know this marriage is undesirable for you, but you must understand, we cannot reject this offer."
"I know," she said, aloof eyes wandering to her father's visage. "I have no other choice but to accept it."
Her father stepped closer, placing a kiss to her forehead. "You're my treasure, darling, I had promised long ago that I would never give you to some cruel lord twice your age. The Targaryens are chaotic, but Daeron is on the sidelines of the family tree. You will not be in danger, he is said to be a gentle soul."
"I remember him to be one, as well," she said quietly while wrapping her arms around her father's torso, tears already collecting in the corners of her eyes. "I will go now, father."
Myrtilla released herself from Lord Tyrell's embrace and rushed through the corridors of the castle, reaching her own chamber. She shut the door behind her and sat down at the foot of her bed. The stone floor felt cold below her but the warm sunlight illuminated her red locks, the soft waves covering her shoulders as she hugged her knees to her chest. The reality of the arranged marriage hit her hard in the face, casting a shadow in her mind. A few moments later, the lump in her throat erupted, her heart felt heavier than ever, and the sound of her sobs finally filled the space within the walls.
