aika 🦊🧡 she/her • filipino • cancer • f1 • normal people • lotr • fleabag • books • a24 • starwars • got • hotd • dune • scifi • fantasy • chill girl with lots of interets
SYNOPSIS. When a young Egg stumbles upon a warped, long-forgotten diary in the quiet light of Summerhall, he accidentally unearths the fragile remnants of his father’s past.
WORD COUNT. 8,244
PAIRINGS. maekar targaryen x reader
NOTES. mentions of death, heavy angst, mentions of y/n, talks of war, arrange marriage (lemme know if i missed smth!)
IN EVERY KINGDOM, the crown demands a price, and sometimes, the cost is the very heart that beats beneath the velvet and steel.
The dust motes in the quiet library of Summerhall danced in the weak afternoon light, illuminated by a sliver of sun piercing the high, arched windows. Egg had only come to the chambers searching for Aemon. The older boy was supposed to be reviewing his maester’s translations, but the room was empty.
Aemon’s heavy footfalls had echoed down the hall just as Egg slipped inside, and in his haste to avoid being scolded for snooping, Egg had bumped heavily against a tall, precarious stack of leather-bound tomes. With a deafening crash, dozens of books cascaded across the marble floor.
Egg winced, rubbing his shoulder as he dropped to his knees to right the mess. Most of the volumes were dry histories of the Seven Kingdoms, but one dark, leather-bound journal had slid far beneath the heavy oak desk. It was warped with age, the leather worn thin at the edges, as if it had been handled often and then not at all for a very long time. Egg reached out, dusting off the cover, and opened it out of pure curiosity.
Egg’s thumb traced the edge of the leather-bound tome before he turned the cover. The handwriting inside was undeniably his father’s. Messier. Uneven. As though the words were written in haste, or in youth.
On the very first page, a bold title was inscribed: The Adventures of Maekar, Y/N, and Dyanna. Below it, in a distinctly different ink and a rushed, heavier hand, was an additional note: and Baelor. Frowning, Egg turned the page. The breath caught in his throat.
It was a delicate charcoal drawing of a woman. She did not have the pale hair or the striking violet eyes of his late mother, Dyanna Dayne. Her features were softer, her hair dark, and a faint, knowing smile was captured in the strokes of the charcoal. Not stylized. Not arranged like the portraits that hung in the halls. There was no attempt to make her look grander than she was, no careful positioning of hands or jewels or posture. She was simply . . . there.
The name scrawled beneath the portrait was simply Y/N.
Her hair fell loose over her shoulders, dark and unbound. One strand had been sketched twice, as if the hand that drew it had hesitated before settling. Her mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile, but something close enough to it.
Egg stared at the page, his thumb tracing the graphite. He had never known his father possessed the gentle, deft hand required for such a portrait.
As he stared at the delicate charcoal strokes, Egg’s mind drifted to the very moment his father’s hand had rested upon this parchment.
The afternoon heat in the Red Keep’s old gardens was tempered only by the thick, ancient vines that wove through the stone trellis above, casting long, shifting shadows across the marble benches. They were six and ten then, hovering on the precipice of adulthood but still largely naive to the heavy, unyielding realities of the realm. For a few stolen hours, the politics of the court, the looming threat of the Blackfyres, and the arranged marriages of great houses felt a world away.
In the shaded alcove, Maekar sat with a piece of willow charcoal pinched between his rough fingers, leaving a trail of dark soot across his knuckles. Across from him sat Y/N, completely unaware of the intensity in his gaze.
He recalled every detail of the light: the way the golden sun of King’s Landing caught the rich, dark strands of her hair, catching the edges and turning the dark brown into an amber halo that framed her features. She had turned to him, her face lighting up with genuine amusement as she shared a quiet, breathless jest about Dyanna Dayne. Dyanna had spent the morning walking with her head down, looking terribly solemn after being politely but firmly dismissed by one of the Baratheon boys, a family known for their dark, tempestuous looks. Y/N had giggled into her hand, noting with a playful glint in her eyes that Dyanna seemed to have a distinct, unchanging preference for dark-haired men.
When the jest gave way to her full, free laughter, the sound seemed to resonate through the shaded alcove. Maekar had found himself completely unable to look away. He stopped breathing for a moment, his hand trembling against the rough, heavy tooth of the parchment. In that exact heartbeat, the prince was overwhelmed by a strange and melancholic realization: he was capturing the only part of her he would ever truly possess. The crown and his father's expectations would ensure that she belonged to someone else, but on this small square of paper, she was his.
He began the sketch with her cheeks, letting the charcoal soften and shade the roundness that gave her face its gentle, unassuming warmth. He traced the smooth dip of her chin, capturing the soft, slightly round lines that separated her features from the sharp, severe angles typical of other women. Every stroke was a secret declaration. In the silence of the garden, Maekar poured all the words he was never allowed to speak into the fragile graphite, preserving the young woman before the realm broke them both.
Egg continued to flip through the pages, his eyes widening as the truth of it settled in slowly, unwillingly. The diary was not only ink and confession, but it was a memory made visible. Y/N alone, drawn with a patience that felt almost careful. Y/N laughing, head tilted slightly as though caught mid-sound. Y/N looking away, as if she had always known she was being watched.
And then—
The group.
At first, only three.
Maekar, younger then. Dyanna beside him, composed even in ink, her posture always steadier than the world around her. And Y/N between them in some drawings, or just slightly ahead in others, as if she never quite belonged to standing still. The alcove appeared often in the background. Stone arches, half-shadowed light, the same place where time seemed to hesitate before moving on.
Egg’s fingers paused over one page.
There, his father had written in a neat line beneath a sketch of the three of them sitting too close together on worn stone steps:
“We were not yet what they wanted us to be.”
Further on, the drawings changed.
A fourth figure appeared.
Baelor.
He was always drawn differently—less composed, more open, as if even ink struggled to keep him within the frame. In one sketch, he leaned over Maekar’s shoulder, reading something off-page. In another, he stood between Dyanna and Y/N, laughing at something none of them would later remember clearly enough to repeat.
Egg traced the edge of one sketch where all four of them stood together in the alcove.
“Do you remember this?” Baelor’s voice echoed faintly from the past, as if caught between pages rather than time.
“You tripped over your own words,” Y/N had said in the drawing’s memory, though Egg could almost hear her now, amused rather than unkind.
“I did not,” Baelor had replied immediately.
“You absolutely did,” Dyanna’s voice had cut in, calm as ever.
Maekar—drawn slightly apart, watching rather than joining, had only said, quietly, “He always does when he is trying to sound clever.”
“And yet you never stop listening,” Y/N had answered, turning toward him in the sketch with that familiar expression, half challenge, half something softer she never said aloud.
The ink on that page was heavier around Maekar’s figure, as though he had pressed harder when drawing it without realizing.
Egg turned the page again.
The group changed slowly over time. Not in number at first, but in distance. The alcove remained, but the spaces between them widened in ways the drawings did not explain, only recorded.
Baelor appeared less often. Y/N lingered longer in the margins. Dyanna remained steady in every frame, even when the others did not. And Maekar—
Maekar was always there.
Even when he was not.
Egg stopped for a long moment on one final sketch: all of them together again, but not quite aligned. As if the moment itself had been drawn while already slipping away. No one in it was looking at the same thing.
And beneath it, in his father’s handwriting, smaller than before, almost careful enough to be forgotten, were the words:
“We thought it would last because we had not yet learned what endings look like.”
Then, the drawings stopped, replaced by pages of dense text. They were letters. Hundreds of them. Letters written in his father’s hand, addressed to Y/N, filled with confessions and longing. But they had never been sent. Egg read the margin of the first entry:
“Y/N,You told me to write instead of speaking, if I could not say it plainly. I do not know if this is better. There is no one here to interrupt, no one to correct me, and yet I find I hesitate more with ink than I ever did with words.”
It had been spring—the kind that came with more rain than warmth, the stones weree damp, the air heavy with it. The corridors smelled faintly of wet stone and something green just beginning to return.
He had not meant to run, and yet he did.
The alcove was already occupied when he reached it.
“You’re late,” Y/N said, glancing at him from where she leaned against the narrow curve of the wall, her voice even, as if she had been waiting long enough to expect him.
“I was not meant to come at all,” Maekar answered, still catching his breath, rain clinging to the dark strands of his hair and dampening the shoulders of his doublet.
“That has never stopped you before.”
He did not return the remark. For a moment, he only stood there, hands half-curled at his sides, as though unsure what to do with them now that he had arrived.
“What is it?” she asked, more softly this time, straightening just a little, her attention settling fully on him.
“Nothing.” The word came too quickly.
“That is a lie.” Y/N did not move closer, but her eyes lingered on him, patient in a way that suggested she had no intention of letting it pass.
Maekar let out a breath, quieter now, his shoulders lowering slightly. “I came to ask you something.”
“Then ask.”
“You will answer plainly?” he said, his voice steadier, though there was still something held back beneath it.
“When do I not?”
“When it suits you not to.”
“Then I will answer as plainly as I please.” She shifted her weight against the stone, unbothered, as if the terms had already been decided.
Maekar looked at her then, properly, as though measuring whether that would be enough.
It was not.
But he asked anyway.
“How,” he began, slower now, choosing the words rather than letting them come, “does one tell someone that he loves them?”
The question settled between them, simple in its shape, heavier in its meaning.
Y/N did not laugh. She did not look surprised. Instead, she watched him, more carefully now, as if measuring not the question, but the reason for it.
“Is this for you,” she asked, “or for some poor girl who has not yet realized her misfortune?” Her tone was light, but her gaze lingered, searching.
Maekar frowned faintly. “You said you would answer plainly.” His eyes flicked to hers, expectant, though guarded.
“I am,” she replied, unhurried. “I am asking plainly.”
“It is a question,” he said after a moment, his voice flattening slightly. “Answer it.”
“You could tell her.” She said it simply, as though it required no further thought.
Maekar exhaled, the sound sharper than before. “If it were that simple, I would not be asking.” His hand flexed slightly at his side, betraying a hint of impatience.
“Then it is not simple,” she said. “Which means you will say it wrong.” Her tone remained calm, almost matter-of-fact.
“That is not helpful.”
“It is true.”
He looked away then, toward the narrow opening where rain fell in a thin, steady line beyond the stone. For a moment, he said nothing.
“I would not say it wrong,” he said at last, quieter now, though there was a stubbornness to it.
“You would,” she replied without hesitation, the faintest trace of amusement returning. “You would make it sound like a command. Or a warning.” Her fingers brushed idly against the edge of the stone beside her, as though the observation came easily.
“I would not.” His gaze returned to her, sharper now.
“You would,” she repeated, almost gently. “You would stand too straight, and speak as though you expected something in return.”
“I would expect nothing.” The words came firmer, though not entirely convincing.
“That would not be how it sounded.”
A pause followed.
He glanced back at her, something sharper in his expression now. “Then how should it sound?”
Y/N leaned back a little more fully against the stone, her posture loosening.
“Not like anything at all,” she said. “Not something rehearsed. Not something you have turned over in your mind until it has no life left in it.”
“And what does that leave?”
She looked back at him.
“Write it.” The answer came simply.
Maekar frowned slightly. “Write it.” He repeated it as if testing the weight of it.
“Yes.” Y/N nodded once, small and certain.
“That is your answer?” His brow furrowed, unconvinced.
“It is the only one you might manage without ruining it.” There was no mockery in it but only a quiet honesty.
He studied her a moment longer. “And then?” he asked.
“And then,” she said, “you do nothing with it.”
Maekar stilled. “Nothing.” The word came slower now.
“You write it,” Y/N repeated, “and you keep it. You do not send it. You do not speak it. You let it remain what it is.”
“That is not telling her.”
“No,” she agreed. “It is not.”
“Then what use is it?” His voice dropped, quieter now, the question no longer argumentative.
Y/N held his gaze.
“It is for you,” she said. “Not for her.”
A longer silence followed.
“And if that is not enough?” he asked, after a moment, the words quieter still.
Y/N’s expression shifted, though only slightly.
“Then you were never meant to tell her at all.”
The rain filled the silence that followed.
Maekar looked at her for a long moment, as if trying to find something in her face that had not been there before.
He did not.
“Very well,” he said at last, the words measured, as though settling something within himself.
Y/N’s mouth curved faintly, though it did not reach her eyes. “Very well,” she echoed.
And that had been the beginning of it.
The lines stretched longer than the ones before, filling more of the page, the ink pressed firm as though each word had been considered before it was allowed to remain.
“You said it would make it easier—that I would think before I spoke. You were right. I think too much now, and say nothing at all.
There was a faint smudge beneath the last line, as though the ink had not been given time to dry before the page was turned—or as though a hand had lingered there longer than it should have.
It is a strange thing, to be so certain of something and yet have no place to put it. I find it follows me regardless. In the yard, in the hall, even at the table where I am expected to listen and not speak unless spoken to. I hear my own thoughts louder than any man’s voice. You speak as though it is simple—to set it aside, to let it remain unspoken, to trust that it will not grow into something unmanageable. I do not think you understand what you have asked of me.
A line had been started beneath it, then struck through so harshly the parchment bore the mark.
Another line followed, written cleaner, though no less heavy.
Or perhaps you understand it better than I do.
There was more space now, as if he had paused longer before continuing.
I tried, today, to speak as I always have. It felt wrong. Every word I did not mean sounded louder than those I did. You spoke to me as though nothing had changed. I answered you the same. I do not know which of us lied better.
The ink lightened toward the end, the pressure easing, though the hand remained steady.
If this is easier, as you say, then I will endure it. But I think you have mistaken silence for peace.”
The ink ended there, but the space it left did not.
What followed in the pages after was not immediate, no new entry, no hurried continuation. Only a stretch of blank parchment, as though even writing had its limits, and he had reached them. But the story did not end with the letter. It only quieted. They went on as they always had.
There were mornings in the yard where the air still held the damp of the night before, where steel rang against steel and men shouted over one another, and she would stand just beyond it, half in shadow, watching without seeming to. She never stayed long. Long enough to be noticed, never long enough to be questioned. Maekar learned, without meaning to, the exact moment she would turn away—just before the noise grew too loud, just before the sun climbed too high.
At the table, nothing changed. She sat where she was meant to, spoke when spoken to, and listened the rest of the time. There was no strain in it, no sign of anything misplaced. If anything, she seemed more at ease than most—unbothered by the weight of names and expectations that pressed on everyone else. She would glance at him sometimes, briefly, the same way she always had. Not lingering. Not avoiding.
It was that sameness that unsettled him.
The alcove did not belong to them anymore, though no one had claimed it. It remained as it had always been—narrow, half-forgotten, the light never quite reaching it. He passed it often enough to know when she had been there. A shift in the dust, a mark along the stone where someone had leaned too long. Once, he found a loose thread caught against the edge, dark against the pale wall. He did not touch it.
There were days when they spoke.
Nothing of consequence. Small things. Observations that required no answer. It would have been easy, for anyone watching, to believe nothing had changed at all. They did not stand too close. They did not lower their voices. There was no urgency in it, no need to linger.
Once, in the corridor, she paused a fraction longer than she should have, as if she meant to say something and thought better of it. He noticed only because he had already begun to move past her. By the time he turned, she was gone.
Another time, it rained again, steady and without wind. He found himself at the alcove without recalling the path that had brought him there. She was not. He stayed anyway, longer than made sense, longer than he would have admitted. The stone was cold beneath his hand. The sound of the rain filled the space too easily.
He did not go back the next day.
Or the day after that.
But he thought of it.
Egg’s fingers shifted slightly against the edge of the page.
"You were right, Y/N. I must carry the duty of a prince, and you must carry the duty of your house. If I love what I am forbidden to love, I must do so silently. I will not send these. I will keep them within my own heart, as you asked."
The correspondence spanned years, chronicling a quiet, aching love that neither dared to speak aloud.
The entries continued, not in neat order, but in fragments—moments caught and kept.
“Y/N, Dyanna says you laugh too easily. Baelor says you do not laugh enough. I have decided they are both wrong. You laugh when you wish to, and not when it is expected. I think that is why they notice it at all.”
Another page.
“Y/N, you stood by the window today and said nothing for nearly an hour. I thought you angry. When I asked, you told me you were only thinking. I do not know which unsettles me more—that I could not tell the difference, or that I wanted to.”
Another.
“Y/N, they have begun to speak of marriages more often now. It is no longer spoken of as something distant. Names are mentioned, then dismissed, then returned to again as though the choice might settle itself if left alone long enough.
The writing grew tighter toward the bottom.
Yours has not been spoken yet. I find I listen for it regardless.”
After that, the hand loosened again, though not entirely. The ink was lighter, as if written at a different hour, or with less certainty
“Y/N, you told me not to come to you again. You said it would only make it harder, that there was no sense in making something difficult worse by indulging it. You spoke as though it were already decided, as though we had only to accept it and be done.
The line that followed was written slower.
I did not argue. I should have.”
You came to me tonight.
The ink there had bled faintly into the parchment, as though the quill had lingered too long.
You asked me to take you away. You did not speak of where, or how, or what would follow. Only that we would go, and that it would be enough.
There was a long space beneath it.
Long enough that Aegon could almost feel the hesitation that had lived there.
I told you no.
The next line came harder.
I told you to stay.
I told you it was not ours to choose, that there were things greater than what we wanted, that it would not end as you thought it would.
You did not argue. That was worse.
The diary did not move cleanly from one day to the next after that.
The pages grew uneven—entries breaking off, resuming later in a different hand, as though written at odd hours or in moments stolen between obligations. Ink smudged where it should have dried clean. Words pressed too hard into the parchment, then faded where the hand must have faltered.
They had met there, though neither had meant to. Or perhaps they had. It was difficult to tell, even in the way he wrote it.
She had been the one to speak first. She had not circled the matter, had not softened it into something easier to refuse. She had asked him plainly, and when he did not answer, she had asked again, until there was no space left between the question and the answer he would not give.
There were lines in the margins, written smaller, tighter—admissions he had not allowed into the body of the entry.
I would have gone.
I thought of it.
I nearly said yes.
The ink there had been smeared, as though his hand had passed over it before it dried.
But the entry itself remained unchanged.
He had turned her away.
They had met at the alcove, though neither had meant to.
He had gone there because there had been nowhere else to stand. Because the keep had begun to feel smaller with each passing hour, every corridor leading him back to the same thought. And she had been there already.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The corridor was dim, the torchlight thinning, leaving the alcove half in shadow. It seemed smaller than it had been before. Or perhaps there was simply no room left for anything unspoken.
“You meant it,” she said.
“I did.”
She searched his face, as though something might still be undone if she looked long enough.
“You cannot,” she said.
“I can.”
“You will not.”
He did not answer that. The silence stretched.
“Then this is how it ends,” she said.
“It does not end.”
“It does,” she replied. “You have made certain of it.”
Maekar exhaled slowly. “Y/N—”
“Do not,” she said, not sharply, but with enough weight to stop him. “Do not make it something else. It is simple enough as it is.”
“It is not simple.”
“It is,” she insisted. “You have chosen. That is all there is to it.”
He did not deny it.
The quiet that followed was not empty. It held everything neither of them would say.
“You asked me once what you should do,” she said, softer now.
“I remember.”
“I told you to write it,” she went on. “I thought that would be the end of it.”
“It was not.”
“No.” Y/N let out a breath, faint, almost soundless. “It was not.”
She looked at him then, properly.
“Come with me,” she said.
No urgency. No desperation. Only certainty.
“We can leave before morning.”
But Maekar did not move.
“It will not matter where,” she continued. “Only that we are not here.”
“It will matter,” he said.
“It will not.”
“It will follow us.”
“Let it.”
He shook his head once. “You do not know what you are asking.”
“I do.” Her gaze did not waver. “I am asking you to choose.”
The words settled between them. He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, nothing had changed.
“I have,” he said.
Y/N went still.
“And this is it,” she said.
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Say it again.”
“Y/N—”
“Say it.”
He held her gaze.
“You will marry him.”
The words did not echo.
Y/N nodded once.
“Very well.”
She did not argue.
That had been the worst of it.
He left her there.
He had told himself, before he turned, that he would not look back. Not once. Not even at the end. The corridor stretched longer than he remembered. Each step came measured, counted without meaning to.
One.
Two.
Three.
He kept his gaze forward, fixed on nothing.
Thirty.
Forty.
Fifty.
The sound of his own steps followed him too closely, as though the silence refused to leave him.
Seventy.
Eighty.
Ninety.
He did not slow.
He did not slow.
One hundred.
One hundred and ten.
One hundred and twenty.
The distance should have meant something by then.
It did not.
One hundred and thirty.
One hundred and forty.
One hundred and forty-three. That was what it took to reach his chambers.
It should have been easy.
It was not.
He pushed the door open. The room was dark, untouched. For a moment, he stood there, as though the distance he had put between them might settle into something final. Then the air shifted. The window stood open.
The night had come in with it; cool, quiet.
And there—
She was still there. At the alcove. Exactly where he had left her.
As though those one hundred and three steps had meant nothing at all.
The next line in the diary had been written with such force the ink had nearly torn through the page.
I should have gone back.
One moon later, Maekar was betrothed to Dyanna Dayne. There were no entries after that. For a time, Egg could only stare at the empty pages that followed, his fingers resting at the edge as though something more might reveal itself if he waited long enough. Nothing did. The parchment remained clean, untouched—too clean. It unsettled him more than anything written before.
What had passed in the day of Y/N’s wedding, and the days that came after?
Nothing.
Or nothing his father had allowed himself to keep.
It did not make sense. Maekar had written everything—things better left unsaid, things no one was meant to read. He had not spared himself in ink. And yet here, at the very moment where something should have remained, there was only absence.
As if he had chosen not to remember.
Or worse—
as if he had not trusted himself to.
Egg turned the page.
And there it was.
Three moons after the wedding—three moons into what remained of their lives—the First Blackfyre Rebellion began. The entry resumed without preamble, as though nothing had been lost between one page and the next.
Maekar and Baelor were summoned to lead the royal troops.
Y/N,
A month has passed since they bound me to another name. It was done as such things are—spoken before witnesses, sealed in duty, and left without room for refusal.
I have kept my place in it as I was expected to. I have done all that was required of me. There is nothing in it that is mine.
War came as it always does—announced first in whispers, then in certainty. Baelor and I were summoned to lead the king’s forces. There was no delay.
There never is, when the realm demands it.
I did not think of you then as I should have. Or perhaps I did, and chose not to name it.
They told us after.
You had been taken in the confusion—caught where the fighting had turned without warning. No one could say how long you had been held, only that you had not been where they believed you would be.
By the time word reached us, it was already too late to prevent it. We were told there would be a rescue. That it would be handled.
I believed them. That is my failing as much as any other.
When they found you, it was not as they had intended.
There is a faint break in the ink there, as though the quill had been lifted and set down again with care.
An arrow,
They said it cleanly, as though that made it something easier to bear. As though the manner of it mattered.
I was not there. I was not there to see it. I was not there to stop it. I was not there to do anything at all.
The next lines were written more evenly, but pressed harder into the page.
It should have ended there. It did not.
The crown required something from it. Something to hold the lords in place, something to quiet the questions that follow any loss not properly explained. They found it in your name. A scapegoat, they called it—though not in those words. They said it was necessary. They said it would preserve the realm. They said many things that sound like reason when spoken aloud.
Your brother had written to the enemy. That much was true. The letters were found. They were placed before men who had already decided what they meant.
And you—
There is another pause in the line, longer this time.
You had kept them. You had said nothing. Not to protect yourself, but him.
It did not matter.
They named you traitor before the day had ended.
Your house was stripped of its standing. Your name was spoken once more only to condemn it. What remained was erased with a care I have not seen given to anything else.
The writing steadies, though something in it feels colder now.
They did not return you to your home.
They did not grant you the rites of your house. No stone bears your name. No place was marked for you. It was decided you would not be remembered in any way that could be spoken of again.
As if that were a thing they could decide.
The final lines are written cleanly, without hesitation.
You were made into something lesser so that the realm might remain whole.
Baelor did not speak against it.
I did not stop it.
This is what we chose.
He did not wait to be announced. Baelor’s tent was lit within, the canvas walls shifting faintly with the wind. Voices had only just quieted when Maekar pushed through, the flap snapping shut behind him with more force than needed.
Baelor did not look up at once. He stood over the table, one hand braced against it, the other resting near the maps spread wide. Only when the silence stretched did he lift his gaze.
“You should have sent word,” Baelor said, his voice even, as though nothing in the world had changed.
Maekar did not move further in. “Is it true?”
Baelor’s expression did not shift. “You will have to be more specific.”
“Y/N.” The name came sharper than he intended. “What they are saying of her.”
A pause. Brief. Measured.
“It is what has been decided,” Baelor said.
“That is not what I asked.” Maekar took a step forward now, the lamplight catching the edge of his expression. “Is it true?”
Baelor studied him a moment longer than necessary. “Her brother corresponded with the enemy. Letters were found.”
“And she?” Maekar pressed.
“She kept them.”
“That is not treason.”
“It is enough.”
“For whom?” The words came quicker now. “For the men who need a story to tell? For the lords who would rather believe it than question what happened?”
“For the realm,” Baelor said, the answer immediate, as though it had already been spoken too many times. Maekar let out a short breath, something close to disbelief. “You believe that.”
“I do not need to believe it,” Baelor replied. “I need to accept it.”
“She was your wife.” The words landed heavier than the rest.
Baelor’s gaze did not waver. “She was.”
“And this is all you have to say of it.”
“What would you have me say?” Baelor’s tone did not rise, but there was something firmer beneath it now. “That the crown is wrong? That the lords are fools? That the war should wait while we argue over what cannot be changed?”
“It can be changed.”
“No,” Baelor said, quieter now. “It cannot.”
Maekar shook his head once, more sharply than before. “You have not even tried.”
“I have done what is required of me.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It is the only thing that matters.”
A silence followed. Not empty—just thin, stretched too tight.
“She did not betray you,” Maekar said, slower now, each word measured. “You know that.”
Baelor’s hand shifted slightly against the table, though his expression remained composed. “It does not matter what I know.”
“It should.”
“It does not.”
Maekar stared at him, as though something might break if he looked long enough.
“She protected her brother,” he said. “That is all she did.”
“And that is enough,” Baelor answered, the words echoing his earlier tone, though quieter now. “For them,” Maekar said. “Not for you.”
Baelor did not respond.
“That was your wife,” Maekar went on, his voice lowering, though the weight of it did not lessen. “Your name. Your honor. And you would let them strip it from her as though she were nothing.”
Baelor’s gaze hardened, just slightly. “I would preserve what remains.”
“At her expense.”
“At the realm’s necessity.”
Maekar let out a breath, slower this time. “You would sacrifice her.”
Baelor did not hesitate.
“Yes.”
The word settled heavily between them.
Maekar’s jaw tightened. “For the realm.”
“For the realm,” Baelor repeated.
A faint, humorless breath escaped Maekar then. “Of course.”
Another silence.
Shorter this time.
“And you?” Baelor asked, his voice quieter now, though no less steady. “What would you have done?”
Maekar did not answer at once.
When he did, it came without hesitation.
“I would have chosen her.”
“They brought her back.”
The words left Maekar before he could stop them. They did not sound like his own—too hollow, too measured, as though someone else had spoken through him. Baelor stood beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly aligned, though there was distance in it all the same.
“They did,” Baelor said.
Maekar kept his gaze forward. He did not look, not at the covered form, not at the men who stood too quietly around it. He knew if he did, something in him would give, and he could not afford that. Not here.
“And you stood there,” he said.
“I did what was required.”
Required. The word settled wrong.
Maekar felt his jaw tighten, though his expression did not shift. “You knew,” he said, quieter now, but no less sharp. “You knew all along.”
Baelor did not answer. He did not need to.
Maekar let out a slow breath, his hand curling slightly at his side. “You knew what she was to me.”
Still nothing.
“And still—nothing,” he finished.
“She was my wife,” Baelor said at last.
Maekar almost turned at that. Almost.
Instead, his gaze remained fixed ahead, his voice lowering. “And yet you said nothing when they named her traitor.”
“It would have changed nothing.”
“You do not know that.”
“I do.” Baelor’s voice did not rise. “The decision had already been made.”
Maekar’s lips pressed into a thin line. That was the worst of it—not the certainty, but the acceptance.
“You did not even try.”
Baelor shifted slightly beside him, the movement small but deliberate. “The kingdom was at war. The lords needed something to hold to.”
Maekar let out a quiet breath that held no humor. “So you gave them her.”
“I preserved the realm.”
The words were steady. Practiced.
Maekar closed his eyes for a brief moment, the image pressing in regardless—her standing where he had left her, unmoving, as though she had been waiting for something that would never come.
“At her expense,” he said.
“At necessity.”
Silence followed.
Not the kind that passed, but the kind that settled.
Maekar’s gaze dropped, just slightly, to where the ground met his boots. For a moment, he said nothing. When he spoke again, his voice had changed—not louder, not softer, but they were stripped of anything unnecessary.
“I would have chosen her.”
He did not know why he said it. Perhaps because it was the only thing left that had not been taken from him.
Beside him, Baelor did not react.
“I know,” he said.
Maekar let out a slow breath. Of course he did.
“And you would choose the realm.”
“Yes.”
There it was.
Simple. Clean. Final.
Maekar nodded once, more to himself than to Baelor. Something in him settled with it, not acceptance, not peace.
“Of course you would.”
Another pause.
“They will have you wed again,” Maekar said, his voice flattening, as though the words no longer held weight.
“They already have.”
Egg did not turn the page at once.
There was something between the entries, something that did not sit like the rest of the writing. The ink was uneven, not from haste, but from restraint, as though every stroke had been forced. It began again in the same hand, but it no longer carried the same control.
Y/N, I said I would not write again.
I said your name would not reach this page again, not even in ink, not even when no one is meant to read it but myself.
And yet I have nothing else left that does not feel like a betrayal.
They speak of Dyanna Dayne as though she is already something settled. As though I am already someone who belongs elsewhere. I listen to them agree on my life as if I am not inside it.
And I say nothing, because there is nothing left in me that knows how to interrupt it.
There was a break then—long, uneven pressure where the quill had pressed too hard into the parchment.
I tried to draw you today.
I do not know why I thought I could still do it. I have not seen you in so long that I had begun to believe I would not forget. But I did.
Your face is no longer something I can hold in my mind without losing it halfway through.
I begin to draw the outline, and then I stop. Not because I do not remember you, but because I cannot decide what part of you comes first.
Your eyes, or your mouth, or the way you used to look at me as if I had already said too much before I spoke.
I tried to remember your voice.
Which was worse. It slips away before I can hold it properly. I can recall that you spoke, that you said my name in a way that made it feel like something different than it is now.
But I cannot hear it anymore.
The writing grew smaller toward the bottom of the page, as though the hand had begun to tire, or lose something essential in the act of continuing.
I have begun to fear that if I stop writing, there will be nothing left of you that I can still reach.
And if I keep writing, I will only prove that you are already gone in every way that matters.
Y/N,
If you can still hear anything of this, if anything of you remains where I cannot follow—come back.
Not as you were meant to be. Not as they would allow you to be.
Just come back.
Y/N, it is done. Dyanna Dayne. I have said her name enough times now that it no longer feels like it belongs to someone else.
That unsettles me more than I can explain.
Today, my son was born.
They told me I was meant to feel something immediate. Relief. Joy. But I did not know what I felt.
I held him because I was expected to. Because Dyanna could not. Because the room was full of eyes.
He is called Daeron.
Aerion was born today.
They placed him in my arms, and I found there was nothing in me that knew what it was supposed to feel like at first. Only the weight of him, small, real, and inconveniently alive in a way that demanded attention I could not fully give.
I am aware, even as I write this, that I should not be writing to you at all.
You are gone. That is not something I forget, even when I try to speak to you as though you might still be somewhere that words can reach.
And I am not who I was when I last wrote your name without consequence.
I have a wife now. I have children. I have a life that continues whether I stand inside it or not.
And still—when I am alone with ink and silence—I find myself returning here, to something that no longer exists, as if it might answer me if I say it carefully enough.
Y/N, I do not know what it is I am meant to name this anymore. I have tried to reduce it into something simpler, something that fits within the boundaries of what I am allowed to feel. It does not obey me.
For a time, I thought I understood it. I thought there was only you, and that everything else was what had been placed over you like a covering I never consented to wear. That is not entirely true.
Dyanna is kind. She does not ask more of me than I can give. She has built a life beside me that does not demand I bleed for it to remain standing. I have come to respect her. I have come to care for her in ways that feel . . . honest.
And that is where it becomes difficult to speak clearly. Because I thought love was meant to erase everything else. I thought it would leave no room for contradiction.
But I find that I can sit beside her and not wish to leave. I find that I can listen to her and not feel as though I am betraying something by doing so.
And still—when I write your name, it does not feel like memory. It feels like interruption. Like something unfinished has stepped back into the room without permission.
I do not know what it means that both of these things exist in me at once. I do not know what it means that I do not want to lose either of them.
I am beginning to suspect that I have spent too long believing love is meant to be singular, when all I have ever been is divided.
If that is a failing, I do not yet know how to correct it.
And if it is not… then I do not know what I am supposed to do with it.
The final entry in the journal was written the night Daella was born, when Dyanna had nearly died in childbirth.
Today, I looked at the child and realized I had built a life out of duty, yet I have lived as a ghost. I lived as though I were never truly part of it.
Y/N, my beautiful Y/N . . . you are gone.
Not fading. Not distant. Gone.
I will burn these pages tonight. I will not keep what remains of you in ink any longer, nor allow myself the comfort of returning where I no longer belong. There is nothing left to build from what we were.
Dyanna is my wife. My children are here. My life has already moved forward without waiting for me to follow.
And so I will close this chapter as it must be closed, completely, without remainder. And I will not open it again.
There was a long smear beneath it, where the ink had dragged across the parchment. As though the hand had stayed there long after the words had ended. And after that—
Nothing.
Egg sat back, exhaling a breath he felt he had been holding for hours. A shadow fell over the doorway, and he looked up to see his father standing there, a stern frown on his face. His eyes fell to the open journal in the boy’s hands. For a long, agonizing moment, neither man spoke. The air felt heavy with the weight of the past. Then, Maekar walked slowly toward his son, looking down at the portrait of Y/N. A tear, stark and unbidden, traced a line down the prince’s weathered cheek.
"I remember," Egg whispered softly, looking up at his father. "I remember when you tried to burn this, long ago. Mother found you, didn't she? She took it from the flames and put it back on your study desk."
Maekar did not answer at once. His gaze stayed fixed on the journal, though it no longer felt like he was seeing the page itself. It was somewhere behind it. Somewhere further back.
For a moment, he was not standing in the present at all.
He was in a room lit by firelight, too bright and too close, the air sharp with smoke and regret. The parchment had already begun to curl at the edges, blackening where flame touched ink. He had held it too tightly, as though grip alone could decide what would be lost.
“I am telling you to stop,” Dyanna’s voice had said. Not raised. But just final in a way that did not leave room for argument.
“You do not understand,” he had answered, though even then it had sounded hollow.
“I understand more than you think,” she said.
He had not looked at her. Not at first. Only at the fire. Only at what he was trying to end before it could outlive him.
“This should not remain,” he said. His hand tightened around the pages. “It is nothing but memory.”
“So is everything you are afraid to name,” she said quietly.
That made him still.
The fire snapped once, louder in the silence that followed.
Dyanna reached for him, not the flames, not the journal—but him. Her hand closed over his wrist, steadying rather than stopping. “You do not burn this because it is meaningless,” she said. “You burn it because it is not.”
His breath caught, shallow.
A moment passed where neither of them moved.
Then she spoke again, softer this time. “A prince is entitled to his memories,” she said. “Even the ones that break him.”
A beat.
“Put it back.”
He had wanted to argue. He had wanted to become something simpler than what he was. But there was nothing simple in her voice, only the quiet insistence of someone who would not turn love into permission for destruction.
“It does not make me any less your wife,” she added. The journal lay closed now, where the meeting of cover and page. Maekar’s hand rested on it for a moment longer than necessary, as though confirming it was still real, still here, still not gone.
Then Dyanna spoke—softly, from the doorway, already turning to leave him to it, granting him the silence she always seemed to understand better than anyone else.
And when Maekar did not look up as Dyanna left, he only stared at the journal—at her portrait—filled with the heavy realization that he would always be back right where he started, and always right where she had left him.
AUTHORS NOTE. weee first ever post here on tumblr! fingers crossed this doesn't flop :< i haven't written in a while so this might not be my best hehe likes and comments are very much appreciated! <3 (@/darlingofvalyria in ao3)
criston got his shit wrecked so bad last season all he does now is monologue shakespeareanly about doom and death and destruction at anyone who will listen
'CAUSE YOU CAN BE THE BEAUTY & I COULD BE THE MONSTER ˎˊ˗
synopsis : aerion targaryen — a possible heir to the throne, the son of the crown prince and grandson of the king — had fallen ill with an unknown fever. maesters who had served for years could not handle it, none of them found a cure, and his uncle decided to turn to you, a young healer from distant lands.
pairing. aerion x healer! reader
.✦ contains. kinda enemies to lovers but not really, misogyny, slight jealousy, reader is from the house mullendore.
a/n. pics are for the aesthetic purposes only - there is no physical description of reader. yay
day 1. 208 AC.
you stood in the middle of the chambers given to you — spacious, yet still unfamiliar — and slowly laid out everything you brought with you.
the work table by the window was already taken. the light fell evenly, soft, just how you liked it — enough to see the shades of leaves, the veins, the thickness of oils.
you started with the herbs.
a bundle of sage went to the top shelf — farther from extra moisture and foreign hands.
next to it — neatly tied stems of mint, a little lower, so it was easier to take in a hurry.
you placed the chamomile into a small clay jar, sorting the flowers with your fingers — by habit, almost not looking.
the smells slowly filled the room: warm, bitter, fresh.
at the edge of the table — clean, folded white cloths. you ran your hand over them, checking the softness, and set a few aside — for the first examination.
taking out your travel bag made of soft worn leather, which was your kit, you started to gather a set for the first visit to the prince.
in your memory came up the voice of your mentor, an old apothecary — the man who taught you to change a compress before speaking.
he said that in the capital one of the crown princes was sick.
“the order came from prince baelor himself.”
you heard from men nearby that prince baelor was in your lands a few weeks earlier — something about dealings with lands.
it must have been then that he heard about you.
you were not a big fan of the praise your small people spoke about you — words that no one left your hands untreated, that your methods were different from traditional ones and because of that your hands were covered in gold.
usually they said this to criticize the system of the citadel, which trained maesters so they would serve royal families, ignoring ordinary people who needed help more because of hard labor.
but you did not complain. your main goal was to heal people, to breathe life into them and you managed it.
then it felt like an honor, but when the castle met you here with silence and a maekar full of despair, who said that the maesters were powerless, and one of them died after catching this fever — you understood that it was more serious than you thought.
“my son… is specific. the illness made his temper even more… unpredictable,” he said, pressing his lips, and there were already notes of no hope in his voice.
“my prince, i will do everything in my power. but if the great minds of the citadel stepped back before this sickness, i cannot give empty promises. the rest will stay with the seven.”
day 3. 208 AC.
the morning started with a sharp knock on the door. a young servant, out of breath, said that the prince had woken up.
you headed toward the unfamiliar chambers, your healer’s kit thrown over your shoulder, and the soft lilac hem of your dress gently rustling with every step.
usually you braided your hair so it would not get in the way or fall into the herbs, but now you only quickly gathered it into a bun with a bone pin, feeling how a few stubborn strands were already slipping free from the weak hold.
when you reached the heavy doors of the royal chambers, the knights immediately stepped aside, making you softly smile back at them.
when the doors opened, they revealed a stifling room and prince baelor standing by the bed.
“my lord.” you lowered your head in a light bow.
“lady mullendore,” baelor said quietly, giving a small nod.
but before you could straighten, the silence was cut by a mocking, contemptuous laugh that made you turn your head and meet the direct gaze of aerion targaryen.
he looked exhausted, but even illness had not broken his arrogance.
his broad chest was bare and shining with fever sweat, the blanket had slipped down to his hips, and his skin was so pale it looked almost transparent.
he stared at you through heavy half-lowered eyelids, his eyes red, showing his condition.
you noticed the scars on his face that had not fully healed after — as you assumed — another showy tournament.
“my prince.”
“you think…” he started, but broke off, coughing, then continued in a rough voice. “you think that if men who spent years studying in the citadel under strict supervision and have half a lifetime of experience could not cure me… then some common girl can?”
he turned his gaze to the man beside him, and a weak, poisonous smile played on his lips. “i did not think you and father were this desperate, uncle.”
prince baelor only pressed his lips tighter. “behave properly, kid,” he said shortly, and then, throwing you an apologetic look, nodded and left.
you slowly walked to the table by the window where the light fell on your tools and began to carefully lay out the vials.
“admit it.” a mocking voice came from behind. “they sent you here so my cock would not rot off?”
then he pushed himself up and sat, leaning against the headboard. “if that is the case, we are starting this rather wrong.”
you did not answer, flipping through the pages of your personal journal where symptoms and recipes of rare ointments were written in small handwriting.
“i am here to rid you of this terrible fever, my prince,” you said softly.
aerion let out a quiet laugh and slowly ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it off his forehead. his gaze grew heavier.
“the last man who came here with the same goal is now six feet under in the sept of summerhall.”
you did not answer him.
instead, you took a small bowl of cool water and walked to his bed. your steps were almost silent. when you reached out to touch his forehead, aerion jerked back as if you were about to strike him with a dagger.
“you think you have the right to touch a dragon?” he said, frowning. his skin was so hot you could feel it even without touching him.
“i must examine you, my prince,” you replied calmly, not looking away.
“leave.”
you raised your eyes, watching his tense face. he was exhausted, his hair stuck to his temples, and his breathing was uneven and heavy.
he looked like death could come for him any moment.
“are you going to disobey a prince?”
you hesitated for a second, carefully studying his condition — the trembling in his hands, the unnatural flush on his cheeks. fighting him now, while he was at his peak of irritation, was pointless.
so you quietly nodded and headed for the door.
however, you did not pack your things. your satchel stayed open on the table by the window, leaving vials and notes visible.
the last thing you felt was his piercing gaze following you all the way to the doors.
day 4. 208 AC.
you did not have to part from him for long, because the very next night you were in his chambers again, the chamomile oil in your hands turning warm as you mixed it with nut oil.
aerion’s condition had worsened quickly and under the watchful, heavy gaze of maekar and his barely audible breaths, aerion had to give in.
but even now, when the illness drained the strength out of him, he did not miss a chance to make a poisonous comment about every one of your movements.
you remembered how the very first time your fingers finally touched his forehead, his body had tensed and his eyes had shut tight.
he did not look like someone who was often touched.
now he sat, helplessly leaned back against the tall headboard, his eyes constantly following you.
maybe the awareness of possible death had made him accept everything and fall silent. or almost silent.
you walked up to him, carrying the tray, and set it down on the bedside table. a thick, calming smell spread through the air.
pouring the chamomile and nut oil mixture into your palms, you slowly rubbed them together, warming them with your skin.
aerion raised an eyebrow, and on his pale face a familiar smirk appeared. “if you want to touch my cock that badly, you only had to ask.”
that made you softly smile, but you did not answer. instead you came closer and sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight, and for a moment the distance between you shrank to a few inches.
you raised your hand over his skin but froze halfway, lifting your gaze to him.
a silent question.
aerion looked into your eyes for a long moment, then slightly tilted his head.
you lowered your gaze and gently touched his neck, and in the same second you heard his sharp, broken inhale.
his body tensed and his jaw clenched hard. the skin was horribly hot, almost burning.
aerion’s eyes slowly closed. you could feel under your palms how his frantic pulse slowly began to calm down.
your hands moved down to his shoulders, gently massaging them, then went lower to his chest, carefully avoiding the area of his heart.
you clearly remembered your teacher’s instructions: only pure chamomile could be applied to the heart area, and nut oil in a mixture could cause unnecessary irritation.
aerion stayed silent, but his head tilted back slightly and his eyes stayed closed.
after you made sure he had relaxed, and his skin had cooled enough not to disturb his sleep, you stood up to lightly run oil over his forehead.
when you combed his damp hair back to clear his forehead, his eyes slowly opened and locked onto your face, first following your strands that had already fallen out of a hastily made braid in the middle of the night, lingering longer than they should on your lips, then moving up to your eyes.
that night, aerion targaryen did not have nightmares for the first time since the illness began.
day 9. 208 AC.
“i will have you beheaded if you try to poison me.”
aerion lay on his side, still weak, but his skin no longer felt like a burning furnace, and he had gained enough strength at least to lazily prop his head up on his hand and watch you.
you smiled lightly without even turning to him. “you repeat that every morning, my prince.”
your hands were familiar and steady as they mixed a brew of sage and yarrow, carefully measuring every drop of the solution. “if i truly wished you dead, i would have been sensible enough not to choose such an obvious and foolish way.”
aerion raised an eyebrow, and in his eyes, still hazy from fever, a playful smirk flickered.
“so you admit you had thought of killing me?”
you only shook your head slightly, reaching for the honey pot on the upper shelf, making your dress softly rustle as you stretched up for it.
“i am afraid that is not quite what i said, my prince,” you said and turned to him. “but if you are so insistently seeking an encounter with death, then who am i to oppose your will?”
he did not laugh, but you saw the corner of his mouth lift. in his gaze, heavy and drowsy, real amusement suddenly surfaced.
you walked toward him, scooping a little of the brew with a wooden spoon as you went, to check the temperature and ensure the right bitterness.
you gave a short nod to yourself, then handed the bowl to the prince and immediately returned to the table.
aerion predictably grimaced — few people drank such herbs with pleasure. he drained the cup in a couple of gulps and coughed loudly, trying to get rid of the aftertaste.
“disgusting,” he exhaled, frowning. “i would rather die sooner if this is the only way to stop drinking this shit.”
he was about to hand the empty cup back to you, but you returned just in time. with one hand you took the cup, and with the other you offered him a spoon, making him frown.
“what is this?”
“it will take away the bitterness, my prince.”
he looked at you and gave a short laugh. “do you think i am a child?”
“not only children sometimes want something sweet,” you replied, not looking away.
aerion snatched the spoon from your hand. he paused, studying the amber honey, in the very center of which a ripe blackberry sat like a small ornament.
“dragons do not need to be bribed with berries,” he muttered, still trying to sound displeased.
you only shrugged and went back to your shelves.
however, when you glanced back at the bed a minute later, the spoon was already empty.
day 21. 208 AC.
the night knock on the door was so sharp that you jolted up in bed, barely understanding what was happening.
when a breathless knight at the door said that the prince was urgently calling for you, you did not even have time to get ready.
you were only in a nightgown — made of soft fabric, reaching your ankles, with simple sleeves. your hair, which you had not managed to tie up as usual, fell loose over your shoulders.
you quickly threw a thick outer dress-cloak over it and went out.
when you entered aerion’s chambers, you froze at the threshold. he was not lying in bed or half-sitting against the headboard as usual. he was standing.
the prince stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard and fast. his bare chest shone with sweat, and wet strands of hair stuck to his face.
aerion’s eyes found you immediately — he held your gaze for a second, then sharply shifted to the knight standing behind you.
“out."
the knight did not argue: he gave a short nod and quickly left, leaving you alone in the room.
you rubbed your eyes sleepily and slowly walked toward him. “is something troubling you, my prince?” you asked softly.
aerion stayed silent at first, looking at you, his jaw tightly clenched and his shoulders tense. “i saw a nightmare.”
you approached him carefully, like a wounded animal, not making any sudden movements.
"good,” you said gently once you were very close. “but you should not be getting out of bed in this condition.”
he gave a short laugh, but there was no trace of his usual amusement in it. “i did not call you here to repeat obvious things,” he said, but he did not move even as you stopped right in front of him.
you reached out and touched his forehead, making him close his eyes and exhale heavily, leaning into your touch.
you moved your hand lower and touched his neck with the back of your fingers. “temperature is normal, these must be transitional symptoms. the illness is leaving, the body is just still resisting.”
“i have not had nightmares since the day you came here,” he said, opening his eyes slightly. “since you started rubbing your overly sweet oils into me and forcing me to drink solutions that taste like horse shit.”
you stood so close that you could feel the heat coming off his skin. a thick, heavy smell hit you — the air of a suffocating room, bitter herbs, his sweat, his scent.
“i can cal—” you started, but he sharply shook his head, cutting you off mid-sentence.
“just...” aerion stopped, then nodded toward his bed. “sit there. in case… i get worse.”
you understood that refusing a prince was impossible, and there was more of a hidden request than an order in his voice now, so you quietly nodded and sat on the very edge of the bed, choosing the side opposite him.
but you did not expect what happened next. aerion slowly walked to the bed, and instead of just lying down beside you, he lowered himself onto the blankets and carefully placed his head directly on your lap.
“my prince…”
“just stay like that,” he cut you off without opening his eyes.
several minutes passed in complete silence. gradually you began to relax, feeling the weight of his head and the way his tension slowly faded.
at first hesitantly, barely touching, you ran your hand through his long silver hair, hearing a quiet, almost pleased exhale in return.
once you were sure he was relaxing, you slowly combed through the cool strands, letting them slip between your fingers.
he was already on the edge of sleep when you heard his barely audible whisper.
“when we are alone, you can call me aerion.”
day 37. 208 AC.
“thank you very much, ser. i would not have managed without your help,” you said softly.
you lingered by the doors, speaking with ser garret. the young knight had offered to help you carry the heavy buckets of water, and you were grateful to him.
the man opposite you broke into a wide smile, clearly pleased with the attention. “oh, think nothing of it! come to me anytime. it would be a sin not to help such a beautiful lady as you.”
when you finally entered the chambers, aerion was already sitting, leaned back against the headboard. his jaw was clenched so tightly the muscles in his cheeks kept shifting.
“you were long.”
you, not suspecting anything, calmly went to your table, checking the shelves with tinctures. “i was speaking with ser garret,” you answered, moving as usual to check his body temperature. this had already become routine for you.
the white-haired man gave a short, sharp laugh. “i see.”
when you came closer, he suddenly called the name of the recent knight, his voice sounding so steady and commanding that no one would guess this was the same man who had recently been unable to open his eyes.
you frowned, not understanding why he needed the guard, but the door already swung open and the knight froze at the threshold.
aerion did not even look at garret. “how lucky we are today,” he drawled, and before you could react, he sharply pulled your arm.
you gasped in surprise, losing your balance, and in the next second you were sitting on his lap, sideways against his chest.
“it seems today is exactly the day you should carefully rub my body with oils,” his voice was low and slow.
“my prince, there is no need for that anymore, your body is already…” you started, trying to pull away.
“i think i know better what my body needs.”
his face was so close to yours that you could feel his hot breath on your skin.
then he took your hands and deliberately, slowly placed them on his neck — where you always started the massage.
“my prince…”
“aerion,” he corrected without looking away from you.
you awkwardly turned your head and saw ser garret. the poor man stood there, not knowing where to look, looking like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. you looked back at the prince.
“aerion,” you repeated quietly and uncertainly.
he lifted his brow in victory, and playful, sharp sparks danced in his eyes.
“you may leave, ser garret. we have… much to do,” he said, never breaking eye contact with you.
gods, it sounded so wrong.
but the moment you tried to stand, aerion’s hands closed around your waist, pulling you even closer.
“he will tell the whole castle about this,” you said, pressing your hands against his shoulders. “they will get a completely wrong idea of what is happening here.”
aerion only gave a lazy smirk. “what a pity.”
since that day, neither ser garret nor any other knight in the castle dared even speak to you again.
day 53. 208 AC.
this was the hardest moment — the final wave of fever.
you knew it was a sign that the illness was leaving, burning out the last traces of sickness from his body. that was why you did not leave his side for even a moment, practically living in his chambers.
all day and through the endless night you stayed beside him. you gave him brews, changed compresses every two hours, and barely closed your eyes. aerion would either sink into unconsciousness or briefly come back to himself, and every time his gaze would land on you.
near dawn, when you moved to the table again to change the water once more, you heard a strange sound.
turning around, you saw him thrashing in the bed. his hand was desperately searching over the sheets, as if looking for your hand. his eyes were half open, and his lips were moving in a whisper, almost like a prayer, shaped as your name.
you quickly went to him, removed the hot cloth from his forehead, and placed a new, cool compress. the moment your fingers touched his skin, his hand immediately caught yours.
he tightly squeezed your hand, pressed his cheek against it, and went still at once, falling back asleep — this time calm and deep.
day 77. 208 AC.
aerion had recovered enough to already be describing in full detail how exactly he would humiliate the next knight at a tournament. you only smiled softly and reminded him that it was still too early for him to ride a horse.
“first of all, i am on my feet thanks to the valyrian gods,” he declared, and then, after a slight pause, added. “well… maybe your methods sped things up a little.”
you laughed lightly, but aerion suddenly went quiet. he saw you slowly and carefully packing your things from the shelves, placing vials into your travel bag, and he frowned, asking if you were going to replace the medicines.
you looked at him with a soft smile.
“tomorrow another healer will come. she will watch over your recov— ”
“what?”
“i am leaving, my prince. my work is done.”
he stared at you as if you had said he did not have valyrian blood. it seemed he had not even considered that you could leave.
“i could fall ill at any moment. the sickness could return. i am not even fully healed yet.”
“you were just boasting about riding in a tournament,” you reminded him.
“i lied. i am not taking part in any tournament.”
“aerion, i did what i was brought here to do. now a royal healer will take care of you,” you said quietly, exhaling.
“i do not need a royal healer,” he snapped, his voice firm. “you are doing fine. stay here, i will make you the head of them.”
but you shook your head, continuing to pack your things.
“my people are waiting for me on my land. i will always serve the smallfolk first. that is what makes me different from the maesters of the citadel.”
“you did not cure me completely. i need time. and that woman… i will send her to your lands instead of you,” he said, swallowing hard.
then he stepped closer, taking hold of your hand. “those who need treatment will come here. any member of my family could catch this sickness, and only your herbs work on it. you cannot leave.”
he stood so close that his breath burned your skin, and his eyes did not leave yours.
“you will not leave,” he whispered, almost ordering.
you looked at him, studying the face that had become too familiar to you over these days. you had just opened your mouth to argue when he suddenly pulled you toward him and his lips crashed into yours.
you gasped in surprise, but the sound was swallowed by his mouth.
it was not a gentle kiss. it was a hungry, desperate surge — as if he had been holding himself back for weeks and finally snapped. aerion let out a low groan right into your lips, turning his head to deepen the kiss, demanding a response. and you responded, pressing your palms against his hot chest, feeling his tongue insistently explore your mouth.
that night he did not let you go, which was so surprising, because he had never openly shown you his weaknesses. when you lay in the dim light of his huge bed, he held you close.
“say you will not leave,” he quietly demanded.
you stayed silent for a long moment, listening to the beat of his heart under your ear.
“i will not leave,” you finally whispered.
aerion exhaled heavily, his body noticeably relaxing. he buried his chin in your hair, pulling you even closer.
day 78. 208 AC.
and just like that, you were gone before the first dawn.
THE CAST FOR THE NEW LOTR MOVIE BY ANDY CIRCUS JUST DROPPED AND I AM LOOOOSING MY MIND‼️‼️‼️ bc what do you mean im getting new thranduil content (MAKE THIS MOVIE LIGHT A FIRE IN LOTR WRITERS PLEASE I NEED NEW FICS) PLS im sooooo excited also Jamie Dornan for Aragorn Im not even mad not one bit 😭😭😭 im so excited for this movie i cant wait.
We Walk The Plank On A Sinking Ship [Chapter 6: It's A Goddamn Arms Race]
Series summary: After Queen Helaena is murdered during Blood and Cheese, the devastated Greens scramble to arrange an advantageous match for Aegon. They settle on you, the sister of Dalton Greyjoy, to forge an alliance with the Red Kraken and his fleet. But when you arrive in King’s Landing, the Usurper is not who you imagined him to be…and to fulfill your purpose, you must give him everything.
Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, blood and violence, death, mentions of sexual content (18+ readers only), pregnancy/children, Aemond crashes out over his failsperm, dragon-related stress, Greyjoy sibling bonding, Team Green gains a soccer mom.
Series title is a lyric from: “Don’t You Know Who I Think I Am?” by Fall Out Boy.
Chapter title is a lyric from: “This Ain’t A Scene, It’s An Arms Race” by Fall Out Boy.
Word count: 7.5k
Dividers were made by the wonderful @thecutestgrotto 🎨
🦑 All of my writing can be found HERE! 🦑
“Mother have mercy, she’s dead!” you hear someone screaming.
Your eyes flutter open and daylight pours in, blinding, searing. People are speaking urgently; from the Dragonpit, a dragon is shrieking. Dreamfyre? you think dazedly. Is she lonely? Is she furious?
“Your Grace?” Maester Orwyle says, peering worriedly down at you, his chains rattling. He blocks the sun so you can see. Now you notice that Floris is here too, and maids and servants and guards. Half the fucking castle.
You groan as you sit up, sand coating your palms and in your hair. Maester Orwyle reaches for you, kind studied hands. “What happened?”
“You fainted, Your Grace,” he says.
You shake your head. “Ironborn women don’t do that.” You try to stand and your knees buckle; Floris screams again. “I’m fine,” you tell her from where you kneel, but suddenly you are very, very warm, and the blue sky keeps trading places with the sapphire waves of the sea. Your eyes dart to Orwyle, panicked. What’s happening to me?
“We will help you back to your rooms, Your Grace,” he assures you, and you feel a bit better. He takes one arm and Floris the other, and slowly they accompany you across the sand and up the winding stone staircase, and although your ankles tremble you do not let your boots slip on the steps. The maids and servants follow in a frenzy, muttering amongst themselves, wondering if you have caught some malignancy from the smallfolk, saying all those raw oysters have finally done you in.
When you are delivered to your bed, you are mystified to discover that—for the first time in as long as you can remember—you only want to stay there even though the day is still young, to sink into the soft feather mattress and abandon your bow, your blades, the sea. Floris is trying to talk to you, but you clutch your pillow and your eyelids dip shut and some amount of time passes. When you swim back up through the opaque currents of gravity, you have an audience stationed around your bed like archers atop castle ramparts: Floris clutching Beauty to her chest, Aemond frowning, Alicent tugging nervously at a gold seven-pointed star that hangs from her throat, Maester Orwyle setting an array of small ceramic jars on your nightstand.
“It wasn’t the oysters,” you say; it comes out like a yawn. “I’ve been eating them all my life. I’m not ill, I’m just tired.” So, so, so tired. And maybe this is what a hero’s death feels like: floating down into something intoxicatingly serene, painless, effortless, no worries left for the mortal world.
“Your Grace,” Orwyle says quietly, as if not to jolt you too harshly from the haze. “Have you bled since you and the king consummated your marriage?”
“No.” But it hasn’t been so long, has it? Long enough, perhaps. You try to recall the last time moon blood brought you cramps and clots; and you haven’t felt any portents of it returning again either. Alicent turns to whisper to Floris. Now Aemond is glowering.
You look to Orwyle, stunned. Could it be true? He says, showing you his soft, benign hands: “Might I briefly examine your belly?”
“Of course.”
Your trousers and tunic, the subject of much controversy, prove convenient. Orwyle unfastens several gold buttons—each embellished with a kraken—and settles his palms on your belly, where he gently presses, taps, kneads. Then he picks up one of the jars on your nightstand. “Your Grace, would you be willing to identify this scent?”
You nod, perplexed, and then as soon as he lifts off the lid you recoil. “It’s awful! What is that?! It smells like garlic, but stronger. Much stronger. Metallic and pungent.” Like blood, like death.
The maester smiles. “I believe you are with child.”
“Oh!” Alicent cries from the foot of the bed, ecstatic. “What heartening news, what a blessing from the Mother!”
Aemond storms out of the room and Floris watches him go, fearful, clutching Beauty as the creature’s eyes bulge and her tongue lolls. He wanted the marriage consummated—the Greyjoy alliance secure, the Greens’ naval advantage unquestionable—but to watch Aegon beget yet another child while Aemond remains without one, lesser, emasculated, perhaps even sterile...
Alicent sighs and pats Floris’ shoulder encouragingly. “He will come around, my darling. His envy will abate, and he will see this for the gift it is. Aegon having an heir makes us all safer.” Then Alicent comes to you and takes both of your hands, beaming like the sun, grey streaks like moonlight in her rust-red hair. For the very first time, she doesn’t seem to be wishing that you were a Caswell or a Costayne or some other ordinary noblewoman, a flower from the Reach, a purring lap cat from the Westerlands. “And we will take the very best care of you. There will be no more grisly excursions to pull an octopus from the sea or riddle a Kingswood deer with arrows. You will stay here and rest, and we will ensure you have every comfort, and when your child is born you will know incomparable joy.”
Floris looks down at the floor, once again reminded that her womb is empty. Beauty whimpers and licks at her fingers, heavy and glittering with rings that keep multiplying.
“A child is a purpose,” Alicent tells you, hushed now as if it is a secret. She sits down on the bed and touches your cheek, tries to see you as a daughter. You are as unfamiliar to her as her silver-haired dragons, forever knowable, everlastingly frustrating. But you are her family now too. “I was always full of doubts as a girl. I lost my mother, my father was disgraced and sent away, my best friend became an enemy to me, I lied under the old king as he rotted and showed preference for Rhaenyra and did what husbands do to their wives, something so close and yet so distant. The only thing I was sure of was that Aegon belonged to me—perhaps he was the only thing that ever truly would—and that I would forsake all other promises to protect him. And I felt the same way about Helaena when she was born, and Aemond, and Daeron.”
Floris glances uneasily at Alicent; surely there is some undertone of treason in the dowager queen’s words. Maester Orwyle fiddles with his tiny ceramic jars and pretends not to be listening.
Alicent watches you, her vast eyes shimmering, dark mirrors of Aegon’s, just as sad, just as fierce. You think of Mother’s youth spent locked away in the Tower of the Glimmering, learning to scrub and sweat, perfecting her needlework, and when her marriage was arranged at last she committed herself indomitably to the life the Drowned God had given her. “I wish you could meet my mother,” you say to Alicent. “She is no warrior, and she makes beautiful embroidery. She is an excellent woman by any measure. You would enjoy each other’s company, I think.”
Alicent smiles. “One day. If the gods will it. When the war is won and we celebrate your child’s first nameday, perhaps.” She rises and leaves, presumably to inform Otto and Sir Criston.
You tell Maester Orwyle: “I must write to the Red Kraken. Will you take my letter to the rookery later, once I’ve managed to free myself from this bed?”
He bows. “I will return this afternoon, Your Grace.” He gathers up his jars, chains rattling, the sleeves of his grey robe whispering against the nightstand. “And I will bring teas and oils known to soothe the discomforts of pregnancy.”
“I’m too comfortable at the moment, that’s the trouble.”
He chuckles and departs. You can hear his low, ever-calm voice murmuring beyond the threshold.
“The king is pacing around in the hallway,” Floris tells you. And of course he is; he will not set foot in this room, painted with blood and hissing with ghosts. “Would you like me to deliver a message?”
“No, I’ll go out to see him.”
Floris is concerned. “You should rest.”
“We should not succumb to our weaknesses. We should rise above them.”
She rolls her eyes. “Being a squid sounds miserable.” Nonetheless, she yanks back the blankets so you won’t tangle your feet in them and tries to help you out of bed until you shake your head and she relents. “Don’t go tripping down any staircases. You’re the useful wife, we can’t make do without you.”
Now you do not push her away but catch her hand as she reaches anxiously for her sapphire pendant and squeeze it, sympathetic, repentant. “I’m very sorry, Floris.”
“I am not covetous of you giving birth to children, from what I understand it is even messier than conceiving them. But I would enjoy raising some, I think. And I’d like to be able to stop worrying about Aemond getting rid of me somehow. I believe he’d do it, and if he didn’t kill me first, my father would beat me to death for shaming him and ruining this alliance.”
Floris doesn’t appear to be joking, although sometimes it’s hard to tell with her. “Aemond could never put you aside. You are his lawful wife, and you are safe here. We would not tolerate Aemond being cruel to you.” Alicent wants a normal daughter-in-law. Otto wants the Baratheon army.
She smiles wearily. “Go on and see your king. I’m sure he’ll be pleased. You can plot which grotesque colossus you will bequeath to your offspring, a dragon or a kraken.”
Aegon is the only person in the hall when you arrive, his dagger at his waist and his moonshine hair hanging in waves, wearing dark green like a serpent or a crocodile. Alicent or Orwyle must have told him already, because he says, looking a little uncertain, a little afraid: “Well done, wife.”
“You did most of the work, as you enjoy reminding people.”
“But you bear the risk.” His gaze drops to your belly, suddenly of so much interest to everyone. He begins, tentatively, to reach for you. “May I?”
You laugh. “It’s only just started. You won’t notice any difference.”
“I’ve never felt it before.”
Is that possible? Three children, and he’s never touched an expecting woman’s belly? You move your own hands out of the way and he lays his palm against the softness just above the cradle of your hips, gentle, curious, somber. A horrible thought strikes you.“Will we have to send them someplace far away, like Jaehaera?” Like poor dead discorporate Maelor?
Aegon shrugs, his blue gaze vacant. “They die if I send them away. They die if I keep them here. How could I know what the right answer is?”
“What is dead may never die. You will see them again. And this one will live.”
“You have such faith in your monstrous Drowned God.”
“I was sent here for a reason.” You hear the firelit priest telling Mother: You will mourn many children, but your bloodline will be eternal. Do you understand? “I suppose there is no more need for you to call me to your bed at night.”
“No,” Aegon agrees. “But if I called you anyway, would you come?”
“I can’t say I have much of an appetite for lust at the moment.”
“Just to sleep then.”
“Yes. I would come.”
“Good,” he says simply, and leaves. You watch him walk to the opposite end of the corridor and hurry down the grand staircase, and then he is out of sight, and you are alone with the shadows and the ill-tempered shaggy cats that pad nimbly around Maegor’s Holdfast gutting rats.
You return to your bedchamber and Floris takes Beauty down to the gardens, and as you resist the temptation to crawl back beneath the blanket—a losing battle—you do a slow meandering lap around the room. You admire the wooden figurines Aegon carved for Helaena, insects and arachnids frozen in petrified time. You squint as you peek through the curtains to see the beach drenched in blinding sunlight, swift Ironborn ships patrolling the waves. You pull aside one of the massive green tapestries to find what was once a secret passage, but no longer: a doorway bricked up, an entrance barred against assassins.
You are pondering the green pearl you keep hidden in one of the dead queen’s jewelry boxes: Perhaps I’ll give it to Aegon when our child is born. Perhaps I’ll give it to him the next time he returns home victorious from battle. Perhaps I’ll give it to him when he says he loves me.
Someone shrieks from downstairs, and you think: Why are people always screaming here?
You swipe your dagger from the driftwood trunk where you keep it and race to the staircase, but what you see below is no threat. Dalton is grinning up at you, Nightfall drawn, long dark hair dripping seawater. The horn that once belonged to the Celtigars hangs from his shoulder by its leather strap. Maids and servants are hysterically fleeing from him; guards clutch their swords and approach him doubtfully. He didn’t wait for permission. He is not here by invitation. He is here because he believes no one can stop him. Aegon strides into the room—summoned by the screams—then freezes when he spots the Red Kraken, looks up to see you at the top of the staircase, waves away the guards. They appear grateful as they scatter. Floris arrives and yelps in alarm, as if instead of your brother she has discovered a bear or wolf or shadowcat loose in Maegor’s Holdfast.
“Dalton!” you shout, thrilled. You tuck your dagger into your belt and rush down to him. You slip on a step and laugh as you catch yourself on the banister. At the foot of the staircase Dalton grabs you without hesitation, without propriety, his right hand crushing your belly. “Will you stop?” you say, smiling. “Why do people keep doing that? There’s no change yet!”
“You’re firmer here, I can feel it.” He kisses you on the mouth, rough stubble, salted lips. Aegon and Floris grimace and recoil. “Mother will be elated.”
“She already has an abundance of grandchildren, thanks to your efforts.”
Dalton smirks and shrugs, and you know what he means: Not real ones. Dalton does not bring his salt wives or children to the castle on Pyke. He is not particularly close with any of them, and so Mother isn’t either. He tilts up your chin and skates his calloused thumbprint across the wave crest of your cheek, admiring you, thanking the Drowned God for you. Now you are everything a good woman must be. You glance over at Aegon, and he is not just repulsed and mystified. His oceanic eyes glisten with a forbidden envy; no Targaryen has ever touched him with this sort of tenderness, not in as long as he can remember. No one has demonstrated love this unmistakable and unashamed. Dalton murmurs: “You are forever the pearl in the oyster of my life.”
“I’ve missed you.” No one else here is like us.
“Come walk with me,” he says and turns away, expecting you to follow. As he passes by Aegon, Dalton bows his head slightly. “Dragon tamer,” he greets him. Aegon nods back, still bewildered. Floris gapes at Dalton: his hungry grey eyes and unkept hair, the moonstone pommel of his blade. From the shadows, maids and servants chatter, marveling at their essential, bestial ally.
On the beach, the froth of the surf roils up over the sand and the sun is still hot and golden as it sets, paining your eyes. Gulls spiral and squawk, the breeze blows, Ironborn ships traverse the bay from afar. You recall the listing of a deck beneath your boots, the mist of sea spray, the creaks of rigging. You can’t believe you’ve gone so long without these things; you ache for them every minute you’re awake, and oftentimes in your dreams as well. From the Dragonpit, Dreamfyre is shrieking again, murderous and mournful.
“Where is the One-Eyed Prince?” Dalton says as he walks backwards, swinging Nightfall, sparring with invisible foes. “The man who rides Vhagar?”
“He and Criston left to take Maidenpool in the Riverlands.”
“That’s on the coast, isn’t it? Overlooking the Bay of Crabs. We could have reaved there.”
“You’re needed here to protect the city, just like Aegon and Sunfyre. The Velaryon fleet is still out there in the Narrow Sea, waiting for the opportune moment.”
Dalton is displeased, and always impatient. He frowns at his own reflection in Nightfall’s long, Valyrian steel blade.
You point to the horn Aegon took from the Celtigars. “No krakens yet?”
“I haven’t killed enough enemies,” Dalton says, as if he’s given it lengthy consideration. “I haven’t proven myself worthy. That’s why the Drowned God hasn’t blessed me, it’s the only reason I can think of. But one day I will have slit enough throats, spilled enough guts, sent enough sacrifices into the sea...and when I blow the horn, I will be answered.”
You study him, wondering: Has he changed? Is he more ruthless than he was before? More reckless, more restless? Or maybe you’re just softer, weaker.
“You remember what the priest said when we were children?” he continues.
“I do.”
“He saw bubbles rising from the depths, he saw ships snapped in two. What else could that mean?” Dalton sheaths his sword. “You should come to sea with us. It would be good for you. You wrote that you’ve felt unwell. It’s because your child craves the ocean, and exertion, and violence, the same as any true Ironborn. You could accompany us the next time there is a skirmish, when we are sent to hammer down rebellions on Driftmark or Massey’s Hook. I’ll have armor made for you.”
“I don’t wear armor.”
“Not while killing pitiful men on cargo ships. But against trained soldiers? You must wear it. It will be light, I promise. You’ll still be able to move freely.”
You feel yourself tugging on your leather gloves, hear the whisper of an arrow’s fletching between your fingers. There is the flicker of something, kindling eager to catch fire. “I wish I could, but the king doesn’t want me to leave the Red Keep. And I’m trying to be a good wife.”
“He thinks he doesn’t want you to, but he married an Ironborn for a reason. We’re not like the rest of them, and we aren’t supposed to be.” Dalton sits down on the sand and you join him, appreciative for the rest. Now your only living brother looks at you closely. “What is he like as a husband?”
Terrible. Wonderful. A curse, a conqueror. “Have you ever been in love?”
Dalton cackles. “The Usurper has been treating you well.”
“It’s not like it was with Father and Mother,” you say, troubled. “It’s strange. All day we ignore each other, or we argue and we glare, and then every night he sends for me. Sometimes he’s not even awake when I get there. I think he just doesn’t want to be alone.”
“But when he is awake?” Dalton presses, leering.
You know what he’s asking. “It’s almost like fighting. But it’s good. He won’t touch me unless I want him to.” You remember how Aegon showed you the Celtigars’ horn first; you remember how he called you a pearl when he didn’t know you were listening. “He can be so thoughtful sometimes, and then he forgets me again.”
Dalton shrugs, perhaps disappointed that you aren’t divulging more details. “Well, you’re not one of his whores, and you’re not his dead sister either. Perhaps he doesn’t know what to do with you.”
“Perhaps,” you say distractedly, watching Ironborn ships glide on the horizon, dark shadows against firelight dusk.
“I don’t love women the way I love the sea, or the feel of Nightfall in my hand, or the heat of a man’s blood after I’ve spilled it. I don’t love my children that way either.”
You settle a palm on your belly, unremarkable and yet full of promise. “I love this one.”
He smiles. “Do you? Already?”
“I think it’s a girl though.”
He sighs, a minor disappointment. “Well, she will be fearsome like you, and you can pray for a boy next time. It should come soon enough.”
“Of course.”
“To conceive in the first moon of trying is a great blessing from the Drowned God. He must want you here.” Then Dalton grins, teasing, showing his strong crooked teeth. “Perhaps fertility is your gift, and you will give Aegon more children than any consort ever has before. You will put Good Queen Alysanne and her thirteen blonde brats to shame.”
“I’m afraid I’ll never be sure what my gift is.”
“You’ll know it before the end,” Dalton says, and you rest your head on his shoulder as the tide rises to cover your boots.
Now your belly is beginning to show, and you aren’t feeling quite so drained; instead you grow full like a net heavy with fish, and you try not to wish that you were on a ship with Dalton and Rollo Pyke and the other Ironborn, useful and lethal, close to the sea, close to the Drowned God.
You are at dinner with Aegon, Floris, Alicent, and Otto, and the Hand of the King is saying: “The fighting in the Riverlands and the Reach is affecting harvests. Men are kept away from their farms, and fields and orchards have been pillaged or burned. There will be food shortages. The ability of trade vessels to travel in and out of Blackwater Bay is imperative, but the Sea Snake must know that. He will attempt a blockade when he feels the time is right.”
“The Ironborn will massacre them,” Aegon says with confidence.
“Unless a dragon escorts the Velaryons. Even a small beast like Vermax or Moondancer can do great damage to ships, particularly at night when it’s difficult for scorpion bolts to find their targets.”
“So I’ll burn the Sea Snake’s ships,” Aegon says, elbows on the table, gnawing on an apple. “Simple enough.”
Otto smiles, tight and long-suffering, as if struggling to keep his patience. “I fear he may try to lure you away from the capital for his own designs, leaving it unguarded.”
“Alright then. Aemond can burn his ships.”
“Aemond cannot travel so far from the Riverlands without effectively abandoning our hard-won advantages there. And he seems...much attached to Harrenhal.” Aemond had returned to King’s Landing after taking Maidenpool for just long enough to attempt to impregnate Floris, then flew to join Criston’s forces when they marched on Harrenhal. Daemon and Caraxes vacated the castle shortly before they arrived, headed east towards the Vale. Aemond has not left Harrenhal since, despite nearby traitors being ripe for subjugation: House Smallwood of Acorn Hall, House Darry, House Lychester, House Vance of Wayfarer’s Rest, House Piper of Pinkmaiden.
Aegon’s brow furrows. “Why?”
Otto shakes his head; he doesn’t know.
The king’s eyes flick to Alicent. “Have we asked Criston why?”
She answers: “His letters have been brief and only on the subject of logistics.”
“Surely the castle is not so appealing, it’s a mound of haunted rubble. Its only value is its location.”
“Curious that Daemon would surrender it so easily,” Otto muses.
Aegon shrugs. “He fears Vhagar. As anyone should.”
“And yet he is known to be rash and cunning. He rarely runs from a fight.”
With the point of your knife, you poke at the slab of bleeding venison on your plate, surrounded by strange southern produce: a salad of spinach and sweetgrass and orange slivers, a tapenade of olives. Nauseated, you put down your cutlery. You rest your hands on your belly instead. Your gown is soft grey velvet, flowing sleeves and stitched with black starfish. Mother made it, and when you wear her needlework she doesn’t seem so far away, across the continent, across the sea.
Otto is saying: “In any case, Aemond will need to be more flexible. The Lannister army won a battle at the Red Fork, but they suffered heavy losses and will not cross farther into the Riverlands without a dragon escort. They fear reprisal from one of Rhaenyra’s beasts. And who can blame them? I too would have no desire to be roasted alive in my armor.”
Aegon turns to Floris, grinning. “Floris, lovely, would you describe Aemond as flexible?”
She smirks shyly. “Not especially.” Beauty is sitting in Aemond’s chair and Floris is feeding her morsels of meat and sweet potatoes.
“Where is Rhaenyra, anyway?” Aegon asks as he chomps on a turkey leg, brown crackling skin slick with grease. “Still cowering in the Vale with her bastards and her infants? What an inspiring image she cuts. No wonder she’s losing this war.”
“It’s difficult to know for sure. She doesn’t stay anyplace for long. I understand that Vermax and Moondancer have been spotted near Quiet Isle, Saltpans, and Widow’s Ford,” Otto says. “It stands to reason that Rhaenyra is nearby.”
“She’s retreating.”
“Well, she’s waiting for the Northmen, probably. And considering her options. She and Daemon have been quarreling, apparently he’s taken up with a servant girl or something.”
Aegon snorts. “Perfect.”
“Aemond must be careful,” Alicent cautions. “Vhagar is formidable, but she is aged, and she is flesh and blood the same as any dragon. They are not immune to illness or injury.”
Otto nods as he slices through his venison. “A scorpion bolt took down Meraxes.”
“Vhagar is bigger now than Meraxes ever was,” Aegon says. Then he sees that you aren’t eating and is concerned. “Are you ill?” He touches your face to feel for fever and you are startled; he almost never touches you unless you’re alone together.
“She doesn’t like land animals, haven’t you noticed?” Floris says. “She never eats them. She just picks at the meat to be polite.”
Aegon looks around the table irritably. “Why is there nothing here for the queen to eat?”
A nervous young servant carrying a pitcher of wine inquires: “What would you like me to bring, Your Grace?”
“Go find a salmon or something!”
The servant bows and scurries from the dining room. Aegon smiles at you and rests a palm on your belly; you smile back. As the servant leaves, Lord Larys Strong enters.
Alicent sighs. “Lord Larys, what a pleasure.”
“I do apologize for the intrusion.” He stands with both hands on the handle of his cane, inset with a firefly made of gold. He glances meaningfully at the remaining servants and the guards gleaming in their armor. “But there are...timely matters that bear discussion.”
There is a lull as Alicent and Otto exchange an alarmed look, and then Otto commands the servants and guards: “Leave.”
They obey and Alicent gestures to Aemond’s chair. “Please, Lord Larys, join us.”
Floris places Beauty in her lap, where the dog whines until she is consoled with another piece of sweet potato. Larys bows to both you and Aegon and then takes a seat, fidgeting with his robes, plucking several red grapes from a nearby platter of fruit. “It is my great regret to bring you worrisome news this evening, but some very interesting whispers have found their way to me from the foothills of the Vale, and I did not think it would be wise to delay in informing you.”
“What’s happened?” Alicent asks, gripping the seven-pointed star at her throat. She is frightened but not frantic; if Aemond was wounded or dead, Larys would not be eating grapes.
“It seems...that the dragon Seasmoke has been claimed by a rider.”
There is a long pause. Otto replies flatly, still absorbing it: “By who?”
“By a young bastard of Corlys Velaryon. Addam of Hull, he is called. He has joined Rhaenyra’s cause.”
“We can do that?” Aegon says to his grandsire. “We can dig up Valyrian bastards and put them on dragonback?”
Otto shoots him a quick, frustrated glare. “This is very serious.”
“Apparently it was Jacaerys Velaryon’s idea,” Larys says with a raised eyebrow.
Alicent swigs her wine. “Bastards riding dragons. Of course he would think of it.”
“Seasmoke has experienced battle,” Otto says. “He saw combat in the War for the Stepstones.”
Aegon scoffs. “But this bastard hasn’t! I have, Aemond and Daeron have!”
“Daeron is needed in the Reach, you are needed here. Aemond cannot be everywhere at once, and Vhagar is slow. I don’t believe Caraxes could seize the capital alone, Vermax and Moondancer are small and inexperienced, Syrax is not well-suited for battle...” The horror dawns in Otto’s green eyes. “But Caraxes and Seasmoke together...”
“What of the other beasts?” Alicent says, terrified. “The unclaimed dragons on Dragonstone?”
“Seven hells, what about Vermithor? Can you imagine if they got the Bronze Fury?”
Now Aegon is roused, his spine straight, his eyes focused. “Send some of the Ironborn ships to patrol Dragonstone. They will report as to whether any of the other dragons are missing and kill anybody who approaches the island.”
“That’s an unenviable task,” Floris says, petting Beauty as the dog’s pink tongue droops from its mouth. “Trekking around a volcanic rock hoping the dragons don’t incinerate you.”
“Fortunately, the Ironborn don’t mind dying.” Otto counts beasts on his fingers: “Vermithor, Grey Ghost, Silverwing, the Cannibal...”
“The Cannibal!” Alicent gasps, clutching her seven-pointed star until her knuckles turn white.
“We have a dragon here,” Otto realizes. “Large and ferocious and in need of a rider.”
Alicent looks at him, dazed. “Dreamfyre?”
“Could we find someone to bond with her? She could help the king guard the city, even with an inexperienced rider she would be a powerful deterrent to our enemies. Her size alone would make her lethal to Seasmoke and a threat to Caraxes.”
Aegon is stunned, then draws his dagger and twirls it, peers into the silvery blade, begins etching something into the table. Floris seems to debate objecting to his destruction and decides against it. “Is this really possible?”
Otto ruminates on the prospect. “If the bastard is Corlys Velaryon’s son, that makes him a half-brother to Seasmoke’s former rider, Laenor. Perhaps the dragon sought a close relative. We don’t have one of those, Viserys sired no illegitimate children. The only Targaryen bastards in the city would be very distantly related to you. It might be too attenuated an inheritance, the magic too diluted.”
“If I may interject,” Larys says in his subtle, servile way. “It appears to my inexpert judgment that there is nothing to lose by trying.”
Aegon frowns, scratching shapes into the wood of the table. “Unless we give a dragon to someone we cannot trust.”
“Why would they turn against us?” you say, and Aegon gazes at you thoughtfully. “If we raise a person from nothing and welcome them into this dynasty? What does anybody crave besides glory, family, purpose, power?”
“We could try to find a rider Dreamfyre would favor, someone like Helaena,” Otto says, and both Alicent and Aegon flinch. When they hear her name they smell blood, see a shock of silver hair painted red.
Aegon thumps the point of his blade against the table. After a while he says softly: “Both of Dreamfyre’s riders have been women, gentle and fond of animals.”
“And mothers,” Otto murmurs.
Alicent bursts out: “You wish to give my daughter’s dragon to a stranger?”
Otto shakes his head. “Alicent, this is to defend King’s Landing—”
“It’s grotesque,” she hisses. “It’s an abomination.”
“We must do the very best we can with our present circumstances, we cannot afford the luxury of sentimentality. Does the Warrior not wish us to be brave in battle, does the Smith not reward ingenuity?”
“Does the Mother stop loving her children when they die?”
“You would give that murderous bitch Rhaenyra an advantage over us?!”
Alicent is weeping. “To treat a creature that gave Helaena such joy and solace like a tool to be used and passed along, like a sword or a shovel or a pair of boots...”
Aegon stares icily at Otto. “What have any of us ever been to him but tools?”
Otto turns to the king, hurt and fury glinting in his eyes. “Do not mistake my pragmatism for lack of affection, boy.”
“I don’t believe you’re capable of affection.”
“My love for Helaena was far greater than yours! How often did you dance with her or walk with her in the gardens, or inquire about her insects, or play with her children, your children?!”
“As if you mourned her! You were sending off ravens to the Reach and the Westerlands and the Iron Islands when the bodies of my wife and son were still smoldering on the pyre!”
“To protect the family I have left!” Otto roars back. “To safeguard you, and your mother, and Aemond and Daeron and Maelor and Jaehaera! The war does not stop when one of us dies, and I will keep writing my letters and plotting my countermeasures as long as our cause still has breath in its lungs, as long as any one of us survives!”
The table falls quiet and wordless: Aegon hostilely marring the wood with his dagger, Larys and Floris endeavoring to be invisible, Alicent sniffling into a handkerchief embroidered with Sir Criston Cole’s initials, Beauty ogling with her protruding onyx-dark eyes.
When Otto continues, his voice is soft and sorrowful. “Is your Greyjoy wife not to your liking? Is the heir she carries not an asset to our faction and a patch to the wound in your soul? If I have done wrong, it was not in the hours following the murders of Helaena and Jaehaerys. It was over two decades ago when I believed that marrying your mother to King Viserys would ensure the prosperity of our family and the protection of the realm. I was wrong, but I cannot go back and change it. I can only press onward. And finding a rider for Dreamfyre will help us win, and so I must do it.”
“We should consult with Aemond,” Alicent says.
Aegon nods grudgingly. “Allow him a fortnight to respond, then we will proceed with or without him.”
“I’ll send a raven now,” Otto agrees, and rises from the table. As he leaves, you think you see the shine of tears on his cheeks. You look down to where Aegon has been carving something into the wood, and what you find there is a ship being tossed on rough waves.
At night he sends for you like he always does, and when you arrive he is still awake, gazing up at the canopy of emerald and gold with his fingers laced behind his head. When you climb into bed he crosses the white sea of the sheets to reach you, drapes an arm across your hips, rests his head on the modest swell of your belly, perhaps imagines the future that waits inside.
You say, afraid to disappoint him, afraid he will hate you again: “What if this one is a girl?”
Aegon looks up at you. “You think it is?”
“I can’t picture a son for some reason. Only a daughter.”
“Then we will cherish her. I won’t make the same mistakes I did before.” He smiles. “And we will have an excuse to try vehemently for the next one.”
“I don’t think you need an excuse.”
He chuckles. “Aemond likes to stay inside Harrenhal. I prefer to be somewhere else, warmer and far less roomy.” But he doesn’t try to take off your white cotton shift. He is drowsy; he closes his eyes and lays his head on your belly again.
You thread your fingers through his silver hair, your skull full of hushed clandestine questions: Will you let me help you? Can you understand I’m not like other noblewomen? Do you mind that I smell like seawater now and not perfumes or lotions or oils? Why do you still call for me each night? Why did you send the whores back to their brothels? Do you think you could love me someday? And you ask none of them.
You wait until you see Aegon flying on Sunfyre high above the Red Keep, and then you put down your cards. You and Floris are in the gardens, trickling fountains and blazing sun and arbors thick with red roses, grape vines, honeysuckle, ivy. Bumblebees drone and birds chirp. From a distance, you can hear waves breaking against rocks and the shrill squeals of gulls.
“Where are you going?” Floris says.
“To be useful.” To overcome weakness.
“No.”
“I’ll return before too long.”
“No,” Floris pleads again.
You grin. “See you at dinner.”
“Rhaenyra and Daemon could have sent assassins into the city. You don’t fear them?!”
“If they found an assassin who’s killed more men than I have, I’d consider it.”
She sighs, reshuffling the cards. “Well, I’m glad you’re feeling more like yourself again.”
At the gate, the guards let you out because they’ve all heard stories of what the Red Kraken does to his enemies: throat cutting, keelhauling, feeding them to sharks or spotted whales, throwing them overboard to sink down to the seafloor, grim offerings to his grisly god. In the streets of King’s Landing, the people come out to greet and gawk at you. Men ask to admire your weapons: your bow, your oyster knife, your dagger you paid the iron price for. Women touch your belly to wish you the deliverance of a healthy heir, to pray that some of your good fortune will prove catching and bless them with a child as well. Swarms of filthy-faced orphans thank you for sending them squirrels and chipmunks and birds from the Godswood. They ask if you have magic. Can you cast spells? Can you see through the eyes of dolphins or whales?
“No, but people say some Ironborn from the Lonely Light can,” you reply, smiling, and then you gnash your teeth like a spotted whale and they run off, screaming and giggling.
You find the same blue door where you and Floris left the piebald stag before. You knock and the man who lives there answers, is shocked to discover you, bows deeply. “Perhaps you can help me, good sir,” you say. “In exchange for the enduring appreciation of the crown and more deer dropped on your doorstep in the future.”
“Anything, Your Grace.”
“I seek someone who resembles my husband. Who shares...a certain family likeness.”
The man hesitates; is it blasphemous to speak of such things?
“The Targaryens have resided here for over a hundred years,” you say diplomatically. “It is inevitable that some of their strange foreign attributes have trickled down.”
The man admits: “There are a few such people to my knowledge here in the city.”
“Can you think of a young woman? Perhaps a mother?”
He considers this for a moment. “I know a baker.”
“Take me to her.”
He leads you through narrow, crooked cobblestone streets, and smallfolk appear in doorways and peer down from their windows. You hear them whispering: It’s the Greyjoy queen again. She’s always dressed like a man. She’s always carrying weapons. But she is merciful to us. And she will give the king fearsome heirs, won’t she?
At the bakery, the man bows once more and leaves you to your business, knowing it is sensitive in nature. Inside the small storefront you find baskets half-full of bread and biscuits and pastries. A woman with her hair in a thick braid is humming as she lifts a fresh loaf out of the oven with a long wooden peel. In the back of the shop, you glimpse a man dragging around massive burlap sacks of flour. Up in the loft, you can hear children playing.
The woman turns and sees you standing in the threshold, an archer in leather gloves and boots, trousers, a tunic held shut by golden buttons embossed with krakens. She gasps and drops the peel, gaping at you, mesmerized and horrified. Why would you be here? She collects herself and bows. “Your Grace,” she manages, voice trembling.
“What is your name?” you ask, wasting no time. The Ironborn are not particularly conversational.
“Rosella, Your Grace.”
“Who is your father?”
She startles; fear flashes in her grey-blue eyes. She is in her thirties, plump and pretty, a straight regal nose like Aemond’s, a certain luminous quality to her skin. Her hair is darker than Aegon’s, more sandy than white, more faded, but there are strands of silver that glimmer when the sunlight hits them. “I never knew him.”
She thinks you might be hunting down Targaryen bastards for a nefarious purpose: to eliminate Aegon’s rivals, to sacrifice them in a watery heathen ritual. “You have nothing to fear from me. Only to gain. And there will be rewards for your children as well.”
Rosella wipes flour from her palms onto her apron. Eventually, she answers. “My mother said Prince Aemon—son of King Jaehaerys the Wise, father of Rhaenys the Queen Who Never Was—loved her in their youth. We were always taken care of, money was sent, medicines and gifts appeared at the proper moments. I have memories of a man visiting us, very tall, very handsome. But he hid his hair under a dark hood. He would read books to me. Many smallfolk can’t read, my husband couldn’t when I met him. But I taught him how.”
“These visits ended when you were still young, I presume?”
Soberly, she nods. “Perhaps out of respect for his wife, Jocelyn Baratheon, a dark-haired beauty. When people mentioned her, my mother would get quiet and sad. Then the prince was killed on Tarth by pirates before I fully understood, before I was married myself and learned all that goes on between men and women. It’s a regret of mine. I wish I could have known him better.”
“Forgive me, my knowledge of the Targaryens is still somewhat limited. Did Prince Aemon ride a dragon?”
“Caraxes. The Blood Wyrm.”
You study Rosella again, trying to decide if she is much like Helaena. It’s difficult to compare her to someone you’ve never met, a phantom, a ghost, a ricochet. “Do you have any magic?”
She blinks, puzzled. “What, Your Grace?”
“Do you see visions or cast spells?” You recall how Aegon put out the candles on the altar beneath Balerion’s skull and was not burned. “Does fire not harm you?”
“I never seem to burn myself on the bread oven. I don’t know why. Every other baker I’ve ever met has scars up and down their arms.”
“Come with me.”
Rosella glances nervously back at her husband, her children. “Why?”
“When the queen asks something of you, the only answer is yes.” Then you go out to the street to wait for her, and within a minute or two she does, her skin still dusted with flour and murmurs of bladelike silver gleaming from her hair.
You walk with her to the Dragonpit, and by the time you get there Rosella is winded and perspiring and turning pink from the sun, but you feel better than you have in months, blood rushing, blades on your belt. You remember Dalton’s words and realize he might be right: It’s because your child craves the ocean, and exertion, and violence, the same as any true Ironborn.
Aegon has just returned on Sunfyre, and he emerges from the shadows of the subterranean abyss yanking off his leather gloves and raking his fingers through his hair, his cape billowing behind him. In the dim light like late dusk, torches are burning. Aegon’s boots jolt to a halt when he spots you. “What are you doing here?”
“I found someone who Dreamfyre might like.”
He is furious. “You went into the city again?”
“She is gentle. She is a mother. And she has magic.”
Now Aegon’s attention shifts to Rosella, and he gazes at her for a long time, and you think you see more than just curiosity and wonder in his eyes. There is recognition. He beckons her to follow him into the darkness, into the nest of snarls and smoke.
“I can’t go down there,” she says, shaking all over. “I’m not worthy. I’ll be killed, I’ll be eaten.”
“I’m going to tell you what my people say when we face childbirth or combat or treacherous travel,” you tell Rosella, who stares at you with wide, petrified eyes the same frosty blue color as Aemond’s. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s triumph or a glorious death.”
She does not seem consoled. From within the depths of the Dragonpit, Dreamfyre looses a long, low, mournful cry. The air smells like ash and fire and blood; outside, the ocean growls.
“Follow me,” Aegon says to Rosella. “Your king commands it.”
Miserably, she obeys, and they vanish together into the gloom, two flares of pale hair in an indigo sea; and it’s not until Aegon returns to you proud and smiling that you know it worked.
UPDATE TIMEEEEEEEEEEE !!!! They're beginning to be happy im so scared rn 😬 and here's me thinking squidward (thank you anon) would be the one to claim dreamfire magically lol. Atp beauty is aemonds first born and he has got to accept that.
I HAVE A MESSAGE FOR PRESIDENT MAGGIE.
YOU CAN TORTURE US BOMB US AND BURN OUR DISTRICTS TO THE GROUND (pls dont)
FIRE IS CATCHING AND IF WE (squidward, aegon, and beauty... do what u want with the others lol) BURN U BURN WITH US.
synopsys: In which you're oblivious and try to set him up.
wordcount: 4.1k
requested by @verouys
The gardens of the Red Keep had always been your sanctuary, though today they felt more like a cage of blooms and buzzing insects. You sat on the stone bench beneath the weirwood sapling—the one that would never grow properly in this southern soil—and pretended to read a book about Dornish poetry.
You weren't reading. You were watching.
Across the garden, Valarr Targaryen stood with a cluster of courtiers, his black doublet immaculate despite the afternoon heat. That ridiculous streak of silver-gold in his brown hair caught the sunlight like a promise, and when he laughed at something one of the lords said, you felt your stomach do something entirely inappropriate.
Not that you'd ever admit it.
You'd known Valarr since you were both children, stumbling through dance lessons and falling asleep during Maester's lectures. He was your best friend. Your only real friend, if you were being honest with yourself, which you tried not to be about certain things.
He caught you staring and grinned, excusing himself from the courtiers to cross the garden toward you.
"You've been on that same page for twenty minutes," he said, dropping onto the bench beside you. Close enough that his knee brushed yours. Close enough that you could smell the faint sandalwood of his soap. "Is Dornish poetry that captivating, or are you just avoiding Lady Elisweth again?"
"Both," you admitted, snapping the book shut. "She wants to discuss her daughter's upcoming marriage to some Reach lord, and I've heard the details fourteen times. I counted."
Valarr's mismatched eyes softened with amusement. "Fourteen? You're certain it wasn't fifteen?"
"I'm an excellent counter."
"You're excellent at everything." He bumped his shoulder against yours, and warmth bloomed through your chest like spilled wine. "Walk with me? The Small Council is meeting, and I'm meant to be observing 'the duties of a future king' or some such nonsense. Father won't notice if I'm late."
You should have said no. You should have remembered that every time you spent alone with Valarr, you ended up feeling confused and fluttery and generally nonsensical. But you never did.
"Fine," you said, standing. "But if your father asks, I was lecturing you on Dornish poetry."
"Tyrannically, I'm sure."
The walk through the godswood was comfortable, familiar. Valarr talked about his younger brother Matarys's latest mischief—something involving a cat, a pie, and the Master of Coin—and you listened, laughing in all the right places. This was easy. This was how it had always been.
Which was why you felt safe enough to bring up the topic that had been nagging at you for weeks.
"Valarr?"
"Hmm?"
"Can I ask you something? Something... personal?"
He stopped walking, turning to face you with an expression of genuine concern. "Of course. You can ask me anything."
You bit your lip, suddenly uncertain. But the question had been burning in your mind ever since Lady Florent's dinner party, when Valarr had spent the entire evening speaking to exactly three people: you, his father, and the wine steward.
"Why don't you ever... talk to women?"
His face did something complicated. "I talk to you."
"That's different. I'm me." You waved a hand dismissively. "I mean other women. Ladies at court. Eligible ones."
Valarr's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I talk to them when necessary."
"Necessary." You stared at him. "Valarr, you're the heir to the heir. You're eight and teen, unmarried, and I've watched you literally walk around Lady Cassana rather than pass her on the stairwell."
"I was going the other direction anyway."
"You turned around mid-step and walked into a tapestry."
He had the grace to look embarrassed. "It was a very nice tapestry."
You grabbed his arm, pulling him toward a stone bench beneath an ancient oak. "Sit. We're having a proper conversation about this."
"I don't want to have a proper conversation about this."
"Sit."
He sat.
You settled beside him, tucking your feet up on the bench and turning to face him fully. "Valarr, be serious with me. Your parents have been trying to arrange matches for you since you were fifteen. Your mother sends you to speak with eligible ladies at every feast. And you... what? Grunt at them and leave?"
"I do not grunt."
"You absolutely grunt. I've heard it. It's a very distinctive grunt."
He crossed his arms, looking remarkably like a sulking child despite being nearly six feet of Targaryen prince. "I simply haven't found anyone suitable."
"No one? In three years of introductions? There have been dozens of women, Valarr. Beautiful ones. Clever ones. One of them could recite the entire lineage of House Targaryen from memory."
"That one tried to correct my Valyrian pronunciation."
"So?"
"So, my Valyrian pronunciation is perfect."
You threw your hands up. "You're impossible."
"I'm selective."
"You're turning down every match your parents suggest. Lady Roslin? Rejected. Lady Alysanne? You hid in the stables for three hours. Lady Jeyne? You told her you preferred horses to people, which I suppose is honest, but—"
"She asked if I thought she was prettier than my horse."
"Was she?"
Valarr paused, considering. "My horse has very kind eyes."
You burst out laughing, and after a moment, he joined you. This was why you loved— liked. This was why you liked spending time with him. He could always make you laugh, even when you were trying to be serious.
"Valarr," you said, once you'd composed yourself. "You have to marry eventually. You're the heir."
His expression shifted, something flickering in those mismatched eyes. "I know."
"So why not at least try? Give someone a chance? You might be surprised."
He was quiet for a long moment, studying your face with an intensity that made your skin warm. "And what about you?" he asked softly. "You're unmarried as well. I've noticed you turn down your share of suitors too."
"That's different."
"Is it?"
"Yes." You looked away, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. "I just haven't found anyone who... who makes me feel..."
The way you make me feel, your traitorous mind supplied. Who looks at me the way you do. Who makes my heart race without even trying.
"Who makes you feel what?" Valarr prompted, his voice unusually gentle.
"Safe," you said finally. "Comfortable. Like I can be myself without pretending."
He reached out, tucking a nonexistent strand of hair behind your ear with such casual intimacy that you forgot to breathe. "You deserve that," he said. "Someone who loves you. All of you. Not just the lady at court, but the girl who feeds bacon to the castle cats and argues with maesters about Dornish poetry."
Your heart was doing something alarming in your chest. "You remember the cats?"
"I remember everything about you."
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning you couldn't quite grasp. Valarr's hand lingered near your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, and for one wild, impossible moment, you thought—
"Your Grace!"
You both jerked apart as a page came running down the path, red-faced and breathless. "Your Grace, the Small Council—your father sent me to find you—he's very insistent—"
Valarr closed his eyes briefly, exhaling slowly. "Of course he did." He stood, smoothing his doublet, and for just a moment, his gaze caught yours. "We'll finish this conversation later."
It sounded like a promise.
Except you didn't let him finish it.
Because the more you thought about that moment in the godswood—the way he'd looked at you, touched you, spoken to you—the more confused you became. Valarr was your friend. Your best friend. He'd never given any indication of wanting more than that.
Had he?
No. No, certainly not. He was just... affectionate. That was all. He'd known you forever, so of course he was comfortable with you. It didn't mean anything.
He remembers everything about you.
You shook the thought away. It meant nothing. Valarr was simply a good friend. A very close, very handsome, very attentive friend who happened to make your heart race and your thoughts scatter.
Stop it, you told yourself firmly. He's your friend. Nothing more.
The problem, you decided, was that Valarr needed to find someone. Someone who wasn't you. Someone he could actually marry and love and—
Your stomach clenched painfully at the thought.
But it was the logical solution. If Valarr found a wife, he'd stop looking at you like that. Touching you like that. Making you feel things you had no business feeling. He'd be happy, and you'd be happy for him, and everything would go back to normal.
Normal. Yes.
You just had to find him the perfect match.
Lady Emilia Massey was beautiful, accomplished, and had a laugh like chiming bells. You'd positioned yourself strategically near the lemon cakes at the afternoon gathering, watching as Valarr approached her with the expression of a man walking to his own execution.
"Lady Emilia," he said, bowing stiffly. "Would you care to walk with me in the gardens?"
She dimpled prettily. "I would be honored, my prince."
You watched them disappear down the path, feeling oddly hollow. This was good. This was what you wanted. Valarr deserved someone lovely and appropriate, someone who wouldn't make him grunt and flee.
Twenty minutes later, Valarr reappeared—alone.
"That was quick," you said brightly, perhaps too brightly. "Did you enjoy your walk?"
"There was a bee."
"A bee."
"A very aggressive bee." He sat down heavily beside you, reaching for a lemon cake. "It kept circling us. She was quite distressed. I escorted her back inside."
"You escorted her back inside because of a bee?"
"Would you prefer I let her be stung?"
You stared at him. "Valarr, there are bees in the gardens constantly. You've never once escorted me inside because of a bee."
"That's different."
"How?"
He took a bite of cake, avoiding your gaze. "You're not afraid of bees."
"I'm terrified of bees."
"You've never mentioned it."
"You've never given me a reason to."
He had no response to that, just looked at you with an expression you couldn't read.
Lady Marcella Crane was next. You engineered an introduction at the library, knowing Valarr spent his mornings there. She was clever, well-read, and shared his interest in dragon lore.
You watched them from behind a shelf of histories, pretending to be absorbed in a book about the Dornish Marches. They talked for nearly an hour. An hour. You'd never seen Valarr talk to anyone for that long except you.
When they emerged, Lady Marcella was smiling. Valarr was... Valarr.
"The library was pleasant," he reported later, when you found him in the training yard. "She knows quite a bit about dragons."
"That's wonderful!"
"Yes." He parried a practice blow from a knight, then turned back to you. "She suggested I grow a beard."
"A beard?"
"To look more 'kingly,' she said. More 'distinguished.'" He paused, lowering his sword. "Do I need to look more distinguished?"
You studied him—sweaty, flushed from exertion, that ridiculous silver streak and his brown hair plastered all over his forehead. "No," you said honestly. "You look like you."
Something warm flickered in his eyes. "Good. That's what I prefer to look like."
By the fourth rejection, you were beginning to suspect a pattern.
Lady Celine Hightower was too tall. Lady Arwen Oakheart talked too much about her horses. Lady Jenna Marbrand laughed too loudly. Lady Sara Westerling had an unfortunate preference for boiled eggs.
"She boiled them," Valarr said, as if this explained everything. "At the breakfast table. In front of everyone."
"People eat boiled eggs, Valarr."
"Not at my breakfast table they don't."
You pressed your fingers to your temples. "You're impossible. You're genuinely impossible. What do you want in a wife? Tell me. Give me something to work with."
He considered this, tilting his head in that way that made your heart flutter traitorously. "I want someone who doesn't try to be someone they're not. Someone who's comfortable with silence. Someone who laughs at my jokes even when they're not funny."
"Everyone laughs at your jokes. You're a prince."
"You don't."
You blinked. "What?"
"You don't laugh at my jokes just because I'm a prince. Sometimes you don't laugh at all. You just look at me like I'm an idiot and change the subject."
"You are an idiot sometimes."
"Yes." He smiled, that real smile, the one he saved for you. "That's what I mean."
You didn't understand. You never understood, not really. But something in his words made your chest ache.
Lady Rosa's Frey's cousin was the final straw.
You'd watched Valarr spend exactly four minutes with her before excusing himself to check on his horse, a horse that was, as far as you knew, perfectly healthy and didn't require checking. He didn't speak to another woman for the rest of the evening.
You were brooding about it in the library the next morning when Matarys Targaryen—Valarr's younger brother, all of fourteen and insufferably pleased with himself—slid into the chair across from you.
"You're doing that thing again," he said.
"What thing?"
"The thing where you stare at my brother like he's a puzzle you can't solve and your face does that crinkly thing."
"My face does not do a crinkly thing."
"It absolutely does. It's very sad to watch." He helped himself to an apple from the bowl on the table, biting into it with a loud crunch. "Still trying to marry him off?"
"I'm trying to help him find happiness."
"By forcing him to talk to women he clearly doesn't want to talk to?"
You frowned. "He has to marry eventually. He's the heir."
"Does he, though?" Matarys leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I mean, have you considered why he doesn't want to talk to them?"
"Because he's difficult and picky and once rejected someone because she ate boiled eggs?"
Matarys snorted. "No. Well, yes, that's also true. But there's another reason." He glanced around dramatically, as if checking for spies. "A secret reason. A family secret."
You leaned in despite yourself. "What kind of secret?"
"The kind that explains why my brother has turned down every eligible lady in the Seven Kingdoms." Matarys bit into his apple again, chewing with infuriating slowness. "Think about it. He's handsome, charming when he wants to be, heir to the Iron Throne. Any woman would be thrilled to marry him. And yet—"
"And yet nothing," you said. "He's just... particular."
"He's particular about women because he's not interested in women." Matarys raised his eyebrows meaningfully. "At all."
The words took a moment to land. And then another moment. And then they crashed into your brain like a runaway cart.
"You're saying—"
"I'm saying nothing." He held up his hands innocently. "I'm merely suggesting that if my brother has shown zero interest in every eligible lady you've thrown at him, perhaps the problem isn't the ladies. Perhaps the problem is that they're ladies."
Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"But he—we've been friends forever—he's never—"
"Never what? Shown interest in anyone? Talked about wanting to marry? Glanced twice at any woman at court?" Matarys shrugged. "Strange, isn't it? Almost like he's waiting for someone who isn't a woman."
He stood, brushing apple crumbs from his tunic. "Anyway, just a thought. I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually. You seem clever." He paused at the door. "Well. Clever enough."
And then he was gone, leaving you alone with the most horrifying realization of your life.
Valarr Targaryen, the heir to the Iron Throne, your dearest friend in all the world—
Preferred men.
It made so much sense. The discomfort around eligible ladies, the avoidance, the way he seemed utterly uninterested in every woman presented to him. He wasn't being picky. He wasn't being difficult. He simply... wasn't attracted to them.
And you, his closest friend, had been torturing him by forcing introductions to woman after woman.
Guilt crashed over you like a wave. How could you have been so blind? So stupid? He'd trusted you with his friendship, and you'd spent weeks trying to marry him off to people he could never love.
Well. You'd fix this. You'd make it right.
You just had to find him a man instead.
Ser Davon Fossoway was handsome, chivalrous, and currently unattached. You cornered him after the midday meal, explaining that the prince had expressed interest in discussing—something. You hadn't quite worked out the details.
"He wants to discuss... swordplay?" Ser Davon looked confused but hopeful. "With me specifically?"
"You're an excellent swordsman, aren't you?"
"I like to think so, my lady."
"Perfect. He specifically mentioned wanting to speak with an excellent swordsman. In private. In the gardens. By the rose arbor."
The rose arbor was romantic. Everyone knew that. You were very clever.
Ser Davon arrived promptly. You watched from behind a hedge as Valarr approached, looking baffled.
"Ser Davon? My... my friend said you wished to speak with me about something?"
"I understood it was you who wished to speak with me, my prince."
"Oh. Well. I suppose we can... speak?"
They stood there awkwardly for a long moment.
"Lovely weather," Ser Davon offered.
"Yes. Very... weather."
"Good for swordplay."
"Is it?"
"Generally, yes. Dry ground, you know. Less mud."
"I... see."
Another long pause.
"Well," Ser Davon said finally, "if that's all, my prince, I should return to my duties."
"Yes. Duties. Of course."
Ser Davon bowed and fled. Valarr stood alone in the rose arbor, looking like a man who'd just survived a battle he hadn't known he was fighting.
You needed a different approach.
Ser Addam Rowan was older, more confident, and reportedly very charming. You arranged for him to encounter Valarr in the library, where the prince spent his mornings. Surely a shared interest in books would—
"Are you... following me?" Valarr asked, when you appeared behind a shelf for the third time that week.
"What? No. I'm researching. For a thing. A research thing."
He raised an eyebrow—the one above his blue eye, which always made him look particularly skeptical. "You're researching in the military history section? You once told me you'd rather clean the dragonpit than read about battles."
"This is... different research."
"What kind of research?"
"The kind I don't need to explain to you."
He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell sandalwood and parchment. "You've been acting strange for weeks. Setting me up with ladies, then suddenly with knights. What's going on?"
"Nothing's going on. I just want you to be happy."
"I'm happy."
"You're lonely."
His expression shifted, something vulnerable flickering across his features. "I'm not lonely. I have you."
"That's different. That's—I'm your friend. You need more than a friend. You need someone who can be... who can give you..."
"I have everything I need."
You swallowed hard, your throat tight. "Valarr, you don't have to pretend with me. I understand. I figured it out."
"Figured what out?"
"That you're not... that you don't..." You lowered your voice, glancing around the empty library. "That you prefer the company of men."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Valarr stared at you. His mismatched eyes went wide, then narrower, then wide again. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened.
"You think," he said slowly, "that I prefer men."
"I understand if you can't say it openly. With your position, it must be—"
"I don't prefer men."
"But you never—all those ladies—you never showed any interest—"
"I showed interest in exactly one person." His voice was strange, tight with something you couldn't identify. "For years. Constantly. Relentlessly. To the point where my parents have a bet about it."
You blinked. "A bet?"
"Mother thinks I'll confess by my nineteenth nameday. Father thinks I'll wait until I'm twenty. They've been wagering for three years."
"I don't understand."
"I know you don't." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "That's the problem. That's always been the problem. You don't see it. You've never seen it."
"See what?"
He stepped closer, and closer still, until you were backed against a shelf of musty histories with nowhere to go. His hands came up to frame your face, gentle but insistent, and his eyes—one blue, one brown—burned into yours.
"You," he said softly. "Only you. Always you."
And then he kissed you.
The world stopped.
No—the world started, for the first time in your life. Colors brightened. Sounds sharpened. Everything you'd never understood, never let yourself feel, came crashing down in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
Valarr's lips were soft against yours, tentative at first, then firmer when you didn't pull away. His hands slid into your hair, tangling in the strands, and you made a sound you didn't recognize—somewhere between a gasp and a sigh.
When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against yours, breath coming fast.
"Now do you understand?" he whispered.
You couldn't speak. Couldn't think. Could only stare at him—this boy you'd known your whole life, your dearest friend, the one who remembered everything about you.
"Why didn't you tell me?" you finally managed.
"I tried. Constantly. You never noticed."
"I'm stupid."
"You're not stupid. You're..." He laughed softly, warm breath ghosting across your lips. "You're you. And I love you. I've always loved you."
Something cracked open in your chest, flooding warmth through every part of you. "I love you too. I think I have for years. I just didn't—I couldn't—"
"I know." He kissed you again, quick and sweet. "I know."
"What do we do now?"
"Now?" He smiled—that real smile, the one you'd always thought was just for you. It was. It had always been. "Now we tell my father he owes my mother a foot massage."
You pulled back, confused. "What?"
He took your hand, pulling you toward the library door. "Come on. I want to see the look on my father's face."
The walk through the Red Keep was a blur. Valarr's hand stayed wrapped around yours, warm and solid, and you couldn't stop staring at the way your fingers intertwined. His thumb traced patterns on your skin, soothing and electric all at once.
Prince Baelor Breakspear and his wife Princess Jena were in the hand's tower, enjoying the afternoon sun on their private terrace. When you appeared in the doorway, hand in hand with their son, Baelor's eyebrows shot upward.
"Valarr?" Jena set down her wine glass, a smile already curving her lips. "And... oh. Oh."
"Mother. Father." Valarr squeezed your hand. "I believe you know the Lady Y/N."
Baelor's gaze dropped to your joined hands, then rose to meet his son's eyes. Something passed between them, a look of understanding, of recognition, of finally.
"Son," Baelor said slowly, "is there something you wish to tell us?"
"I wished to introduce you to my future wife."
The words hit you like a physical blow. You turned to stare at Valarr, who was watching you with an expression of such warm certainty that your knees went weak.
"Future—Valarr, we haven't even—"
"I've been waiting years," he said simply. "I'm not waiting any longer."
Jena clapped her hands together, beaming. "I knew it. Baelor, pay up."
Baelor sighed, reaching for his coin purse. "You said by his nineteenth nameday. His nameday is still three moons away."
"The spirit of the bet, husband. The spirit."
"I don't believe in the spirit of bets. I believe in strict interpretation."
"You owe me a foot massage, and you know it."
While his parents bickered good-naturedly, Valarr tugged you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist. "They've been doing this since I was fifteen," he murmured. "Every time I looked at you too long, Mother would nudge Father and whisper 'there it is.'"
"You looked at me?"
"Constantly. Relentlessly. To the point of embarrassment."
You thought back over the years—every lingering glance, every casual touch, every time he'd appeared at your side without being called. How had you missed it? How had you been so blind?
"I really am stupid," you murmured.
"No." He pressed a kiss to your temple. "You're perfect."
"Now you're just being romantic."
"Is it working?"
You smiled up at him—this boy, this prince, this man who'd loved you for years without you ever knowing. "Yes," you said softly. "It's working."
On the terrace, Baelor handed over a small pouch of coins with exaggerated reluctance. Jena accepted it with a triumphant grin, then raised her wine glass in your direction.
"To the future," she called. "And to my son finally having the sense to act on what's been obvious to everyone except the two of you."
Valarr groaned. You laughed.
And when he kissed you again, right there in front of his parents and half the court, you finally understood what you'd been missing all along.
Nothing at all.
Because he'd been there the whole time. Waiting. Hoping. Loving you.
"I showed interest in exactly one person." His voice was strange, tight with something you couldn't identify. "For years. Constantly. Relentlessly. To the point where my parents have a bet about it."
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