I just don’t feel like myself. I should’ve known those kind of love it’s not for everyone. To like someone or love, whatever, it’s awful. Celibacy it is certainly easier
It’s hard to determine other peoples action. I’ve never been in this kind of situation. I feel confused and sad, I thought this could be something. I had expectations that maybe will never come true. A friend's ex told me once I would never find someone like I want, and now I know he’s right. The thing is dating or romance is not for everyone, and as long im this person, I won’t happen.
I’m currently reading a fest for crows. And later I’ll go further in some Maekar fics. How come he be the most interesting man in fiction I’ve ever seen.
i’m so not ready for the final akotsk episode… and while waiting i just had to draw something simple and fluffy with baelor and maekar being small and happy…… to use as a band-aid for my devastated broken heart🪦
I have a secret desire to pack my things and leave everything behind. I don't know if I am capable of doing such a thing, but it is my wish. I would leave my city and start a new life in London or anywhere nearby.
Rating: Mature
Relationship: Maekar I Targaryen/Original Female Character(s)
Tags/Warnings for this chapter: aftermath of the Aerion joust; graphic animal pain
Word count: 5,283 words
It’s been a long road to get to Ashford Meadow - and not just from Summerhall. Too much planning and preparation has gone into this to have it be anything but a success.
Now, with their guests arrived and the tourney starting, Lord Ashford’s sister-in-law is sitting back on her laurels and enjoying the party for once - and the attentions of some of their guests, if the gods are good.
--
It was going to be an exceptionally long day.
Meri had left Maekar’s room in the small hours of the morning. Sleeping there was out of the question - it was one thing to bed a prince and another to be found in his bed, and she did not wish the latter. Tongues were running enough already as it was with the fervor of the royal visit without that complication to add to them. Servants would make it what it was not and she knew full well what it was - an evening’s entertainment, a way to pass the time. A few hours of sleep in her own bed, and then she was up again to the sound of the maid fixing her own hearth so that she could see to the preparations for breakfast and the tourney day ahead.
Read the rest on AO3 or here under the readmore!
The tilts were to start at a more reasonable hour, after lord and peasant alike had had a chance to shake off the revels of the night before. They had already finished late, but like as not there had been a party in the Baratheon tent, for their lord had been very successful in the opening tilts, and some others besides, and more than a few revelers would need the time to return to their own tents and to a state of more appropriate dress. It was an accepted part of the tourney, that some should wake up in beds that were not their own - had been for as long as Meri could remember. Accepted, too, that it was good manners not to speak of the night before, unless there was some understanding there between the two parties. She knew already what she would say at breakfast, to Maekar, and what she wouldn’t - strategy born of long practice.
But once downstairs, it appeared that she needn't have worried - it was only Baelor at the table, resplendent in his customary black, a sheaf of papers to hand while he began to break his fast.
“Ah, Lady Merilinde,” he said, putting down his food. “You will have to forgive us - we are a slightly smaller party this morning. It appears my brother has ridden out with the Kingsguard to search for Daeron. I hope I am sufficient for the day.”
Strange that he didn’t say. Perhaps that was a late decision, made after she had left. Well, princes hardly needed to explain themselves to their bedfellows. “Never only sufficient, your grace,” Meri replied, smiling gently. “You exceed in everything.”
What the Prince thought of that compliment he did not say, only went on buttering his toast. “Have you been down to see your champions this morning, Lady Gwinifred?”
Gwin looked startled to have been noticed by the crown prince. “Yes, sir - my lor- your grace.”
If Baelor noticed the slip, he did not call attention to it. “I hope Valarr does you credit today - I understand that tilt last night with Abelar Hightower jarred him a bit.”
“He seemed in good spirits this morning, my- your grace.” Gwin had been down at the lists with her brother Robert and her nursemaid while the sun was still coming up. Meri might not have allowed it but that Robert had gone with. Ser Humphrey Beesbury had unhorsed him last night after some three lances - not an especially robust show, but he was still able to keep to his feet without stick or crutch, and that counted for something, even if his pride had taken a more severe beating. It was Beesbury who would be riding this morning as one of the five champions, rather than Robert.
The prince nodded. “And he has your favor for his armor?”
“His squire tied it on,” Gwin assured him. “It looked nice, the orange and the red and black.”
“I’ll let his mother know he wore it well,” Baelor said with a smile. “She will be keen to hear my report.”
“Lady Jena was the queen of Love and Beauty herself many times,” Meri said, smiling at Gwin. “And tied on none too few favors of her own - and not only when your Grace was riding,” she added with a nod to the prince and a small smile. Though we would all say that purple pennants looked striking on black armor. Some said that it was strange, for a Marcher girl to favor the son of a Dornishwoman, but a prince is a prince, and a dragon a dragon. No one could compete with him for lances, and no one could compete with her for beauty.
“And some of those even at Ashford,” Baelor confirmed with a fond smile. “A beauty then, and a beauty still. She remembered Lady Alysanne, when your letter came, and you, Lady Merilinde. It must have been when your sister was newly wed the last time she was here. It will please her to know she has not been forgotten either.”
“It is a shame she could not join us, too, your grace. Had I known you might attend I would have written so.”
“It would have been a chance for her to see something of home,” Baelor mused. “Alas. Valarr and I may yet go home by that road - his uncles have not seen him for a while.”
“Ser Manfred is here, I think,” Meri supplied, thinking of the ruddy-haired knight who’d bumped into her in the stands the evening before. “Though I doubt he will ride,” she added, glancing at Baelor with the knowledgeable gaze of two adults who do not want to share certain information with younger ears. The Prince nodded, returning the look. Ser Manfred was a cousin of Lady Jena’s, and more well known as a devotee of the wineskin rather than the tiltyard. His attendance was more for the festivities and the drinking than the sport.
“Doubtless you’re right,” he said lightly. “Is Lord Ashford joining us this morning?”
“Papa’s man said there was bad wine in his chamber last night and he has been retching all morning,” Gwin offered quickly, before realizing that was perhaps too much information to share with their guests.
“It happens,” the price said, unperturbed. “Well - shall we go down?”
Meri could not recall the last time before this that she had been at a tourney of size. A few passes to celebrate a name day or the birth of a son, the quick sport of a few assembled men and a likely field, but not a full field and stands. Kevan did not travel overmuch, and Androw and Robert were not sufficiently blooded to merit the money it would have taken to send them to the lists at Lannisport, or Highgarden, or Oldtown, let alone somewhere like Storm's End. This was for them as much as it was for Gwin - a chance to prove to their father that they were worth the coin it would take to let them go on the road. There was a lot of gold at stake there - for pavilions, and men at arms, and horses, and the feeding and care of all of them, to say nothing of what it would cost to ransom back armor and horse if a man lost.
But boys never saw that - only a father too tight-fisted with his stags and dragons to let them have their fun. Well. Robert, of course, had done what he had done, but Androw had held his own last night, and might yet do more. Only the day would tell.
The Prince took Gwin's hand to lead her up the steps to the seat of honor in the middle of the stands, letting her bask for a moment in cheers that were really meant for him before turning to face the crowd himself and give a modest wave. The full-throated roar that echoed back left little to chance - They love their prince, Meri thought to herself. Perhaps there was a little of that in why Maekar had ridden out this morning to miss the jousts - no desire to hear the cheering for his elder brother when there was none for him. She'd heard one of the servingmen say this morning that the Prince's baggage had held both Maekar's armor as well as Aerion's - had he really intended to ride?
I hear his father's a deft seat with a lance. The memory of the night before brought a pleasurable twinge. Nothing made a man more amorous than a joust - it would have been a rare treat to get Maekar after he'd been in the lists, especially if he’d been successful, and she saw more of the dragon than the thundercloud. But that was no more than a passing fancy - it was too much to hope he'd want for more of the same tonight after he'd been out on the road looking for his son. Still, perhaps a bath…
She glanced quickly around the box, making sure that the refreshments on the back table were sufficient and there was a servant there to mind them. Baelor had complimented one of the wines they'd served at luncheon the other day, so she'd made sure that there was more of the same, and the little stuffed dates that Cook was so good with, and savory cakes, and plenty of grapes brought over from the vineyards at Longmeadow, little things to pick and chose at as the day went on. Plenty of extra cushions, too, and furs in case the wind turned and the day got colder. She could do nothing about the quality of the riding - but sitting in the box was a battle she could win.
When she was satisfied that everything was ready, she took her seat at Gwin's far side and gave her niece's hand a squeeze. "Are you having fun, Gwinnet?" she asked with a conspiratorial whisper. Gwin nodded, beaming with pleasure. "Good."
The horn sounded for the contenders to assemble, and Meri's heart still did a little thrill as all five champions - Lord Tyrell, Humphrey Hardying, Lyonel Baratheon, Humphrey Beesbury, and Androw - sallied forth from their tents at one end of the lists to assemble in front of the stands, the little silken scarves with their embroidered white suns flashing in the breeze. Androw was wearing the first one that she and Gwin had worked on - the stitching was not as fine and even, and the pennant she'd set aside for Valarr had been all of Meri's own work. (Princes had their pride, and even courteous ones should not have had to wear shoddy things. That was what brothers were for.)
All of them raised their lances in salute, and Gwin, with a little urging from Meri, stood up and haltingly blew a kiss, which made the crowd cheer harder and the birthday girl flush with pride, her hands clasped tightly together.
"To the queen of love and beauty!" Lyonel Baratheon shouted with characteristic flair, grinning through the wide gated front of his helm, which only made Gwin blush more and the crowd cheer louder still.
"Rather bold," Baelor said lightly, turning to glance at Meri over the top of Gwin's head as she sat back down, pressing herself back into her seat, positively pink with pleasure. Lyonel was a splendid rider and a man with just the sort of smile to turn a maiden's head, but also rather well known for his string of lovers, to say nothing of the wife he had back home in Storm's End. He hadn’t been one of Meri’s first choices as far as champions were concerned, but Kevan had been insistent - great names and good jousters, he’d said.
There was a clearing off throats at the top of the box stairs - a distinguished looking man with gray hair cut to his ears and a small, trim beard, his face marked by several scars and a fresh cut on his face, clad in the unmistakable red and gold of House Lannister, with a golden chain surmounted with a snarling lion's head around his throat. "Your Grace, if I might beg a word."
Baelor knew him at once. "Lord Damon, you are most welcome. Please, sit. I trust you are not too bruised after last night's bout."
The Lord of Casterly Rock did as his prince bid, his descent into the chair at the Prince's side only a little unsteady. "The Gray Lion should remember he is grayed, your Grace. My seat is as fine as ever but I think it is time I remember that tilting is a sport for younger men. I don't know how Longthorn does it," he added, gesturing with a chin towards the Tyrell tent at the end of the lists with its verdant green pennants and golden flowers.
"Your son is riding today, is he not?" Baelor said, looking expectantly towards the other end of the field
"Tybolt, yes, my eldest. Gerrold's here, too, though he'd rather bet on men than ride against them."
"We all have our talents," the prince said graciously. "You'll have to tell me who you like among the field," he said, leaning in a little closer to the older man. "I confess some of these names are not known to me. It's been a little while since I was in the lists myself."
Damon looked pleased to be asked. "Well, your grace has other concerns these days apart from tourneys, I've no doubt. Speaking of which, your grace, there was one matter I had hoped to discuss concerning Pyke and Dagon Greyjo- oh, thank you, Lady Meri, most kind."
Meri had silently risen from her seat after Damon had sat down and fetched the cup of wine that she now put into his hand. This was the other half of tourneying - men traded blows down in the lists, and traded information and news up in the boxes.
Baelor silently took the cup she offered him as well, his eyes never leaving Damon's, nodding politely as the Lord of Casterly Rock outlined various abuses, shoreline raids and stolen sheep and missing daughters who were now doubtless saltwives, and how even Lord Stark had sent a raven asking for his council. It was masterful, watching him work - the way he had of observing the tourney, passing comment on it, and still managing to capture (Meri thought) a fairly good picture of what Lord Damon was describing.
Damon stayed for three tilts before making his departure - Humphrey Hardyng against Joseth Mallister, a name Meri didn't know well but Damon apparently did, and then Leo Tyrell against Pearse Caron, a splendid bout that broke only two lances but quickly moved to ground and battleaxes. The two men were sending chips of shield and mud in every direction until Caron, a Marcher lord just as well known for his singing voice as his skill with a lance, split Longthorn's shield with a blow of his axe but lost just enough speed that Lord Tyrell was able to break the weapon's shaft, and the Harp of the Marches was on his knee in defeat. The third was less easy to talk through - Valarr had received his first challenge, from Ser Gawen Swann, and the crowd was ecstatic with it.
Meri watched Baelor inch forward a little in his seat, manners forgotten for a moment while he put aside being a prince and attended to the duties of a father, worrying one of his signet rings around his finger as the two men lined up their horses and waited for the word.
In the end, it was a quick bout, and a decisive one - both lances broke, on the first pass, but the second rung so hard that it forced Swann's lance from his hand and the knight from his horse. Valarr was quick to draw for his sword, but the knight on the ground knew he was finished and held up his hand to withdraw.
"Oh, that was splendid," Gwin said to Baelor, clapping all the while, her own manners lost a little bit in the flush of the moment as Valarr trotted around to give his salute, the little orange pennant still holding fast to his armor.
"Splendid," Damon Lannister repeated, obviously not as well taken as Gwin, seeing what Baelor and the rest of the box would have noticed well before a girl would - that Swann was old and hardly likely to keep his seat to any man, regardless of experience. He'd picked to challenge the young prince as a fitting ending to a long career, and would doubtless go home to his fireside to say that the last man who'd unhorsed him had been Valarr Targaryen himself.
"A fine show," Baelor said aloud, though he did not sound like his heart was really in it. Kevan had said something similar last night when Robert had been unhorsed - for what else was there to say? There would always be another lance and another bout but it would be for other men to fight, at least for now, and a father might take solace in that even if his son's pride did not.
Damon Lannister took his leave, and the Prince was granted a short reprieve from talking just long enough to take another sip of his wine and a bite of one of the cakes Meri had moved closer to his elbow.
"My thanks, Lady Meri," he said in aside, seeing her trick for what it was - a chance for him to take what little nourishment he would be able to fit in between conversations. There would be no long luncheon for him today, she thought - and even princes needed sustenance. "I think it will be a very long day," he said quietly, glancing again at the stairs and yet another lord in white and blue. "Will you tell me which -
"Edgerran Florent, your grace," Meri supplied quickly, making a bit of business to plump the cushion on the chair in which Lord Lannister had been sitting. "Easily confused with his brother. He has a daughter your son's age, I think."
The Prince nodded in clear gratitude. "I should have brought Jena," he murmured, before turning his attention quickly to the stairs again as if he had known the man there for the entire time. "Lord Florent! So good to see you. How long has it been?"
And on the day went - an endless parade of lords and their families, anxious to speak firsthand with the Hand of the King. A few had brought gifts for Gwin, but that was the exception, rather than the rule. (The pattern there, it seemed, was for families with daughters who might be of a match with Robert or Androw, or brothers who might be for her - a way to keep their names high in Gwin's mind when she was speaking with her father, perhaps.) Most came only with problems to be solved, and Baelor heard them all.
As the sun hit its zenith, the horn sounded and everyone retreated away from the field for a bite to eat, including the whole box to the covered pavilion below where the kitchen staff had laid out a luncheon spread that went on for days. Baelor still hadn't managed to get more than a few bites of anything. Valarr joined them briefly for a few bits of this and that, the clear apple of his father’s eye as Gwin made him sit through a breathless retelling of how she’d felt during all of his matches, and the older boy smiled and nodded in all the right places. The Prince's fondness for his son was on full display, a proud father to the hilts.
And here, too, was something interesting - more and more of the visitors inquired after Maekar.
Well, he has four sons and two daughters and none yet married. For all that he's far down the line after Aerys and Rhaegal his children have fine chances. And he's a widower as well. That had been interesting to see - the older daughters in their house colors and sigils, trailing behind fathers and brothers and uncles asking after Maekar as well as Daeron, coming to the forefront when their names were called as if it were only an afterthought that they'd come with, virtues named and presented while they stood by and looked pretty - only twenty, a window at twenty nine but with two strong sons, and likely to get more, seven and ten but tall for her age and her mother gave me five.
What Baelor thought of these she was sure she didn't know, for he offered no comment and begged no commentary, only smiled and nodded and continued to draw from a seemingly endless well of courtesy so that all might have a taste.
Kevan finally hobbled down to join them, begging pardons from Baelor and assuring him, in no uncertain terms, that he was quite sure he was recovered and it was only a matter of the wine.
Pleased with the progress of the afternoon, Meri ducked outside to see to other matters, going around the back of the tent to where the servants were having their lunch. Several of them tried to rise when Meri approached, and she gestured them all back to their seats, conscious that they would hardly like having their meal disrupted.
"Yhon, how goes it?"
The herald set up a little straighter at the question, a napkin spread over his white and orange livery so he would have a good showing this afternoon, sleeves tied back so he would not ruin them in the sauce. "Well enough, lady. ‘Tis gratifying to see all that copying gone to good, and all those quills."
"And your voice? Fine to carry on for the afternoon?" She glanced at the table beside him, gratified to see a beaker of small beer rather than the heavy Arbor red that was being served to the lords. It wouldn't do to finish the day with a drunk herald - tourneys had failed for less.
"Sound as a bell, lady," Yhon reported. His face clouded over a little, and he stood up, walking off a little ways and glancing back at the others when they were a sufficient space away. "I had Prince Aerion's man to see me, Lady. He said he will enter the lists this afternoon and means to have the first bout."
"We knew he would." He is a prince and a good lance.
The herald hesitated. "Is that ...wise, Lady?" He seemed to search for words. "It is said there is little love lost between him and his cousin. I would hate to have them say we invited an ill wind to the royal house."
"Well, we cannot well stop him,” Meri decided. “Introduce him as you would his cousin and the grandson of the king. He is owed that and we will give it. Who he chooses to challenge we cannot change." The crowd cheered loud for Valarr this morning, and Gwin did also. It wouldn't be the first time a boy's gotten his blood up for something the other has.
"Tis said he..."
"Yes?"
The herald was choosing his words carefully again. "His father is said to moderate his mischiefs, lady."
"And his father is not here," Meri confirmed grimly. When a Targaryen is born the gods flip a coin - isn't that what they say? "Let us hope his uncle is sufficient, then, and if not we will pray we get the right side of the coin today."
The sky seemed to have darkened a little as the call of the horn drew the crowds back to the tourney field. The sun was drawing her skirts in as though she expected rain.
"The maesters did predict it," Kevan was telling Baelor, as the crown prince drew his cloak in and glanced at the sky. "We had hoped it would hold off until the late afternoon, but one never really knows, you know, your grace, with weather."
But Baelor's frown was not about the rain, Meri thought - it was at the knight in black at the end of the field, scarlet cloak billowing behind him, his helm crowned with yellow and orange wisps as though it had been set aflame. The visor was not a grill or grid, as other knights were wont, but a terrible burned face with slitted eyes and bared teeth, more monster than man. Even his armor is cruel, she thought.
Yhon's voice was ringing from the tower for his announcement, drawing the crowd from near and far to the field - "Son of Maekar, grandson to King Daeron the Good, and Prince of House Targaryen - Prince Aerion Brightflame!"
Aerion's horse skittered and pranced, her restlessness a good counterpoint to her rider's eerie calm, and the crowds only cheered louder for it.
"What a singular armor, your grace," Kevan remarked to Baelor as Aerion spurred his mount down the lists, the blackened plates of the chanfron and crinet covering its face and neck giving the appearance, as he drew closer, of scales and wings - a dragon for the dragonless.
Baelor said nothing, only watched his nephew raise his lance in salute to the royal box and gave the curtest of nods in return, watching as Aerion cantered off to the end of the field where the champions' tents stood. (He was worrying his ring again, Meri noticed, the heavy signet made of dragonglass.) Aerion paced his horse back and forth for a few steps, as if he were deciding which he should like, and paused for a moment in front of Valarr's tent with its dragon headed poles. Valarr stood up, helmet under his arm, and it seemed like for a moment that would be his choice - for a moment they seemed to be speaking - but Aerion did not raise his lance, and eventually moved off to Humphrey Hardyng's tent with its white and red diamonds. "Come out, come out, Little Knight." His voice was chilling and sharp, a mockery. "It's time you faced the dragon."
The crowd went wild, and Hardyng went for his horse as Aerion spurred his mount back to the rail, grinning for a moment before the monstrous visor came down and hid his face. Meri looked over and saw that Gwin was nervous in her seat, and reached over to take her hand. "I'm not sure I like him, Aunt Meri," she said quietly, turning to face her aunt. "Shall I have to give him my favor if he strikes down Ser Humphrey?"
Meri glanced down at the end of the lists, to Aerion and Hardyng both. The knight from the Vale had acquitted himself very handsomely, and he had seven or eight years of experience more than Aerion, at least. But the prince was determined, and his father was a champion, his teachers some of the best knights the realm had ever produced. Who was to say how many hours Maekar had made his sons practice, broken how many lances and weather how many bruises and blisters? "Let us see how it goes, Gwinnet. Ser Humphrey is a fine lance and has not lost a bout yet."
Gwin nodded, trying to keep her chin up, but it was hard, against the roar of the crowd that seemed to be ready to cheer for either man, to keep one's mind focused on the desired result. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and for a moment there was only that, and the sound of wind, ripping at the pennants on the field.
Hardyng, as the challenger, could choose the moment for the start; he gave a cry and spurred his horse and the tilt was on, both men hurtling towards each other at wild speed. Hardyng's form was perfect, a flash of white and red, and Aerion, too, was holding his line, but then at the last minute the princeling swerved away from the rail, and Hardyng, leaning forward for the hit, dropped his lance. A boy's mistake - they'd seen too much good riding this morning to take it in stride. The crowd roared in disappointment, and the two challengers raced back to their respective ends, Aerion to gather his reins and Hardyng to collect another lance, swiftly charging back down the rail again for a second pass like a seasoned veteran.
Meri found herself clinging to her seat, knees locked and arms stiff. Behind her, her nephew Robert made a noise of anguish. "Up," he was saying, "up, you fool, up!"
They were riding - riding - and then Aerion seemed to lunge, but there was no crash of shields or splintering wood as Aerion's lance drove straight into the neck of Hardyng's horse. The crowd gasped. The sound of the wounded animal screaming in pain seemed the worst noise imaginable, and the poor frenzied creature tore through the next rail, circling in terror, until it had lost too much of life and collapsed, taking Hardyng straight down with it, its body collapsing on top of his leg so that he, too, screamed in agony. Even from the stands they could hear the bone break. Gwin's hand flew to her face, her other gripped tightly around her aunt's, whiteknuckled and in pain.
It was enough. Meri pulled Gwin's head into her chest, not caring a moment for the jewels in her hair or the way her new earrings would snag her dress. No girlchild needed to see such a thing. "His lance was too low," Robert was saying behind his father and the prince. "He needed to bring it up."
But what Baelor thought of any of this he did not say - his eyes were too focused on the crowd on the other side of the field, the mass of smallfolk writhing and seething against the fence making angry noises of their own. Hardyng had ridden well that morning and become something of a favorite after breaking 14 lances against one of the Lannister boys. And here he was, in the mud and in clear pain, his horse dying on top of him, while a green boy in black armor looked down from his horse like he'd actually won. Victor or not, it was not good or gallant, that was for certain - and the crowd was letting them know it. The voices grew louder, the front row standing up against the rail and one man even went so far as to pick up a rock and throw it at Aerion. It connected with his helmet, rattling his visor, and, it seemed, the boy underneath as well, for he startled a little in his saddle as if in surprise. That was no mischief. That was cruel and low. Did you think there would be no consequences for that stupidity? Meri wanted to ask. Did you think that they would take your side and cheer for the killing a horse?
Men at arms were moving swiftly to the fence - the crowd seemed out for blood now. Injuries they could take - an acceptable consequence of jousting - and it was known that every now and again a horse might be injured. That was the way of games. But this had seemed unnecessary - cruel. And still Baelor said nothing, his face set in an angry, disgusted wince, hard to read underneath.
The Kingsguard charged out of the side gate, horsed and armed, their white armor glinting in what was left of the sun, placing themselves between the crowd and their prince.
Thunder rumbled through the sky again, and a light rain started to fall, picking up pitch and tempo against the canvas awnings overhead.
"Inside, I think," Meri heard Kevan say, his voice wavering a little. "Enough for today. A bad business, that."
Meri kept hugging Gwin’s head to her chest, making sure to cover her ears as one of the stablemen came out to the yard, a poleaxe in his hand, the crowd nearest now surged over the fence, still screaming for blood even as they pushed back the men at arms trying to hold them in place with their spears.
The poleaxe rose, and fell, and the beast screamed its last. Meri found her whole body was stiff with anger. What sort of justice is that, when a boy stands there and says nothing? And another thought, for which she did not have the answer: What sort of justice will there be when his father returns?
Notes:
This chapter wasn't actually going to be a thing, guys. I was just going to skip all of this, and actually, I'm so glad I didn't.
Apologies for the bit with the horse - it hits just as hard in text as it does onscreen.
I did a little bit of rearranging of the tourney that's presented in the books against what's on the show; Tybolt Lannister, Damon's son, is actually the person to oust one of the Ashford boys in the book, but there's only one Ashford son in the show, so I did a little shuffling.
I suspect there's a very small audience for this particular pairing, or for OCs in general from this fandom, so if you're enjoying this fic, a little comment goes a long way! Comments of any size are gratefully received, read, and re-read on bad days.
The story takes place after the events at Ashford.
I hope you all enjoy it. I've waited for years to read Maekar fiction, and at the time I had only found one story on Tumblr and none on AO3.But now that we are blessed with AKOTSK, a lot more fiction is coming out in everywhere. I finally found the courage to take part in writing fanfiction as well. I'm still learning and I'm very insecure about it, but I hope you all understand.
I was walking through the long corridors of Summerhall toward my chambers, they had never seemed so sorrowful as they did now. The return from Ashford was more arduous than the arrival. What was meant to be a celebration ended in a funeral. I wished I could go back in time and stop Daeron and Aegon from riding ahead of us. Everything might have been different from that moment on — or perhaps not. It feels unfair to think that way, even through all the pain, my dear Egg lived experiences no other little Targaryen prince could ever claim as his own.
My mind insists on naming whom I consider responsible for this entire situation: Aerion and his great ego, the ego of someone who, despite carrying the blood of dragons, never displayed the honor of one. Prince Baelor was a just and good man; everyone agreed he would have made a great king. He was one of the pillars of my husband, they were the hammer and the anvil. Maekar endured until our return to Summerhall, endured until we were home. He does not speak of the pain he carries, but I know that what happened at Ashford will be yet another wound he will never allow to heal.
I sat on my bed and felt as though my body weighed as much as great barrels; my back ached. One of the maids entered shortly after.
“Prepare my bath, please. Use the herbs I received from Lys and the oils as well” I said, rising and watching my reflection in the mirror.
“My lady, your bath is already being used by the prince,” she replied.
“My husband?” I asked, and she simply nodded.
“Very well. Lay out my nightclothes and something to dry myself with. Bring me those herbs from Lys and do not forget to have my husband’s supper and mine served in our chambers, please.”
As soon as she handed me the herbs wrapped in cloth, I went to my bath and found my lord husband with his eyes closed, a stern, hardened, and sorrowful expression upon his face. It moved me deeply.
“I already said I need nothing more…” he began, opening his eyes. “Ah. It’s you.”
“May I ask why my lord husband has decided to occupy my bath?” I said gently.
The gods know how difficult the beginning of our marriage was; Maekar did not wish to wed again, and I did not wish to wed at all. Yet somehow we found our balance. He is a respectful husband who has never denied me honor, and despite our differences, I feel I love him more than he could ever return — and that thought eats at me slowly. Aegon was much younger when I arrived at Summerhall, and Aemon was still here then. Now there were only them, the girls, and Daeron. Aerion had been sent across the Narrow Sea as punishment, a penalty I considered far too mild for all he had done.
“I did not think you would mind. Mine does not have as fine a view as yours,” he said, closing his eyes once more.
I knelt beside the tub where his head rested and ran my fingers through his silver hair. He let out a soft sound of approval at my touch. It was one of the things I loved most about him, aside from the pair of violet eyes that were the most beautiful in Westeros. For a moment his features softened, but soon the rigidity and sorrow returned. I rose and began to undress.
“Will my lord husband grant me permission to bathe with him?” I asked, turning toward him.
He answered with a slight nod. After removing my clothes, I placed the herbs into the water and stirred them with my hands. He watched with curiosity, as though puzzled by what I was doing. I stepped into the bath, placing my feet between his parted legs, and lay against his chest. Some of his white hair fell across my face. He took my hand and kissed it three times, then kissed my face three times as well. I kissed his lips, and I felt how deeply I had missed that closeness, the feeling of it being only the two of us, of offering my affection and having him accept it.
The water was warm and reached just above my breasts, enough to keep me from shivering in the exposed places, though to him it was nothing. My lord husband seemed to have the resistance of dragons in his skin; the hotter, the better.
“What did you put in the water?” he asked between kisses.
“Rose petals and chamomile, my love. They are often used in Dorne for calming baths.”
The scent of chamomile mixed with the petals rose around us, and he murmured a quiet “hm” in understanding.
“I know these weeks have been difficult for our house and for you, my love, but know that I will always stand by your side. I will always defend you and love you.”
His violet eyes glimmered, and his expression no longer revealed what stirred within his thoughts.
After Ashford, we departed with the king and queen for the Red Keep, where we remained for two nights before returning to Summerhall. During our stay, before the hurried preparations for Prince Baelor, I overheard two ladies calling my husband a kinslayer, judging and belittling him. Few times has my blood boiled as it did that day.
“You should be ashamed,” I said, stepping before them. Their faces turned from flushed to pale in an instant. “Do you think you may speak of the prince in such a manner? He fought to protect this realm and lords and ladies such as yourselves. If I hear another word of that sort, I shall have your tongues torn out — if I am in a generous mood. In a bad one, your families will have to retrieve your heads from the spears at the gate.”
They had no time to answer. I walked away swiftly and sat beside Maekar, whose face bore the most painful expression I had ever seen. I took his hand, and we remained so until we reached our chambers.
Still in the bath, he kept silent. When I turned to look at him, tears were falling down his face. It was the first time I had ever seen him weep. I did not know how to respond; I kept my gaze forward but placed his hands over mine, resting upon my submerged belly.
“They say I took my brother’s life out of envy, on purpose. I would never have done such a thing. No one knows how much I love — and loved — him. It was never my intention to hurt him, much less to kill him.”
“Now I have lost my brother, one son is exiled for his own madness, and the younger prefers to wander the realm with a hedge knight rather than remain at my side.”
“I know, my love. Your brother knew it too. We love you, and we do not blame you. Aegon is only following his own path. It is one of the greatest gifts a boy his age can have: the chance to know his realm. And Aerion…” I did not finish the sentence. I only brushed my face against his beard and wiped away the salty tears that fell between us.
We remained there until the water grew cold, exchanging small, quiet touches. We dined together and slept deeply, with as much peace as we could claim. What mattered was that we were together and I hoped we would remain so for a very long time.
The story takes place after the events at Ashford.
I hope you all enjoy it. I've waited for years to read Maekar fiction, and at the time I had only found one story on Tumblr and none on AO3.But now that we are blessed with AKOTSK, a lot more fiction is coming out in everywhere. I finally found the courage to take part in writing fanfiction as well. I'm still learning and I'm very insecure about it, but I hope you all understand.
I was walking through the long corridors of Summerhall toward my chambers, they had never seemed so sorrowful as they did now. The return from Ashford was more arduous than the arrival. What was meant to be a celebration ended in a funeral. I wished I could go back in time and stop Daeron and Aegon from riding ahead of us. Everything might have been different from that moment on — or perhaps not. It feels unfair to think that way, even through all the pain, my dear Egg lived experiences no other little Targaryen prince could ever claim as his own.
My mind insists on naming whom I consider responsible for this entire situation: Aerion and his great ego, the ego of someone who, despite carrying the blood of dragons, never displayed the honor of one. Prince Baelor was a just and good man; everyone agreed he would have made a great king. He was one of the pillars of my husband, they were the hammer and the anvil. Maekar endured until our return to Summerhall, endured until we were home. He does not speak of the pain he carries, but I know that what happened at Ashford will be yet another wound he will never allow to heal.
I sat on my bed and felt as though my body weighed as much as great barrels; my back ached. One of the maids entered shortly after.
“Prepare my bath, please. Use the herbs I received from Lys and the oils as well” I said, rising and watching my reflection in the mirror.
“My lady, your bath is already being used by the prince,” she replied.
“My husband?” I asked, and she simply nodded.
“Very well. Lay out my nightclothes and something to dry myself with. Bring me those herbs from Lys and do not forget to have my husband’s supper and mine served in our chambers, please.”
As soon as she handed me the herbs wrapped in cloth, I went to my bath and found my lord husband with his eyes closed, a stern, hardened, and sorrowful expression upon his face. It moved me deeply.
“I already said I need nothing more…” he began, opening his eyes. “Ah. It’s you.”
“May I ask why my lord husband has decided to occupy my bath?” I said gently.
The gods know how difficult the beginning of our marriage was; Maekar did not wish to wed again, and I did not wish to wed at all. Yet somehow we found our balance. He is a respectful husband who has never denied me honor, and despite our differences, I feel I love him more than he could ever return — and that thought eats at me slowly. Aegon was much younger when I arrived at Summerhall, and Aemon was still here then. Now there were only them, the girls, and Daeron. Aerion had been sent across the Narrow Sea as punishment, a penalty I considered far too mild for all he had done.
“I did not think you would mind. Mine does not have as fine a view as yours,” he said, closing his eyes once more.
I knelt beside the tub where his head rested and ran my fingers through his silver hair. He let out a soft sound of approval at my touch. It was one of the things I loved most about him, aside from the pair of violet eyes that were the most beautiful in Westeros. For a moment his features softened, but soon the rigidity and sorrow returned. I rose and began to undress.
“Will my lord husband grant me permission to bathe with him?” I asked, turning toward him.
He answered with a slight nod. After removing my clothes, I placed the herbs into the water and stirred them with my hands. He watched with curiosity, as though puzzled by what I was doing. I stepped into the bath, placing my feet between his parted legs, and lay against his chest. Some of his white hair fell across my face. He took my hand and kissed it three times, then kissed my face three times as well. I kissed his lips, and I felt how deeply I had missed that closeness, the feeling of it being only the two of us, of offering my affection and having him accept it.
The water was warm and reached just above my breasts, enough to keep me from shivering in the exposed places, though to him it was nothing. My lord husband seemed to have the resistance of dragons in his skin; the hotter, the better.
“What did you put in the water?” he asked between kisses.
“Rose petals and chamomile, my love. They are often used in Dorne for calming baths.”
The scent of chamomile mixed with the petals rose around us, and he murmured a quiet “hm” in understanding.
“I know these weeks have been difficult for our house and for you, my love, but know that I will always stand by your side. I will always defend you and love you.”
His violet eyes glimmered, and his expression no longer revealed what stirred within his thoughts.
After Ashford, we departed with the king and queen for the Red Keep, where we remained for two nights before returning to Summerhall. During our stay, before the hurried preparations for Prince Baelor, I overheard two ladies calling my husband a kinslayer, judging and belittling him. Few times has my blood boiled as it did that day.
“You should be ashamed,” I said, stepping before them. Their faces turned from flushed to pale in an instant. “Do you think you may speak of the prince in such a manner? He fought to protect this realm and lords and ladies such as yourselves. If I hear another word of that sort, I shall have your tongues torn out — if I am in a generous mood. In a bad one, your families will have to retrieve your heads from the spears at the gate.”
They had no time to answer. I walked away swiftly and sat beside Maekar, whose face bore the most painful expression I had ever seen. I took his hand, and we remained so until we reached our chambers.
Still in the bath, he kept silent. When I turned to look at him, tears were falling down his face. It was the first time I had ever seen him weep. I did not know how to respond; I kept my gaze forward but placed his hands over mine, resting upon my submerged belly.
“They say I took my brother’s life out of envy, on purpose. I would never have done such a thing. No one knows how much I love — and loved — him. It was never my intention to hurt him, much less to kill him.”
“Now I have lost my brother, one son is exiled for his own madness, and the younger prefers to wander the realm with a hedge knight rather than remain at my side.”
“I know, my love. Your brother knew it too. We love you, and we do not blame you. Aegon is only following his own path. It is one of the greatest gifts a boy his age can have: the chance to know his realm. And Aerion…” I did not finish the sentence. I only brushed my face against his beard and wiped away the salty tears that fell between us.
We remained there until the water grew cold, exchanging small, quiet touches. We dined together and slept deeply, with as much peace as we could claim. What mattered was that we were together and I hoped we would remain so for a very long time.
this might be an unpopular opinion and a very sensitive subject to some … but i feel like it’s something worth talking about (plz yall don’t come at at me 😭)
[edit: keep me in ur prayers 😪 i’ve already gotten anon hate and it’s been five minutes. can y’all at least read the whole post before detonating in my inbox?? 😭]
i’m fully aware that ppl should be free to write whatever they want I guess… especially in a universe like got / asoiaf, where dark and uncomfortable themes are kind of … the point. GRRM writes abt a lot of messed-up stuff on purpose. still, i can’t lie: whenever i see targ!incest being heavily romanticized in fics, especially in AKOTSK era, it really makes me uncomfortable to say the least
a big part of the issue is that incest often gets treated as something that’s just “natural” or unavoidable for targaryens, when that’s not actually true across all eras. if you look at the history, incest wasn’t just a cultural habit, it had a very specific reason. the targaryens did it mainly to keep the ability to ride dragons within the family.
but during AKOTSK era, dragons were already extinct. and that’s a HUGE detail. and so without dragons, there was no real reason to keep marrying inside the family. canon reflects that pretty clearly. most targaryens during that time married outside the house, usually for political alliances. without dragons, house targaryen wasn’t untouchable anymore, so alliances mattered more than blood purity.
ppl sometimes argue that incest didn’t happen bc there weren’t enough targaryen women around, but even that’s shaky. aerion had sisters and there were other female relatives, yet incest still wasn’t the norm. that alone shows it wasn’t seen as necessary, even by the targaryens themselves during that time.
it’s also important to remember that incest was never really accepted by westeros as a whole. even when the targaryens had dragons, people tolerated it out of fear, not approval. the faith + smallfolks condemned it, and most of the realm saw it as wrong or disturbing. so the idea that it was ever truly “normal” in-universe is kind of misleading.
and this is where i think fandom sometimes misses the point: just because grrm writes a lot of incest doesn’t mean we’re supposed to ship it. he includes incest to show how power, obsession with bloodlines + superiority complexes rot ppl from the inside. it’s meant to be uncomfortable. it’s part of the tragedy, not a love story. depiction isn’t endorsement.
so when incest gets treated as romantic, inevitable, or even desirable, especially in an era where it doesn’t really make sense canon-wise, it just feels … off to me. i’m not saying ppl shouldn’t write what they want. everyone has their own tastes and creative freedom. i just personally don’t like those dynamics and i find it weird how normalized they’ve become when the story itself shows that targaryens didn’t always do that and often chose not to.
this is just my opinion ofc, not a judgment. it’s simply discomfort based on canon and what I’ve been seeing lately :)
might get burned after saying this but oh well
note : i’m fully aware that, historically, it was common for nobility to marry within their own circles. major houses in places like westeros intermarried constantly (sometimes with minor houses, sometimes with other great houses) so realistically, they’re probably all related in some way. and since the series is heavily inspired by the wars of the roses, it’s not exactly shocking to see dynastic marriages that echo european royal history. back then, cousin marriages and even aunt/nephew unions weren’t unheard of among royalty. so yes, in terms of historical plausibility, it fits the source material
what i’m saying tho is smth slightly different. when it comes to certain characters (like baelor targaryen, who was portrayed as unusually progressive for his time) it can feel extremely ooc to pair him romantically with his daughter, sister or niece. based on how he’s written, he doesn’t strike me as someone who would support or engage in incestuous relationships. so when i see those pairings, it’s less about historical accuracy and more abt characterization. sometimes it just feels jarringly inconsistent and occasionally even a bit uncomfortable
AND TO BE CLEAR i’m not telling anyone what they should or shouldn’t write. i’m the first to say that fandom is about creative freedom and ppl can ship or write whatever they want. it’s just an opinion i wanted to share because i’ve been seeing a lot of this in akotsk x reader/oc fics over the past few weeks
edit : had to add this shady post which was obvi abt me :
to which i’ll simply respond with this reply from @eurydycee who articulated far better than i did what i was trying to say in my original post:
prguitarman
vaporwave
titsay
blakekathryn
annaxmalina
