MSG

She / her, 20s. Random endless shithole : watch my various hyper-fixations in live time :) Viretta91 on Ao3 & TikTok

[missgardenrose]

Masterlist

Updated: 8/12/26

Explicit sexual content marked with *

~~ My AO3 ~~

ASOIAF

*I have put these in CHRONOLOGICAL order in-series

All This and Heaven Too (Maekar Targaryen x Dyanna Dayne)

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Part Nine *

Part Ten

Part Eleven

Part Twelve

Part Thirteen *

Epilogue

It Will Come Back (Baelor Targaryen x Jena Dondarrion)

Part One *

Part Two *

Part Three

Part Four *

Part Five *

Part Six

Part Seven *

Part Eight

Part Nine *

Part Ten

Part Eleven *

Part Twelve (please read content warning)

Epilogue

Cosmic Love (Maekar Targaryen x Dyanna Dayne)

(all of these are smut)

Part One*

Caught (Maekar Targaryen x Dyanna Dayne)

Part One

Part Two

Breath of Life (The Blackfyre Rebellion)

Part One

Part Two

Part Three *

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

[missgardenrose]

Hiii I’m a big fan of your “Dragon Song” series (especially the Maekar x Dyanna parts hehe) I was wondering if you were still going to kill off Dyanna once the story catches up to KOSK?

I'm so sorry to report that I am following canon 😭 I plan to write about it, but there will be about 8 million trigger warnings. I am extremely interested in the emotional aftermath for the family.

[missgardenrose]

Hello MSG, I have two simple questions :

Between aerys and rhaegel, which one do you think is the weakest physically ? And which one is the worst at fighting ? I am nlt sure the answer is the same

Hmmm I think that Aerys is physically weaker, but Rhaegel is worse at fighting. And it's for the same reason: Aerys is always sitting on his butt being a scholar, so he lacks muscle and stamina, but he's extensively studied warcraft and dueling. Rhaegel is an active guy in that he takes lots of walks and is very social. I think he is rarely idle.

[missgardenrose]

Hello missgardenrose,

I don't want to put pressure on you but you seem to have grasped the personnalities of characters we know from akotsk and those we barely know (looking at the wives georges likes to mention only for their marriage and births 👀) really well, so of course I wondered how far your imagination and efforts will go :

Do you think you will write the pov of every targaryen prince and princess, born of baelor and jena or maekar and dyanna's union ? Especially if they are older ? (I know I would be destroyed by an older daeron's pov, or the sweet matarys and valarr after their father's death and during the spring sickness)

I perfectly understand how much of a challenge that could be :

- It's just a lot of work really ! And you already create so many great fics from baelor and maekar's youth !!!

- This work has more chance of being disapprouved by the canon as some of the characters are still alive in the third hedge night novella, or are still talked about

- Other than egg and aemon, we know really little about the princes and princesses, sometimes only their sorrows and tragic deaths

- You also write a lot based on a romantic relationship : Their marriages don't have the most romantic potential but rather lot of tragedy potential (valarr and kiera numerous miscarriages, ending too early, daeron and kiera (well that's interesting) having one child ! but ending early with daeron still an alcoholic and a lover of prostitution, aerion and his much younger cousin, ending early (yeah don't think it was too early for her in that case) with one male heir who in the end was not one. Daella and Rhae's marriage is not discussed much other than through aemon's memories of them singing to their children AND the theory that one of them will have a child with dunk, who will end up being the ancestor of brienne. In that case, even more risk of being disapprouved by the canon. Aemon will be a maester so no love story for him (?).And of course egg's will be canon

Just asking because I already imagine their life (especially daeron and aemon's time as prince of summerhall and maester of summerhall until daeron early death 😭😭😭😭) and you are one of my favorite writer of the fandom, but I can also totally see how it could be not fun to write and also worrying if anything comes out totally disprouving one idea you wrote

This is a great question! And thank you so much for your compliments. As of now, I plan to write up to and slightly past Dyanna's death. I have plans for the stories I want to tell. I'm somewhat unfortunately very interested in the specific cast of characters I've already explored/am exploring. That being said, I am very open to discovery! As I write through the next few years, it is very possible I will find a thread I want to follow.

[bluegiragi]

the immediate aftermath of the narrow victory of redgrass field.

early access on patreon

bonus under the cut:

[vobleee]

realm’s protected by The Hammer (12 yo) and The Anvil (8 yo)

[missgardenrose]

Breath of Life | The Blackfyre Rebellion | Part Seven

From The Wall to Drone, one thing is clear: the entire realm is about to go up in flames.

As Prince Maekar Targaryen takes his first command and Princess Dyanna Dayne struggles to protect her children from a realm unraveling before them, brothers become enemies, bastards become legends, and history marches inexorably toward Redgrass Field.

The only thing that can tear down the House of the Dragon is itself.

Words: 9.3k

CW: Violence, threats of sexual violence from strangers, hurt/comfort

AO3 | Masterlist | Previous

By the third day of not seeing her husband, Dyanna was growing frustrated. 

The Red Keep was a miserable place to be. There was no more playing pretend that everything was jolly and well. Lords and ladies whispered in the hallways, debating politics and war and other topics that wealthy people usually tried their best to avoid. Dyanna joined the other Queen’s Ladies at times, but Myriah herself was absent, shut up with the council. She could not bear to listen to her friends’ go back and forth discussing Daemon Blackfyre. Most of all, they wanted to know what Dyanna thought. 

Her good sisters should understand her plight as a secondary member of House Targaryen. But Aelinor was too judgmental, Alys too nervous, and Jena too fixated on Baelor’s disappearance. They had still received no correspondence from him, and Bloodraven’s efforts to find him using other methods had so far turned up no answers. 

Dyanna herself had been anxiously awaiting letters from any of her brothers for weeks now, but none had come, and she suspected none would. Ravens were being shot out of the sky all down the countryside. 

“Dornish scum!” A man screamed and flung dung at her. Dyanna flinched away just in time. Ser Wylde hurried her into her litter and shut the door. 

She had gone to deliver bread to an orphanage, but today proved this would be the last journey of its kind. She saw nothing but hatred in the smallfolk’s eyes. 

Dyanna did not quite understand it. Had this hatred always been here, lying in wait for an opportunity to show? Had she imagined that she had once been beloved? 

Alas, tensions were high. These people were frightened, and wished to blame a target they could actually strike. They wished to blame the king’s Dornish wife and Dornish sons and Dornish family. 

Maekar clearly had his hands full keeping King’s Landing from imploding, but could he not spare a moment for her? Two nights in a row, he had returned long after she was asleep and left before she woke. When she had risen blearily in the night, she had seen him bizarrely sleeping on the couch. She had not had the chance to ask him about it. 

She was desperately lonely. 

That was what it all boiled down to. There was a pit in her chest, yawning open every day this conflict dragged on. 

Lonely, and afraid. 

If Blackfyre ever got his hands on her, he would most likely put her head alongside her sons’ on the upper spires of the palace gates. The people she had seen today would cheer as the flies feasted on their flesh. 

She found herself longing for Starfall of all places, the home she had not returned to since she first set out for Sunspear and met Maekar. She ruminated on the cool stone plazas and olive groves of her childhood. She could not imagine war, then. She used to run around pretending to be a bird, or a dragon rider, or anything that might learn to fly far away. 

Dyanna made sure she was awake that night when Maekar finally returned. She selfishly needed his reassurance. She could feel herself spiraling under the weight of what ifs. 

She was pacing when he entered, candles burning low. He paused on the threshold. His face did something very odd. His eyes were utterly cold, and as he gazed upon her he seemed to fold deeper into himself. He kicked the door closed behind him. 

“Dyanna,” her husband said by way of greeting. He walked to the changing screen, already working at the clasps on his cloak. 

“Has something happened?” she asked instantly. He grunted, which she took as a no. Dyanna followed him to help him out of his cloak, but when she reached for his arm braces he all but flinched away from her. Dyanna froze. “Maekar?” 

“I can do it,” he said. He was not meeting her eyes now. 

Filled with unease, Dyanna nodded and left him to change in privacy. She was used to having to needle a bit to get him to share his feelings, but something had plainly upset him. She poured him a cup of water and then, on second thought, a cup of wine. 

“Was your day bad or abysmal?” she asked. His tunic was flung up to rest over the screen panel. “I feel I have not seen you at all. Aerion has been asking for you.” 

Maekar grunted again. In his night clothes, he turned not for the bed, but for the couch again. She watched him lay down and beat a pillow into shape beneath his head. His gaze was fixed hard on the fire. 

“Maekar, is something wrong?” Dyanna asked. “I cannot help but feel… Why are you not in bed? Or looking at me?” 

He raised up on one elbow to glare at her. “Do you want to have an argument right now? I certainly don’t. I am exhausted.” 

Dyanna felt as if she had been doused with ice water and slapped in the face. She and her husband had fought before, certainly, but this was not how they fought. Her worry quickly morphed into irritation at his disrespect and immaturity. 

“Do not pout,” she said. “I have not seen you in days. Have you been avoiding me?” 

“Dyanna, I do not have the energy for this.” He sighed as if she were the one inconveniencing him, and lay his head back down. 

“Have I done something? I don’t — just get off your arse and talk to me.” 

“No.” He turned around so that he was not facing her. Dyanna recoiled again. “Just go to bed.” 

She stood there still as a stone, at a complete loss, for several moments. She wanted to yell at him, but something stopped her. She mutely returned to the bed that suddenly felt cavernous. The room’s silence was the loudest thing she’d ever heard. Dyanna blinked hard at the canopy of the bed. Her eyes were burning. 

“I thought you respected me more than this,” she said. Her heart was hammering. 

The couch creaked with movement. “Respect? You want to talk about respect after what you did?” 

“What did I do?” Dyanna lurched up to sit, too. Her hands splayed wide in question. 

“I know you went to my father about Daeron,” Maekar seethed. Oh, fuck. “I’m going to go sleep in the bloody nursery.” 

He stood with his pillow, but Dyanna was already tripping over herself to get out of bed. She nearly fell flat on her face. 

“Maekar— do not—” she skidded to a halt in front of him, blocking his path. “Stop it. Do not run away from me. I understand you are—” 

“If you say that you understand I am upset, I will laugh,” Maekar said. Fury blazed in his eyes, but it quickly crumpled into something far more hurt. “We made an agreement to protect our son. You went behind my back. And do you know who told me? Daeron did. He said that Grandfather wants to know about his dreams because he knows they come true, too.” 

Dyanna had to close her eyes for the briefest moment. How long had Daeron known the true nature of his dreams? Was this because of her? She had spent all of his young life trying desperately to protect him. 

“I did not know what else to do. The things he says—” Dyanna shook her head. “You do not hear the things our son says. You are away. I could not conscionably keep that from your father when everything we hold dear is under attack. I could not live with myself just hearing Daeron’s dreams and doing nothing.” 

“He is six! You have opened the floodgates. He is never going to be a child again in my father’s eyes, never normal. You’ve made him into a tool to be coddled and molded for the betterment of the realm. I thought we agreed he deserved better than that.” 

“I had to do something!” 

“You lied to me!” It was the most he had ever raised his voice at her. Maekar shook his head. “... I cannot do this with you now.” 

He side stepped her, and Dyanna let him. The bedroom door closed again. She found herself stuck in place once more, feet frozen to the floor. But then her mouth was pressed into a hard, wobbling line, and she crossed the room to collapse onto the couch. She buried her head in her hands as she cried. The guilt she had suppressed for months hit her all at once. 

She had lied to her husband, and she had lied because she knew he would never agree to what she felt was the best course of action. She had lied because she knew he would react like this. She wanted to say so many things to explain herself and her fear, and she wanted to reflect Maekar’s anger back on him, but it all escaped her. 

But why could he not understand that she had been acting for all of their best interests, too? 

The couch cushions still smelled like him. She lay down to bury her face in the fabric and wished it would swallow her whole. 

~~

His brother was missing. His wife was a liar. Maekar felt like he was screaming underwater. 

For once, the summons he received to the Small Council filled him with nothing but dread. He greeted his parents with a perfunctory bow. He had not seen them since their abysmal argument three nights prior. The king’s gaze could be best described as ‘wary’. Of all things, though, it was Aerys and Rhaegel’s presence that made Maekar’s anger pause. They were also only just finding their seats. His brothers looked as lost as he felt. 

“Maekar, thank you for joining us. Please, sit.” Maekar did as he was told, taking the empty seat between Brynden Rivers and Symond Hayford. 

He could not contain his sudden, horrible question. “Is this about Baelor?” 

“In part,” his father said. “Brynden?” 

“My Princes, I have still been unable to locate your brother,” Bloodraven said. “The only thing I can say for certain is that he is not with his troops in the Sea of Dorne. He has left them. The camp buzzes with rumors. It is difficult to know what is true, but at the very least, I do not believe Prince Baelor to be injured or worse.” 

“And you saw this through your…birds?” Aerys asked, lip curling up. “My brother is the senior commander of our armed forces, he would not just disappear.” 

“I did not say he has disappeared. He has simply gone elsewhere, and I have so far seen no one that knows where that is. The lands around the Sea of Dorne are a disaster. Two competing Tyroshi armies, Dornish navy, and half of the forces of the Stormlands. It is much to sort through. I see far, but I am not all-knowing.” 

“Pity.” 

“But he isn’t dead?” Maekar asked. What would he do if Baelor was dead? The idea was too alien to even imagine. He thought he might just fall to the floor and forget how to breathe. 

“We do not believe so,” his mother said. There were brutal dark circles under her eyes. “That is news that would have spread far enough for our Master of Whispers to hear by now.” 

“But the point stands,” King Daeron retook the attention of the council. “Baelor is missing. Daemon has taken Casterly Rock. Our rallied forces cannot hope to take the city back, the only reason Blackfyre managed it was inside help.” 

Cousin Elaena stood to better point at the map. “We received word this morning that Lord Tyrell has retaken Starpike and Dustonbury. But Lord Gormon Peake and Aegor Rivers, along with the lionshare of their forces, were either already gone or have escaped. This has led us to two conclusions: one, that Lady Rohanne and Daemon’s children have been moved to Casterly Rock, and two, that they must soon turn their attention elsewhere.” 

“The Riverlands,” Ambrose Butterwell put in. “Leo Tyrell is now free to get the Reach under control, and once he does he may turn his attention to Lannisport, but we could waste thousands attempting to retake that city and fail. Instead, we will direct him to deal with the Tyroshi once and for all with Prince Baelor… indisposed.” 

His father nodded grimly. “Which brings us here. I wished for you all to remain informed. If Daemon is allowed to gain a foothold in the Riverlands, it will lead him to the North and Vale. This must not happen.” 

His father looked directly at him. Maekar sat straighter in his seat. This was a terrible time to leave what with his family so tense, but Maekar would do it. He would find some way to forgive his loved ones before he did. Some way to face Dyanna. But it was almost cruel, too, as if his father was only sending him away so that he could do whatever he wished with his son. Maekar would not be able to stop it. 

“Aerys,” the king said. “I am sending you to Harrenhal. From there you may rally our lords to our banners and gather an army in our name. You are a master tactician and negotiator. I will count on you to sniff out and put a stop to any traitors in the region.” 

Aerys. 

Aerys? 

“Most certainly,” Aerys was saying, a determined set to his jaw. “It is my honor to serve.” 

Fucking Aerys? 

“And what am I to do?” Maekar asked. Several members of the Small Council gave him odd looks. Fuck them, too. 

“You are to stay here,” his father told him. “As Commander of the City Watch, and our chief protection against instability at home.” 

This was a punishment. His father was punishing him, as if Maekar could not be trusted after going so far as to speak up in defense of his child. Aerys was so miserable with a sword that Quentyn Ball used to taunt him openly in the training yard. He might have other skills, but he could not protect the Riverlands. Was his father so stupid, so blinded by pettiness, that he could not see Maekar must be sent? 

“No,” he said. Cousin Elaena traded a look with her husband. “Send me to Riverrun.” 

“Pardon me? No?” Ambrose Butterwell had the gall to laugh, that useless oaf. Rhaegel was frowning at him with something horribly like sympathy. 

“Maekar, you are to stay here,” his father said. 

Had these people lost their minds? 

“Baelor is missing. Aerys is no warrior, and quite frankly, who would follow him into any battle, anywhere? You must send me to defend Riverrun. That is where they will strike first.” Maekar was met with disappointed, cold silence from all. His mother shook her head at him. 

“My brother has a point, as inelegantly as he has chosen to make it,” Aerys of all people said. “I will never lead an army. I must work with commanders I trust. Send Maekar with me and I will dispatch him to Riverrun.” 

“You will have commanders,” their father said. “But not Maekar. I need his talents here.” 

“Why?” Maekar demanded. Everyone was shifting uncomfortably in their chairs. 

His father’s gaze was leveling. “My son, you know why. Your duty is here.” 

Duty. His father thought he had lost the concept of duty, of sacrifice, because he was unwilling to share Daeron’s abilities. It was so clear to Maekar what was happening here, though none of the Small Council would know enough to decipher it. They would only think that King Daeron thought his youngest son was utterly incompetent. 

If he stayed here for even one more second, he was going to say something that would reveal all. He was going to explode. 

“Seven fucking Hells,” Maekar said instead. He pushed back from the table so hard that his chair scraped violently against the floor. 

“You are not dismissed.” 

He turned and stalked from the chamber before anyone could stop him. He blindly rounded two corners before he found himself alone, and punched a wall so hard that he was reeling back, clutching at his hand. 

“Maekar?” 

He looked up to find Rhaegel had followed him, and scoffed. “You did not honestly come after me? Gods, that’s fucking humiliating. I’m not a child. Why would you do that to me?” 

“Because I know how it feels,” his brother said. “And I did not want you to be alone. I do not know why Father is doing this, but I understand it stings.” 

Maekar saw red again. Pure, unrelenting red. Rhaegel could not possibly be equating their situations. Rhaegel was not overlooked. Rhaegel was just simply not up to the task and everyone knew it. 

“There’s nothing wrong with me!” 

Rhaegel’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?” 

“There is nothing wrong with me. So you do not know how I feel. Leave me alone.” 

Rhaegel turned away for a moment, and when he turned back his eyes were hard as flint.

“You know, for all of your insistence we are nothing alike, you really are just as “erratic” and “emotional” as they like to say I am. Seems Father thinks so, too.” 

His brother left him alone. Maekar punched the fucking wall again. 

~~

Dyanna wished to never leave her room. 

It had been four nights now since she shared a bed with her husband. When they did speak, it went something like: I can’t talk to you right now. When are you going to be able to talk to me? I don’t know! 

It was the oddest thing, but she wished to go to Maekar for advice on how to handle her fight with Maekar. She wished she could discuss her woes with him as she was so used to doing. 

She had initially faulted him for his avoidance, but it was dawning on Dyanna that Maekar simply did not know how to have a real argument with her. She suspected much of his hiding was due to a fear of further rupturing something between them. And she could not fault him for that. Wasn’t hiding out of fear precisely what had made her obscure her actions from him? 

So Dyanna did not have Maekar to lean on, and she could barely face her sons. She dared not go to King Daeron or Queen Myriah, or to saddle more on Jena’s stooped shoulders. The idea of going out and socializing for the sake of it seemed sickening. 

But she was a Princess of House Targaryen, and if duty summoned her she must go. She received a note from the queen that morning requesting Dyanna attend a blessing ceremony at the Sept of Baelor in her stead. Lady Jordayne’s new baby would customarily deserve the attendance of Queen Myriah herself, but she could not get away from the war council. Jena was still in isolation with child, Alys was pregnant, and Aelinor politically risky after the recent deaths of three other Penroses. 

Dyanna was dressed in layers of cream silk and tried to drudge up a pleasant smile from the depths of her soul. If she seemed hopeless, it would send a very bad message. In the outer bailey she arrived just in time as her litter was finished being prepared. 

“Good sister,” a kind voice called. She half turned to see Prince Rhaegel approaching, dressed in princely garb. “How do you fare?” 

“Well, and yourself?”

“About the same, I’d wager.” Rhaegel came closer, and leaned down to speak softly. “My mother asked me to join you. I believe this is some kind of show of duty and piety to the High Septon. You know no king may be crowned without his blessing.” 

Ah. Dyanna nodded tartly. 

“Then we must put on a convincing show,” she said. “I am glad not to be alone.” 

Inside of the carriage, the silence yawned between them. Dyanna usually had quite an easy time conversing with Rhaegel — by far the most social of his brothers — but things had been strained since he walked in on her and Maekar in the garden. 

“How is Alys?” Dyanna asked. It was a bright cloudy day outside of the window grills. They were carried out of the palace gates. 

“Healthy, thank the Gods. She is beginning to feel kicks.” Rhaegel smiled genuinely. He looked tired. “I find I cannot fully submit to the excitement. Not only due to war, you know, but the dangers of childbirth itself. I miss Baelor. He would be a good person to ease my fears.” 

“There has been no news of him?” 

“Maekar did not tell you? No, nothing, still. We were all called into the Small Council yesterday to discuss it. Maekar left in a foul mood… We did exchange some poor words with each other.” 

Dyanna looked at her hands. “He was out late. I did not have the chance to catch up with him. Was there anything else?” 

“Father has directed Aerys to take command of Harrenhal to rally our forces in the Riverlands.” 

Oh, dear, that was a ferocious snub to her husband. No wonder he was in a foul mood with Rhaegel and then herself last night. Though she could not say she was not glad that he was not yet being sent off to battle. 

“It is very difficult to sit here and do nothing,” Dyanna said quietly. 

Rhaegel’s eyes were full of empathy. “I agree.” 

They took most of the journey in companionable silence, though sometimes Rhaegel had some interesting story about a building or monument they passed. 

“Perhaps we should close the curtains,” Dyanna said as they bobbed ever closer toward the Sept. They were over halfway to the great plaza. 

“Am I bothering you? My apologies.” 

“No, no, it is only… Do you see how they’re looking at us?” 

The people walking and conducting their business along the King’s Road that cleaved through the city stopped and stared. It was clear they were royalty with their footman, circle of guards, and Kingsguard Ser Humfrey Hardyng on horseback. Children did not wave, and no one shouted out to them for favors. 

“They are only afraid,” Rhaegel said. He let the curtain close. “War and food shortages will never make a popular monarch.” 

Even with the view obscured, though, Dyanna could tell when the litter entered the great plaza before the Sept. Vendors were shouting over each other, and the procession slowed in the flow of traffic from carts and pedestrians. She could hear someone giving some kind of anti-Targaryen speech. Rhaegel fidgeted uncomfortably. 

“It is a good sign that the market is still in use,” she said, trying to provide some comfort. Her good brother pushed the curtain aside just enough to get a sliver of view. He was an easily skittish man when it came down to it. 

“I think we should turn around,” he said. His tune had changed quickly. “It is crowded. People are glaring at our heraldry.” 

“We are almost to the Sept.” 

“... Alright.” 

Outside, a man shouted, “It’s the queen! That Dornish bitch!” 

“My sons are dying for you, snake!” another yelled. 

“Family of bastards!” 

Dyanna flung her hands out as the cabin jostled. 

“Stay back!” Ser Humfrey Hardyng’s low drone pierced the sudden influx of noise. The litter lurched to a halt. 

“What is happening?” Dyanna asked. 

Rhaegel had already drawn the curtain aside. His face went pale. “People are gathering.” 

Dyanna leaned toward the window, but there was little she could see beyond the ironwork. A wall of bodies was forming around them. The guards were attempting to create a tighter defensive circle. 

“Make way!” Ser Humfrey shouted. 

“It’s not the queen!” A man shouted. He must have caught sight of her. Dyanna lurched back from the window, heart hammering. “It’s the other Dornish whore! The Gold Cloak’s wife!” 

A stone struck the side of the cabin, and Dyanna ducked instinctively. Rhaegel seized her arm. Another struck the wooden frame, then another. The guards were shouting and somewhere a horse screamed. 

“Give us the Dornish cunt!” 

“We need to leave,” Rhaegel said. His eyes were wild. 

“We cannot!” Dyanna did not know what to do. Think, think, think. 

The litter suddenly listed violently to one side. Both of them were thrown against the wall. Rhaegel squinted out of the window their faces were now smushed against. 

“Fuck, one of the footmen has fallen.” The litter tipped even more. The footmen were still holding it aloft, but there were too many people pressing against them now. One man had apparently stumbled beneath the weight, and the other three could no longer keep the cabin level. “We have to get out!” 

Dyanna tried to push herself upright. “To go where?” 

“Anywhere but here.” 

The door lifted higher was suddenly torn open. Dyanna screamed as a filthy hand came grabbing at her. A guard immediately shoved the offender away, but the opening exposed them to the crowd. Rhaegel got one arm around her shoulder and opened the opposite door, sending both of them toppling out onto the cobblestones. 

“There she is!” 

“Dornish!” 

“Get her out!” 

“Where is the queen?” 

“I want the queen!” 

“That isn’t the queen! It’s the prince’s wife!” 

Dyanna found herself between the cabin of the litter and two layers of defense: Rhaegel, and their group of hopelessly outnumbered guards. Spit and rocks went flying towards them. Rhaegel had to shield his eyes. All of her was trembling, and she reached for her good brother’s hand. 

“The Sept!” Ser Humfrey Hardyng had somehow lost his horse, but he fought his way to their sides. “We are close enough.” 

The great white steps were perhaps a hundred yards away, but it might as well have been a hundred miles. They had been surrounded by a roiling mass of angry bodies. If any one of these people got their hands on Dyanna, she would be raped and killed. All around, they yelled lewd, horrible insults at her and Rhaegel. 

The guards began to move, fully abandoning the litter. Ser Humfrey put himself at the front of the formation with his sword drawn but low. If blood was shed, this would turn from bad to ugly. The other men closed around Rhaegel and Dyanna with their shields raised as rocks and vegetables cracked against them. 

She made it not ten paces before someone slammed into her from the side from a gap in their defensives that was only open for a second. They were rushed, and her foot caught on something beneath the press of bodies. Dyanna stumbled. Pain shot violently up her leg as her ankle twisted beneath her. She went down hard. 

“Dyanna!” Rhaegel spun back. 

There were hands everywhere, and Dyanna could not make sense of up or down. She could not right herself. Her ankle was screaming. One hand caught a fistful of her skirts and another her arm. Someone ripped off her necklace. Someone kicked her side, either deliberately or simply because there was nowhere else for the person’s foot to go. 

“Let go of her!” Rhaegel threw himself between her and the crowd. Dyanna saw a stone strike the side of his head and watched him stagger. 

“Death to the Dornish bastards!” 

“Prince Rhaegel!” Ser Humfrey had shoved his way back toward them. He struck a man across the chest with the flat of his sword. “Get her up!” 

“I cannot walk,” Dyanna gasped. She at least got herself onto her hands as the guards around her reclaimed a moment’s control over the mob. 

Then Rhaegel was before her on one knee. He slipped one arm beneath her legs, the other around her back, and managed to haul them both upright. Pain exploded through her ankle again. She bit down on a scream and clutched at his neck. 

“Go!” Ser Humfrey shouted. 

Rhaegel stumbled forward with her in his arms. He was not a strong man. He had never been the brother who spent hours in the training yard. He did not have Maekar’s broad shoulders or Baelor’s formidable strength. She felt his arms shaking almost immediately, but he did not put her down. 

The crowd kept surging around their circle of determined guardians. Someone struck Rhaegel in the back, and he lurched but recovered. Another hand reached through the shield wall to claw at Dyanna’s hair. She cried out as it caught and pulled, tearing loose several strands before Ser Humfrey smashed the hand away. 

“Keep moving!” 

Dyanna could see the white marble steps of the Sept now, and the great bronze doors that meant safety. People were spilling away from the commotion there, screaming and scattering as the guards forced a path. Gold cloaks flashed at the edges of the crowd. Was her husband here? 

“Almost there,” Rhaegel panted. There was blood running down the side of his face. 

“You’re hurt!” 

“So are you.” 

Dyanna looked down to find that her cream skirts were utterly filthy. One sleeve had been torn to the elbow, and blood streaked her knee where the cobblestones had scraped through the fabric. Her palms were a mess, and she could feel wetness near her temple. 

But Rhaegel stumbled on the first step, so much so that his knee struck the ground. Dyanna nearly fell from his arms. Ser Humfrey shouted something about taking her himself, but Rhaegel instantly said no. 

“We need your protection! I can do it.” 

With help from their guards, they got upright again. The mob screamed insults at their back, but the stairs proved a powerful defensive advantage. 

And then the great bronze doors were opening, and Ser Humfrey was ushering them inside. 

Rhaegel crossed the threshold with Dyanna in his arms. The guards slammed the doors shut behind them. 

Rhaegel’s legs finally gave way, and they collapsed onto the cold marble floor. 

For a long moment, eerie quiet. Voices echoed throughout the cavernous Sept, and fists pounded at the grand doors. The harsh breaths of their entire group ricocheted. 

Dyanna bent her entire face into the ground and waited for the world to stop spinning. Ser Humfrey was yelling for the doors to be barred. 

She managed to push herself up somewhat despite the pain. Rhaegel was still sprawled beside her, one hand pressed against the side of his head. Blood had soaked his fingers. 

“Rhaegel.” 

“I’m alright,” he winced. 

A septon hurried toward them with several attendants. Dyanna prayed to the Seven that Lady Jordayne and her family were sequestered somewhere safe deeper within. 

“Your Graces— Seven save us. Can either of you stand?” 

~~

Of all the things to make Maekar’s week worse, of course it would be an unruly mob in the plaza before the Sept. 

He received the report from a message runner while he was deep in a miserable ordeal on the Street of Silk. A bedwoman dressed as Lady Rohanne of Tyrosh had been killed by a patron. As far as Maekar was concerned, it was a good riddance and the entire establishment should be investigated for treasonous sympathies, but murder was still murder. This fucking city. He was grateful for an excuse to leave the issue in the hands of one of his men. 

It took him nearly half an hour to travel down the Street of Sisters towards the plaza. King’s Landing was clogged with pedestrians angry over street closures due to the riot. Maekar was in such a fabulously terrible mood that he half wanted to trample the lot of them. 

The plaza was in a state of disaster that made Maekar respect his commanders double. It was clear that even this disorder was the result of blood, sweat, and tears. Hundreds of carts were overturned, goats and horses were running amok, and children were screaming. The white marble expanse was stained with gore, shit, and food. The central fountain was full of debris. The Gold Cloaks had managed to close down every entrance to the plaza, and had subdued the chaos. 

But Maekar saw injuries, and dead bodies. Not many, but even a few were too many. He dismounted and walked through the aftermath to find Ser Perry Morgan yelling orders. A group of angry men and women were still clamoring in the far corner of the square, but they were surrounded by Gold Cloaks with spears. 

“Captain,” his man greeted. “We’ve rounded up the remaining rioters. They’ll be taken to the west barrack jail.” 

“How many?” 

“Nearly forty so far. More are being searched for in the surrounding streets.” 

“Any indication this was planned?” 

“Not that we’ve found. The Gold Cloaks stationed here report it began with shouting, then the stones. Once the first man went down, everyone lost their minds.” 

“Sounds about right.” Maekar looked across the square. What a complete disaster. His father would be dismayed. “Any of ours dead?” 

“Three. Nine were injured badly enough to require a maester,” Perry said. “Many more with bruises and cuts.” 

“Have word sent to their families before the bodies leave the square. I don’t want wives hearing about their husbands from some fucking nosy fishmonger.” 

“Yes, My Prince.” Perry gave a perfunctory look around. “As you see, we have several dead civilians. Most were trampled. A few look to have been caught beneath overturned carts. Thankfully no children.” 

Maekar’s jaw tightened. “Clear the square before more gawkers come. Get the wounded to the maester’s guildhall and keep the streets around the plaza closed until we’re certain there won’t be another outbreak. You’ll need to double the escort around the prisoners, I won’t have — what is that?” 

Ser Perry followed his gaze, and Maekar was already moving. 

Half-hidden by an overturned market stall, crushed by the torn remains of a fanciful litter, lay a body in red and black. Maekar crouched beside the wreck. 

“Why is there a castle footman in the middle of this?”

There was no mistaking that this was a castle footman. A young one, too. He had been stabbed beneath the ribs with a shard of wood. Maekar shut the corpse’s eyes and stood with a ragged sigh. 

“He must have been accompanying a royal procession,” Ser Perry said. “I admit I have still not sorted through fact and fiction here, but some claim that the riot began because of the queen’s presence. As we have not been able to get the Great Sept to open their doors to us, I did wonder if someone important might be inside.” 

“Nonsense. My mother has no time to go to the Sept. She’s with the Small Council,” Maekar said. 

“I am sure you have the truth of it. These rioters just keep yelling about Dornish women.” 

Maekar glanced toward the prisoners. Most of them were still shouting over one another, though the spearmen kept them contained. Bunch of bigots. 

“We should find out why,” he said. 

Maekar strode toward them. The moment they recognized him as the Captain of the City Watch, and Targaryen prince, the shouting changed. 

“That’s him!” 

“That’s the Dornish whore’s husband!” 

Maekar stopped. One of the men tried to spit in the direction of his feet. He was broad and red-faced, with blood running from a cut above one eye. 

“Your Dornish bitch is in there, isn’t she?” He jerked his chin toward the Sept. “I’ll fuck her bloody myself! I got a fistful of her hair, I did!” 

Maekar went perfectly still. Everything around him faded to silence. He heard Ser Perry still relaying his orders. He heard the rioters still yelling. 

“What did you say?” he asked. 

“You heard me, Princeling.” The man was not gleeful, oh no. He already knew he was doomed. He spoke with a ferocious audacity straight from the gut. “I bet you’ve never heard her scream like I just made her.” 

Maekar took one step forward. His sword was drawn without him meaning to draw it. He felt the attention of his men, and of hundreds of bystanders, on him. 

He wanted to kill this man. He wanted to clean his blood off of his blade later and relish in it. It was not true, his wife was not here. This fucking ogre was just trying to get a rise out of him, and by the Gods it was working. 

It took absolutely all of his power to turn back towards Ser Perry. It forced him to take several steps away from the crowd. 

“Was my wife here?” he hissed. 

“I do not know, Captain. There are all sorts of fanciful rumors that—” 

“But have they said she was here?!” 

“Well, yes, Your Grace, but—” 

Maekar made a strangled noise and was already rushing away towards the Sept’s front stairs. His boots struck the white marble hard. Ser Perry and several Gold Cloaks hurried after him. 

His thoughts had become an unbearable spiral. He did not know if Dyanna was inside, or if she was halfway across the city, but some bastard claimed to have touched her. A royal footman was dead. Was she terrified? Was she injured? Was she alive? 

“Open the doors!” he shouted, pounding one fist against them. “Open these fucking doors!” 

“Who is there?” A voice called from within. 

“Maekar Targaryen! Captain of the City Watch! I demand you do as I say.” 

“We cannot open them. We have no assurance of your identity, and we can still hear the mob.” 

“You can hear prisoners screaming behind a wall of spears. The riot is over. My wife is inside. My wife. Princess Dyanna Dayne.” 

In the ensuing pause, Maekar forced himself to breathe. It was a good thing the doors were barred. Whoever was inside had done exactly as they should have done. If the mob truly had attacked a royal litter in the heart of the city, they had every reason to expect violence would follow them inside. But Dyanna was inside, so Maekar needed to be inside. 

After an agonizing moment, he heard the rattle of the great bar being lifted. The doors opened not even a hands-width, but a slightly shell-shocked septon immediately opened them further when he saw that Maekar was indeed who he claimed. 

Maekar crossed the threshold immediately. His eyes fought to adjust to the gloom. The inner hall of the Sept seemed empty save for a few nervous holy men. And— 

“Humfrey,” Maekar crossed instantly to the Kingsguard, his heart in his throat. Hardyng was speaking with the High Septon. “What is this? Where is my wife? Is she here?” 

“Your Grace, thank goodness,” Humfrey said. He looked worse for wear, with a cut lip and filthy uniform. “I take it that you’ve cleared the square?” 

“Where is my wife?!” His shout echoed. He did not care. He had seen the blood coating the marble at the entryway. 

“She’s with your brother. Just this way. Come.” 

“My brother? Which brother?” Maekar’s hands felt numb. He wanted to run. “What happened? Is she injured, is she safe? How bad is it?”  

They rounded a corner before Ser Humfrey had a chance to respond. An inner audience chamber had been overtaken with dusty palace guards to wait out the mob. 

He spotted Rhaegel first, sitting with his back up against one of the pillars. His hair was matted with blood on one side of his face, and his tunic torn at the shoulder and filthy from hem to collar. One hand was pressed against his ribs. Sitting beside him was— 

Dyanna. 

Her clothes were an utter wreck, torn and dirty. There was blood on her cheek and blood at her temple, more on her hands. One of her legs was splayed out straight and missing a shoe. The revealed ankle was horribly swollen. But she was breathing, and her eyes found his. 

“Maekar?” 

He had already dropped to both knees before her. He meant to get his hands on her shoulders and give her a true lookover, but instead, she dragged him into a somewhat frantic embrace. If the grooves of his armor hurt, she did not give a sign. Maekar wrapped his arms around her in turn, trying his best to remember gentleness. She smelled of dust and sweat.

I thought you were dead, for one horrible instant, I thought you were dead. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, and then backed away only enough to meet her eyes. He took her trembling hands in his. 

“Why are you even here?” he asked. He searched her face desperately for answers. He was still reeling from the shock of finding her. 

“Your mother sent us in her stead. In fact, the crowd thought we might be her. When they saw it was me…” Dyanna shook her head. 

“They would have killed her if they had the chance,” Rhaegel croaked. He looked a mess. Maekar was instantly alerted again to the presence of others. “Me, too. I’ve never seen a mob like that.” 

“He carried me all the way,” Dyanna said. 

Rhaegel? Maekar was abruptly brought back to his last regretful interaction with his brother. Something in his gut twisted. 

“Are you badly hurt?” he asked. The blood on his face was no longer flowing, and head wounds were known to bleed buckets, but worry gripped his heart. 

“No, I don’t think so,” Rhaegel said. “Just woozy. But her ankle is broken or sprained.” 

Maekar instantly shifted to inspect his wife’s leg. The flesh was red and purple. He wanted to tear the people that had done this to her limb from limb. 

“Get us a maester!” Maekar shouted at no one in particular. Dyanna’s hand caught his arm. 

“I told them to send the maesters to the people outside,” she said. “Our injuries are mostly superficial, and my ankle will not kill me imminently.” 

“Do not be a martyr, I beg you.” 

“The Princess is wise, Your Grace,” Ser Humfrey said. He stood nearby, conversing with the palace guards who also looked like they’d fought bears. Maekar wanted to give the whole lot of them medals of honor. “I am sure there are men outside with wounds that will kill if not tended to soon.” 

“If a maester cannot come to them then I must get them to a maester. They cannot stay here. Where’s my man Perry? Morgan!” Maekar shouted. He stood, putting himself in an almost defensive position before Rhaegel and Dyanna. Ser Perry came quickly around the corner. “How many Gold Cloaks are outside?” 

“By now at least two hundred,” Perry said. “More in the surrounding streets.” 

“Is there any indication of another mob forming?” 

“Not as far as I can tell. The onlookers on the King’s Road have been pushed back.” 

“Alright. Have word sent to the castle. I want a closed carriage — something boring, for Gods’ sakes — brought to the southern entrance of the Sept. We’ll need about two companies to secure the route. I need a man on every corner from here to the Red Keep when we move.” 

“At once, Your Grace.” Ser Perry went off to follow his orders. Perhaps the man deserved a promotion. 

Maekar turned back to his family. 

It was his job, in the most literal sense, to protect this city. They had been attacked on his watch, under his jurisdiction. Seeing them like this made him feel shame like nothing else. Fear, too. Dyanna was Dornish, but she was also his wife. She was attacked because of him, just as Rhaegel was attacked double for his darker coloring. Maekar had never felt so guilty for his Valyrian features. In all of his recent anxieties, he had somehow neglected to remember Dyanna was facing her own mounting prejudices. 

He had been so furious with her for the past several days. He could not trust himself to even look at her, scared of what he might say. That had certainly not disappeared, but love and terror trumped it all. 

Maekar crouched in front of her again. “Let me see your face.” 

“I’m alright.” Her eyes were glassy with shock, pain, or exhaustion. 

“Please.” 

She sighed and allowed him to turn her chin gently toward the light. There were shallow cuts at her temple and cheek, little more than grazes. Dried dirt on her skin. Maekar wiped away a scuff where her chin had plainly struck the ground. 

“I’m alright,” she said again. She seemed distant, still, like half of her mind was still looking for a threat. The rage he felt seeing her like this was second to none. 

“Rhaegel?” Maekar asked. 

His brother understood. “Once the litter fell, we had to get out. Dyanna was briefly dragged into the crowd. It was all anti-Dornish this and that. Vicious. I uhm… I got her out.” 

Rhaegel did not meet his eyes when he said this, instead somewhat nervously fidgeting with some loose thread on his tunic. Another wash of guilt overtook Maekar. There is nothing wrong with me, he had said. Nothing wrong with me like there is with you. 

Maekar reached out a hand over Dyanna to briefly rest it on his brother's arm. He could not muster words beyond that, but Rhaegel seemed to understand. 

~~

It was well into the evening by the time Dyanna was on her couch before the fire with a splint around her ankle. Her head was pounding. Wine did little to help the pain. 

It had taken several hours to get back to the Red Keep. Dyanna had spent the entire journey cringing away from the slightest unexpected noise. Maester Aleryn saw to her, then she was bathed and changed. She was given hearty stew, hard cheese, and bread. 

Now she was alone. The silence felt loud. The pop and crackle of the flames reminded her of thrown rocks. She kept fidgeting away from invisible hands. Her ankle was badly sprained. Every movement sent jolts of pain up her calf.  

Dornish bitch. 

Dyanna bit her nails and stared hard at where the fire burned so hot it turned white. This was how Maekar found her when he returned. As soon as he made sure she and Rhaegel were alright, he ran off to make sure the city was secure and the Small Council informed. 

She heard him enter; the familiar creak of the bedroom door and the immediate disposal of his boots and sword. 

“You’re awake,” he said. His voice was almost disturbingly gentle. 

“I am not tired.” Dyanna dragged her attention away from the fire at his approach. He stood above her, eyes filled with concern. “Well?” 

“I stopped my mother from coming up here herself.” He sighed, continuing on to change out of his heavy, dirty clothes. “She is in a state over Rhaegel as I have never seen her, and raging at invisible villains. She feels terribly for what happened. I told her it was stupid to send you to any event across the city right now, which she did not take kindly to.” 

“It has been frosty for weeks, there was no reason to think…” Dyanna stopped herself. “Perhaps that is wrong. Maybe I am unwilling to see the degree of their hatred for me and my home.” 

“I have instituted a curfew tonight. I do not plan to hold it indefinitely — that would only add to the agitation, I fear — but there must be some consequence.” 

“I thought it seemed quiet.” 

In a tunic and loose pants, Maekar came to sit with her on the couch. “May I? Maester Aleryn said to keep that elevated.” 

Dyanna nodded. Her husband gently lifted her foot from its spot on two pillows and placed it on his lap. The movement made her scrunch her eyes shut and breathe through her nose. 

“And the king?” she asked. 

“I did not speak to him,” Maekar said, then corrected, “I am not speaking to him.” 

Dyanna took a deep breath and steeled herself. She was so raw with emotion and exhaustion that this conversation — if her husband allowed them to have it — suddenly seemed a modicum less frightening. 

“You deserve my apology,” she began. Maekar met her eyes instantly. “I did make a vastly important decision without you, and I did go behind your back, and I did lie by omission. I thought that if I went to you, the only answer would be no, and I was too afraid to get into a fight with you while the world goes up in flames around us. That was selfish, and I am very sorry… But I would also like to tell you why I did what I did.” 

“I am listening,” he said after a moment. 

“It seems cheap to say I was reacting out of panic, but it is true. I had just learned that the Sea of Dorne was under attack, and that our old ‘friend’ Allister Hightower had declared neutrality. My fault. My fault, and all I do is sit here and hear about horrible things happening far away. I am useless.” Dyanna looked down at her hands and found she’d been picking at her cuticles. She firmly separated them. “But Daeron says things all of the time that make sense days or weeks later. I hear all of it. I file it away and then it shows up again and I feel sick to my stomach. It was… too much for me to feel that we might be keeping an advantage away, something that might save us all. 

“I am terrified. Terrified to be murdered along with our sons, terrified that you will die in battle. If Daeron might help us, do we not have a duty to share that with the king? For the good of not just us, but this entire realm?” 

Maekar was quiet, but his quiet did not make Dyanna more anxious. She knew he was only thinking. As he thought, his hand came to rest mindlessly near her knee, rubbing at the soft fabric of her skirts. 

“I would have said no,” he finally spoke. “I do not want him to grow up feeling like some… freak. I want him to run and play and laugh like other little boys.” 

“He has never been like other little boys.” 

“Why him? Why did the Gods choose our son? I do not…” Maekar looked down at the ground. “I am afraid, too. And I am angry that you did this, and angry that you felt you had to collude with my father.” 

“I know.” 

“I want these breakfasts to stop. No more covert questioning… But if Daeron says something you believe to be of note, you may pass it along. I will try to do the same.” 

Dyanna was startled. “Truly?” 

“I am not stupid, Dyanna,” he said. “Only stubborn.” 

“That I did know.” They shared a tiny smile that felt like a dam breaking open. She sat up further so that she could reach for him, took his hand, and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “I am sorry I went about things this way. We are a team.” 

“Yes,” Maekar said. His voice sounded suddenly choked. “But there are things I cannot protect you from, and fears I cannot fully share with you. Today showed me my negligence.” 

“What? Do not blame yourself for the Sept.” 

He pulled a face that showed that he very much did blame himself. But he said, “You have a reason to be afraid, I will not deny you that. It is terrible out there.” 

“Come here.” 

Maekar fell into her open arms gratefully. Her injured foot remained in his lap, which he was careful not to jostle as he laid his upper body on her chest. Dyanna gripped him close to her heart. He exhaled a shuddering breath and nuzzled further into her skin. She stroked her fingers through his hair. 

She had not expected him to forgive or agree with her, and he had not, but this was still resolution. Dyanna allowed herself to fully enjoy the feel of her husband pressed close. She had missed him so. 

“I have spent days sleeping on this blasted couch,” Maekar mumbled against her. He bent his head up to meet her eyes. “Might I please bring you to our bed?” 

“I thought you’d never ask.” 

Maekar carried her the short way and arranged some extra pillows under her foot before joining her under the covers. Dyanna drew him into a kiss. 

“I love you,” she whispered. She felt her body relaxing for the first time in hours, for the first time in days. 

“And I you.” He ran a thumb over the scratch on her cheek. “Please do not scare me like this again.” 

They spent the whole night curled around each other. When Dyanna woke, her husband was still next to her. 

~~

Maekar received the summons from his father while he was checking in on Rhaegel. His older brother kept insisting he was in fine health to anyone who would listen, but Maester Aleryn had confined him to his bed until he could stand without growing dizzy. He had two doting caretakers in the form of his wife, Alys, and their mother. 

“My brave boy,” the queen said as she brought him a fresh glass of water. Maekar resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and Rhaegel cringed slightly away from a kiss to the brow. 

“Prince Maekar,” a guard interrupted from the door. “The king requests your presence in his solar.” 

Maekar sighed roughly. To say he had been avoiding his father was an understatement. 

“Do you know what that’s about?” he asked his mother. 

“I don’t,” she said. “Though I would not be surprised if he wished to smooth things over with you.” 

“Good luck to him.” 

“You should go,” Rhaegel said.

“And leave you with these two gaolers? I don’t think so.” Maekar joked, but he left soon after. One did not ignore the king. 

The city was in a state of odd calm the day after the riot. That morning, he had personally seen to the prisoners in the western barracks. The worst offenders, the ones that had managed to get their hands on Dyanna or Rhaegel, would have to lose those hands. Most would be sent to The Wall. 

“Father,” he greeted with a bow when he was allowed into the king’s solar. “You asked to see me.” 

King Daeron sat at his table scratching away at parchment. He was surrounded by books and dead quills. At Maekar’s entrance, he pushed all of this aside and steepled his hands together. “Please, join me. How is your wife?” 

“In bed where I have told her to remain,” he said. “I believe she is more shaken by yesterday than she will admit.” 

“I do not blame her… So you two are no longer fighting?” 

“That is not an appropriate question.” 

His father looked away. “Perhaps not. Though I wonder for a reason, and it is why I have asked you here. Aerys will leave for Harrenhal in two days' time. The realm is in crisis. Yesterday’s attack proved that I can no longer keep my cards close to my chest. If I do not act, I will be deposed. So when Aerys leaves, I would like you to join him.” 

“At Harrenhal?” His voice sounded stiff and hollow in his ears. 

“You will continue on to Riverrun. You were right about that.” 

Riverrun. His father’s words should have filled him with satisfaction. He had begged for this only a few days prior, and felt rage for being overlooked. Instead, his thoughts went instantly to Dyanna. 

For the first time, Maekar wondered if perhaps his father had not been purposefully snubbing him. Dyanna had nearly been murdered by their own people yesterday. King’s Landing needed him to defend it. Dyanna needed him. How could he leave her here, injured and targeted? 

“I cannot keep you here,” his father continued when he still had not spoken. “It is different, sending Aerys to be my logician. I must send you to shed blood for me. With Baelor missing…” 

Maekar felt nothing but grief. 

“I will go.” 

~~

[missgardenrose]

Breath of Life | The Blackfyre Rebellion | Part Six

From The Wall to Drone, one thing is clear: the entire realm is about to go up in flames.

As Prince Maekar Targaryen takes his first command and Princess Dyanna Dayne struggles to protect her children from a realm unraveling before them, brothers become enemies, bastards become legends, and history marches inexorably toward Redgrass Field.

The only thing that can tear down the House of the Dragon is itself.

Words: 5.7k

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Matarys Targaryen was born the day they received word that Daemon Blackfyre had launched his assault on Lannisport. Dyanna had half of her mind in the Westerlands as she held Jena’s clammy hand, crouching beside her on the mattress. “Come on and push, Gods damnit!” 

She had fought to be in this room, and now that she was, she was determined to be of use. She and Jena had gone back and forth, and then Jena and the queen had gone back and forth, but Dyanna would be damned if she let her good sister give birth alone with her husband at the other end of the continent fighting in a war. Jena’s notion that she should be brave enough to face everything alone was going to have to be put down. 

And Jena did it, even if it took hours and hours and unimaginable pain and a horrific tear in her nether regions that made all of the maesters panic. At the end of it, Jena was as healthy as one could hope given the blood loss, holding a brand new baby boy, and Dyanna’s heart was racing like she had just fought in battle. 

“I am never doing that again,” Jena said, delirious with exhaustion. Dyanna examined the babe in her arms from a distance. A new nephew. The maesters had left, leaving only a few nurses. Queen Myriah would be here soon to check in on her good daughter. 

“But you did it.” The baby yawned and fussed and made Dyanna long for Daeron or Aerion when they were that small. “What is his name?” 

Jena’s smiles were only sad. No doubt she was thinking of Baelor. The Prince of Dragonstone had not been sent along with the forces of Storm’s End and the marches to combat Daemon’s assault on the west. Instead, Baelor and his home garrison had traveled down to Stone Helm to join the fight for the Sea of Dorne. Fortunately, Valarr’s marriage pact with Kiera of Tyrosh had brought their own forces from the island to combat Lady Rohanne’s kin. Unfortunately, Tyrosh had subsequently descended into civil war. 

“Matarys,” Jena said. “Mantarys was a city of Old Valyria. Still a city, in fact, but it was destroyed by the Doom in more sinister ways. Before its fall, it was the home of a class of scholarly warriors. Very Baelor, you know.” 

It was a bit artistic for Dyanna’s taste, but she nodded. “A fine name with a fine history. Valarr will be delighted for a brother. And I do believe he has your hair. ” 

Dyanna only departed when the queen arrived. Jena was in good hands, and despite all of her fatigue, seemed enamored with her son. Dyanna desperately needed a bath. She paused on the threshold between the bedroom and solar as Queen Myriah passed. 

“Well?” she asked her lady. The entire day had passed while Dyanna was in this room, and anything could have happened. Myriah looked all tensed for a fight. Outside, celebratory bells had begun to ring. 

“I do not know. There have been no ravens, of course… My husband has Bloodraven doing his odd magic by the Heart Tree. Most of the small council thinks him mad.” Myriah shook her head, sending one quick look over Dyanna’s shoulder toward Jena. They were speaking too softly for her to hear. 

“And what does Bloodraven see?” Dyanna asked. They may have only received a raven reporting on the assault today, but that meant it had begun at least four days ago. 

“He claims that Daemon slew Lord Lefford himself at the gates of Lannisport, and the city is falling.” Myriah’s frown deepened. “I do not know if I do not believe it because of the source, or because I simply do not want to believe it… You go on. I must look in on Jena.” 

Dyanna gave a shallow curtsy and did as she was told. 

They had known Blackfyre’s forces were pushing west after the disaster at Cider Hall last month. They had crossed the Mander near Red Lake, where Quentyn Ball managed to kill three of Lady Penrose’s sons in the ensuing combat — and her own little Daeron had gone up to the Master of Coin and asked if he was alright before the news even arrived that his nephews had been killed. House Reyne had declared for Daemon. Wherever Ball went, loyalist forces were crushed.

But Lannisport? The city was massive and walled with fortifications nearly as sophisticated as King’s Landing. Casterly Rock itself had never fallen by storm or siege. It was impossible for Daemon to expect to take the city, and yet according to Bloodraven, he was. 

Bloodraven’s ability to supposedly see events as they took place might give them a massive advantage, but only if they decided they could trust him. Dyanna did not know what she thought. 

Dyanna returned to her chambers to clean up. The sky was fading into darkness, and beyond her windows King’s Landing seemed as content as ever. It was a facade. Maekar had nearly tripled City Watch patrols, and cracked down on any form of organized gathering. He was endlessly busy, and when they were together spoke often of how his father should give him a command instead of wasting his talents here. What could Dyanna say? That he was wrong? That the thought of him leaving terrified her more than anything else? 

“You have a new cousin,” Dyanna told her boys when she was done with her bath, finding them playing in the nursery. It was a special moment when they were found sharing toys, but they were for once. From the looks of it, pretending to be a dragon and a knight. “A little boy. Matarys.” 

Aerion’s nose wrinkled up, and he giggled. “That’s a funny name.” 

“A Valyrian name.” Dyanna agreed, but she could not very well encourage it. “But aren’t you glad? You’ll have a new playmate in a few short years.” 

“I think we’ll have three soon,” Daeron said. He spoke so absently, scratching at his head with his attention on the wooden figurines before him. 

“What do you mean by that, dearest? Three what?” 

He shrugged. 

“I want a little brother,” Aerion pouted. “One that likes swords.” 

“Maybe someday, but not just now.” Dyanna ruffled his hair. She almost left her children to play under the supervision of their nurse, but decided against it at the last moment. Being with Jena today had reminded her just how hard she’d worked to bring her sons into the world. She sat cross-legged on the floor with them. “Alright, what are we playing?” 

“I’m a dragon!” Aerion enthusiastically shoved his toy in her face. 

“I can see that. And very frightening. What would you name your dragon if you had one?” 

“Balerion!” 

“Now that is original. And who are you being, Daeron?” 

Daeron bounced his wooden puppet up and down. “I’m a lion knight. The dragon is attacking Casterly Rock.” 

Dyanna’s smile fell as quickly as it had come. 

~~

Shiera watched the magic whistle through the red leaves from the shadows. This Heart Tree was a sinister one, she thought, gaping mouth nearly laughing where it hovered behind Brynden’s head. Poised to devour him whole. 

It was a bleak night in King’s Landing, despite the bells that would not stop ringing for hours yet to come. A prince was born, and somewhere not all that far away, thousands were dying. The clouds were an ominous gray above, pooling with unspilled rain. 

The king had not seen her yet. 

She had watched him come and go for hours, and she was sure that his ever-present guards had spotted her from her perch in the covered stone vestibule to the side of the tree. Sometimes, his councilors joined him as he bothered Brynden with endless questions. The king was a wise man, but he was also a panicking man. A king should never show his panic. 

This time he had come alone. 

“Do you have news for me, Brynden?” King Daeron asked. Brynden was sitting on the earthy ground with his eyes closed and his palms clasped in his lap. He had not risen for food nor drink since early morning. Brynden did not answer. “Well?” 

“He is too far away, Your Grace,” Shiera finally spoke. The king’s attention snagged on her with intense suspicion. He had never liked her. “It will take him some time to find his body again, to remember how to be a man and not a bird.” 

“How long have you been here, Lady Seastar?” 

“All day. I worry he might become lost.” She stood from her seat, discarding her needlework, and approached slowly. Leaves crunched under her slippered feet. “He says I tether him.” 

Daeron shook his head. He was wearing his crown, but it was slightly lopsided where it lay. “There should be a grand feast tonight, and my son should be here, being toasted by a crowd for the birth of his babe. Instead, he is far away fighting my battles for me. He will not receive news of Matarys for days.” 

“I am sorry for that, Your Grace,” Shiera said. “I am sure that Brynden will be able to look in on him soon, too.” 

“Not while Daemon stands poised to take the Seat of the West. I never trusted Quentyn Ball, you know. He was my father’s man. I should have dealt with him while I had the chance.” 

“Yes.” He gave her an odd look. “I meant I agree with you, Your Grace.” 

The king turned to her fully, face dark. 

“Are you going to try and convince me again that you are in love with this man? That I should reward him with Dark Sister? Is that why you’ve made a show with your presence here?” 

The last conversation Shiera had with the king had not gone as she’d hoped. He thought her the wild seductress the Red Keep thought she was. An opportunist and a liar coveting nothing but power. 

“I am here because I love this man, Your Grace. That is all. But if you trust him, why not trust me? Because my mother was a witch and my father a piece of scum? Well, we do share a father. I do not hold him against you.” 

Daeron’s eyes flashed with poorly concealed ire. “Your “lover” has proven himself to me tenfold. You have not.” 

Lover. Did Daeron not believe that she, supposedly such a great beauty, could choose a man such as this? 

“Your Grace, your opponent carries the Conqueror’s blade. If you do not put Dark Sister on the battlefield simply to spite our father’s memory, it will be a loss for us all. If you wish to take the honorable road and respect Aegon’s decree, then you must award the sword to the man of my choice. Brynden.” 

Daeron looked away from her. “So you were positioned here to catch me again… I must admire your commitment.” 

Anything to save even a shred more of Brynden’s sanity… The wind rustled through the red leaves of the Heart Tree again and made a moaning sound. Fine strands of Brynden’s hair fluttered along. 

“Alright, Shiera,” the king spoke again after a moment. “I have need of my Master of Whispers. I cannot get to him. Show me that you can.” 

Shiera stood a bit straighter. This was a game they used to play as children, when these things still seemed like games. Brynden would send himself into the mind of some creature, and Shiera would delight in how he could spy on the other nobles in the Red Keep to catch good gossip. He had an affinity for birds. She would tell him to go further and further — what about a falcon in the Kingswood? What about a sparrow in Flea Bottom? What about a raven in Oldtown? The farther he went, the longer it took to get back. There were times, in those early years, when he would get lost for days. 

Shiera lifted her skirts and walked up the slight incline to the tangled roots of the Heart Tree. She knelt down beside Brynden and took one of his hands. His skin was icy cold to the touch, and his eyes darted around under closed lids. 

Another might yell and shake him or call his name, but Shiera needed none of this. She bent her mouth close to his ear, tucking a few strands behind, and whispered, “Come back.” 

By the time she had shifted to press a kiss to his cheek, to remind him of the touch and smell of her skin, his eyes were opening. They were pure white for a moment before his irises rolled back into their proper place. 

“The city is falling,” he finally spoke. Shiera backed away and stood. 

“That is what you said last time,” Daeron said. His brow was furrowed as he looked between them. 

Brynden rolled out his neck and flexed his fingers. How odd must it feel to suddenly be bereft of wings? 

“Yes. It is still falling,” he said. “It will not last the night. It is as I thought — forces of House Reyne were inside the walls when the assault began, and have compromised the city’s efforts to defend itself. And there is a traitor in Casterly Rock.” 

“Whom do you speak of? Not Daemon Lannister.” 

“No, the gray lion is loyal to you. This was another. I have never met him in person before, but I believe it was Archbald Lannister I saw. He is a lesser cousin who has long coveted the family’s main seat. He plans to help Blackfyre into the Rock itself.” 

The king cursed and looked away. 

“Daemon cannot take Casterly Rock. He cannot. There must be something you can do from here.” 

“You know I can only see. In this way, my gift is a curse.” Brynden lumbered slowly to his feet and swayed. Shiera instantly caught his arm. His eyes flickered to her, surprised to see her present. He always seemed surprised when he found her right by his side where he’d left her. “The only advantage I can offer you here is knowing what has happened without the delay of a messenger. I suggest the crown use these extra days to rally its forces accordingly.” 

Daeron took several long strides to approach them. He laid one hand on the Heart Tree, as if searching for the greater mysteries it offered Brynden and not himself. Shiera had oft done the same. 

“... There is no coming back from this,” he said. “If Daemon succeeds with Casterly Rock, he will have proved himself a military might. The great houses may turn against me… Do you love Lady Seastar as she claims you do, Brynden?” 

Shiera felt her own eyes widen, and Brynden’s muscles tense beneath her touch. The king had never spoken to them both at once, that she could recall. 

“Beg pardon, Your Grace?” he asked. 

“Our half-sister tells me that you are the man that has won her, and as such I must give you Dark Sister as our father decreed. A thousand men have come to woo her, and still she has chosen you. Is it true? Do you keep her counsel and share her bed?”

Brynden’s face was as stoic as it ever was, if not somewhat affronted. Daeron only looked tired. 

“I do, Your Grace,” he said slowly. 

“Then you must have the sword.” The king nodded once, gravely. He cut a heavy look to Shiera. “The realm clearly needs it.” 

With that, he turned from them to walk away. They watched him exit the inner courtyard of the gardens in complete silence. Every step he took seemed heavier than the last. 

“I should go back. There is more to be learned,” Brynden said. He was a fool if he thought she would allow that to happen. 

Shiera rounded him so that they were facing each other, and took his hands. He was still too cold. “You have been away since the sun came up. You will get stuck there. Come with me to eat something.” 

At that moment, the sky decided to crack open with a roll of thunder. Shiera thanked the Seven for that. 

With a sigh, Brynden let her lead him to the apartments she shared with Gwenys above the kitchens. His sister was not back yet from her daily activities. 

Shiera’s room was a cramped thing, and filled with oddments that would have made any sane person cower. Bird bones and beetle shells and bits of crystal and potions of her own making. Only she knew how to sort through the mess.

Brynden descended instantly on the jug of wine and plate of grapes, crackers, and soft cheeses. She sat on her bed, one leg crossed over the other, and stared at him. 

“The sword will be valuable,” he said through a mouthful. His eyes were unfocused. He often got terrible headaches when he overexerted his abilities, like training a muscle too hard. “A good symbol. Two bastards with the two great swords of this house. People will write songs.” 

Shiera knew that he said this not for glory but for practical military gain. Sometimes she wished he cared more for glory. People should know that magic was not dead in Westeros because it lived in him. People should sing for him. 

“You are welcome,” she said. “And thank you… for claiming me, too.” 

Brynden quickly took a swig of wine to clear his throat and looked back at her with a frown. “I have spent years dreaming of the day you would allow me to do so. Why do you look sad?” 

“I am not sad.” 

“You are. You cannot possibly be upset with me.” 

With a shake of her head, Shiera surged to her feet and kissed him. She could taste the red wine on his tongue as he deepened it. His hands came to cradle her, pulling her ever closer. 

“For all of your intelligence, you can be dense,” she said, pulling away just barely. Brynden gave her the smallest of smiles, which for him might as well have been jumping for joy. “I am glad, because there is nothing hidden anymore between us or others. Let them think what they will. You are mine.” 

~~

“One fucking catastrophe after another,” Maekar grumbled into his ale. His men were in similar spirits around him after a hard day’s work. 

There had been a riot in the square before the Sept of Baelor because people were frightened. They were frightened because news had reached the city that morning that Daemon Blackfyre had taken Casterly Rock. Not just the city, but the great Seat of the West itself. He held Lord Daemon Lannister as a political prisoner. 

So it was difficult for Maekar to fully blame the small folk for their frenzy. Fuck it, he felt the frenzy, that horrible anxiety driving his heartbeat at every moment as it became ever more clear that this was a full-fledged, rule-threatening rebellion. Casterly Rock. It was fucking preposterous. 

“When will the king send you out?” Brave Dick asked him. They were at some seedier joint on Rhaenys’ Hill, so that the other men might partake in the escapes of the flesh. What Maekar would not give for an uninterrupted night with Dyanna, but he knew he would only be frustrated and tense. She did not need more of that. 

“Send me out?” Maekar shook his head bitterly. “Baelor is out, and that is more than he can handle.” 

That was not the right thing to say. The ale was going to his head, and the sounds of merriment around him seemed hysterical. Mania had overtaken them all as the threats of the Pretender crept closer. 

While the rallied forces of the west were being sent to attempt a recapture of Lannisport, Baelor was deep in the thick of the naval battle for the Sea of Dorne. They had not received mail from him in ages. Maekar hoped that at the very least his older brother had gotten word of the recent birth of his son. 

“He will need to send someone notable now that the Black Dragon has taken the west,” Gyles Drake said. 

Maekar bit his tongue like a good son and downed the rest of his drink. He dropped a satchel of gold dragons on the table as he rose. “Make sure this lot doesn’t cause me more trouble.” 

A woman for hire came up to him as he brushed through the crowd, skating her hands presumptuously over his chest. “You look in need of some release, My Prince.” 

“Release from this establishment, yes.” Maekar swatted her away. 

The streets of King’s Landing were all aglow with activity. He had not taken his horse, so was forced to meander back toward the palace. He took the safer roads so he would not be made to become involved in some silly fight or petty crime. His people gave him a wide berth. That was perhaps not a good sign. 

Maekar knew he was going to be sent into this war eventually, so why was his father doing him the disservice of making him sit on his heels? It had cast a pall over everything, including his relationship with Dyanna. He could not look her properly in the eye when they both knew he might be sent off any day. He wanted to go now so he might open the wound quickly for both of them rather than drag out this ordeal. 

It was not as if the king could send out Aerys or Rhaegel. Baelor was doing Seven knew what in the Sea of Dorne. The forces of the west could not retake Casterly Rock themselves, even with Lucan Baratheon’s army giving aid. Maekar was not permitted inside the war council, but every day he had to restrain himself from marching up there and giving them a piece of his mind. 

It was not too late, yet. Perhaps Dyanna would be awake. Maekar wanted to rest his head in her lap and let his eyes fall shut as she combed through his hair. He wanted to feel the weight of her on his chest. 

Alas, their apartments in Maegor’s were dark with sleep. The only sound in the bedroom was the soft sound of Dyanna’s snores and the last crackling remnants of the hearth. Maekar stripped out of his heavy ensemble as quietly as he could. By the time he was finished, his eyes had adjusted to the gloom. 

His wife was on her side, one arm stretched across the spot where he usually lay out of habit. It had been ages since they had been allowed to fall asleep together. She was so lovely. She was so much a part of him now that sometimes it was easy for Maekar to forget that she had not always been in his life. That their meeting was some kind of miracle, a blessing from the Seven. That wanting her had once felt like a novelty, and that she had for some reason looked at him and never looked away. Maekar reached out a hand to brush through her long curls splayed across the pillow. 

A faint sound of sniffling made his fingers freeze in midair and withdraw. He listened for a moment, and the sniffling turned to muffled hiccups. Maekar reached for his bedrobe. 

He found his elder son sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest in the hallway. He was fumbling with something in the darkness. 

“Daeron?” 

There was a long pause. “Papa. I need help.” 

Maekar crouched and got the set of matches from Daeron’s trembling fingers. It took a few attempts, but eventually the candlestick blazed to life. The dull orange light revealed his son’s sticky, tear-stained cheeks and wide eyes. His hair was sticking up in every way, and his nightgown was all twisted. Perhaps in reaction to seeing his father’s face, Daeron began to cry again in earnest. 

Maekar stiffened only for a moment when his son flung himself at him for an embrace. He carefully adjusted himself so that he, too, was sitting along the wall. Daeron buried his face in his chest. Maekar knew this was because of a dream, but he could not bring himself to ask about it. Unfortunately, he did not need to. 

“All of the dragons are trying to eat me,” he croaked. “Valarr and Aerion love dragons, everyone loves dragons, but I don’t. Why won’t they just leave me alone?”

“Dragons are the symbol of our house. They are frightening for a reason,” Maekar whispered. He rubbed a hand down Daeron’s back. “We do not want to wake your mother.” 

“It eats Mama, too. And she’s bleeding, and I can’t help. I never tell her about that one. Or Grandfather. They only want to hear about the lion dreams. They wouldn’t like the others.” 

Maekar’s hand froze where it had tangled in Daeron’s fine hair. Several alarming pieces of information bombarded him at once. 

“What do you mean Grandfather?” 

Daeron wiped his nose on Maekar’s robe. “At breakfast. He always asks about my dreams.” 

“Breakfast with you and Valarr?” he asked. He knew about that, yes, but he’d forgotten all about it. An icy feel was beginning to wash through him. “Why would he be asking about your dreams?” 

“... I think he knows they come true.”

Maekar stared at his son. 

As far as he knew, it was only Dyanna and Bloodraven that also understood the true nature of Daeron’s dreams. Daeron should not know a thing. His father should not know a thing. 

“Dreams cannot come true,” he heard himself say stiffly. 

“But I dreamt that a dragon would come for Casterly Rock. And it did.” Daeron sat back up fully and wrapped his little arms around his legs. “Grandfather wanted to know about that.” 

Maekar felt woozy, lightheaded with the unfamiliar sensation of betrayal. He and Dyanna had agreed. No one else would know. 

“How long have you been dreaming these… “lion dreams”?” 

Daeron shrugged. “Few months.” 

Months. Dyanna had not said a thing, even after the assault on Lannisport began. 

“They are only dreams,” he said. “You are looking for patterns. Come, you must get back to bed.” 

Daeron was plainly too unsettled for sleep, but he relented to at least return to lying down. Maekar rotely pulled up the covers to his chin and patted his head. No doubt he would be up again soon, but he did not have the patience to soothe him fully. 

Maekar returned to the bedroom and stood on the threshold mutely. Dyanna was just as he had left her. He wanted to wake her and demand a thousand answers to a thousand questions. He wanted to scream and throw things. Vibrating with sudden fury, Maekar instead tore himself away. 

In nothing but his robe, Maekar stormed through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast. He did not much dwell on his destination other than the fact that he was going there. 

“I must speak with my father,” he all but growled at Ser Gwayne Corbray. 

“The hour is late, My Prince,” the Captain said. “The king may very well be asleep.” 

“You and I both know that isn’t true. The man never sleeps. Let me the fuck in.” 

The door behind the White Cloak creaked open, and King Daeron poked his head out. 

“Maekar. I thought I heard you. Have you lost your shoes?” His words were light, but his expression was grim. Maekar shouldered past both of the men in his path and into the royal suite. “What has happened, my boy?” 

“Shut the door,” Maekar demanded. He would not speak until he was certain they were alone. He quickly crossed the solar to shut the inner portal towards the bedroom where his mother surely rested. By the time he turned back, the solar was shut, and his father was frowning at him. “My son is hardly six years old and he does not understand what he sees, how dare you use him as intelligence in this fucking war!” 

His father’s face cycled through a complex series of emotions far too quickly for Maekar to decipher. But he knew he spotted shock, and saw the gentle fatherly facade fade away in favor of The King. 

“Do not curse at me,” he said. “We are going to sit and discuss this.” 

“No, I am not going to sit. My wife and I made an agreement to protect our son from precisely this kind of situation — an agreement she has apparently violated — and you think it is appropriate to go behind my back? This is my own private family matter.” 

“Daeron has a gift. Your wife came to me begging for aid.” 

“So you say no! So you say, have you agreed about this with Maekar? So you think for longer than two seconds about whatever benefit scattered prophetic information from a child might give you and consider that this is your grandson, not a fucking compass!” 

At that moment the door to the bedroom opened again to reveal his mother. She squinted at them both, bleary-eyed and clearly just coming out of sleep. 

“What in the world are you yelling about?” she asked. 

“Did you know, too?” Maekar demanded. He was beyond the ability to censor himself. “I am sure you did. You two tell each other everything. So tell me, Father — Say this was Baelor. Say that Mother had gone behind your back to discuss a private matter concerning Baelor with Aegon the Unworthy. Would you find that acceptable?” 

“Stop.” King Daeron did not truly raise his voice, but his eyes blazed. “That analogy is insultingly simplistic. I understand you have been blindsided. But I am shocked, truly, that you did not come to me regarding Daeron as soon as you realized. A dreamer. I would have helped.” 

“Oh, as you are helping now?” 

“This is not a burden for you or your wife to bear alone. I understand why she felt she had no choice but to come to me given the current conflict. Your son could save thousands.” 

“Both of you stop talking,” Myriah said. Her arms crossed tight to her chest, she entered the room fully so that they stood in a loose triangle. “What has happened with your Daeron, Maekar? Why are you so angry?” 

“Ask the king,” Maekar said. He wanted to hear how his father would spin it. 

Did she truly not know? He had spent so long dreading the day his mother would find out about his son’s condition, and now that it was here, an awful sense of vindication within him wanted to see what she would do. 

His father was silent for many moments, no doubt finding just the right words. Finally, he cleared his throat and looked to his wife. 

“You will recall that Dyanna came to me shortly after the war began with some sense of urgency,” he said. Maekar’s heart sped again. Some part of him had still refused to believe that his wife betrayed him. “She confided in me that her son’s dreams come true. Although her heart was heavy, she knew that Daeron’s abilities could prove to be of paramount importance to the security of the realm. I have been breaking fast with our grandsons once a week for this purpose, to ask gentle questions that no child would find frightening. Daeron is a dreamer, Myriah, like Daenys who saw the Doom. He knew of Casterly Rock months ago.” 

Maekar watched his mother’s face become more and more twisted. 

“What?” She made a sound between a sigh and a scoff and briefly turned away. “You must not believe every whiff of magic that comes your way. Little Daeron is practically a babe. This is not…” 

“It is true,” Maekar forced himself to speak. “My son sees ripples of the future before they pass over the rest of us. It is a curse, and one we have tried to keep from him. Now he knows, thanks to you. Thanks to Dyanna. He is scared enough!” 

Father shook his head. “I would do anything to protect my grandson, but I am also the protector of millions. He has the power to help them.” 

“How, exactly? So he knew what would happen in the west, but whatever vague signs he reported months ago were useless to help you prevent the attack. His dreams bring nothing but misfortune.” 

“Maekar.” His mother held up a hand. He had rarely seen her at a loss, desperately trying to catch up. “Slow down.” 

“You do not have the right!” Maekar could not contain himself. His father looked away. “You do not have the right to use my son for your purposes behind my back. He is not another Bloodraven, and he is never going to be. You must allow him to be a child. I demand it.” 

“I have never wished otherwise,” his father said. “But I will not pretend that his gift does not exist merely because it upsets you.” 

“Daeron,” Myriah spoke with harsh certainty. “Maekar must be consulted regarding his son. Can we all agree on that much, at least?” 

She was taking his side. 

Maekar blinked rapidly at his mother. He did not think, in the course of his entire life, that she had ever taken his side against another family member. Even with mere seconds to process all that had taken place, her gut reaction was to defend him. 

The wind was taken out of his sails in an instant. 

He became hyper-aware of the fact that he had stormed into his parents' quarters, shouted at his kingly father, and was wearing nothing but his robe. He would not be taken seriously like this. 

“I must act for the good of the realm,” his father said. It was his only reply. No apologies, no concessions. Myriah tsked. 

“And I must act for the good of my son.” 

With that, Maekar stormed from the apartments. He heard his mother calling after him. He was still thrumming with feeling — would she still take his side once the news had settled within her? Would someone in this blasted family choose to respect him? He could not bear to stay in that room, with his father who would not budge, and find out. 

When Maekar returned to his bedroom, he stared again at Dyanna’s sleeping form for many long moments. He grabbed an extra pillow and went to sleep on the couch. 

~~

[arrahanta]

I’ve wanted to draw Maekar and Dyanna for a long time. I'm getting incredible vibes between them

[baeibby]

Glad child

[missgardenrose]

Breath of Life | The Blackfyre Rebellion | Part Five

From The Wall to Drone, one thing is clear: the entire realm is about to go up in flames.

As Prince Maekar Targaryen takes his first command and Princess Dyanna Dayne struggles to protect her children from a realm unraveling before them, brothers become enemies, bastards become legends, and history marches inexorably toward Redgrass Field.

The only thing that can tear down the House of the Dragon is itself.

Words: 6.2k

AO3 | Masterlist | Previous | Next

CW: Violence

Daeron dragged his hotcakes through the syrup on his plate. It was raining, a cold pitter-patter against the windows of Grandfather’s solar. Valarr kicked their feet together under the table. Daeron had never eaten breakfast here before. 

“I thought it was high time I carve out a routine to get to know my eldest grandchildren. I actually find that the insights of children can be paramount,” the king said. Mama was here too, but she was quiet. “Valarr, your father let me know that your swordsmanship is coming along splendidly.” 

Daeron did not have an easy time keeping track of conversations. No matter what he did, his mind wandered. He knew that this was important. This was the king. Septa Eustace said he needed to learn how to pay attention. The voices just melted over his head. 

Instead, he could not help but focus on the patterns in Mama’s skirts or the way steam curled up from the pot of tea. His mind drifted to his pillow fight with Aerion, and Papa’s golden cloak, and the way ravens flew through the sky above the Red Keep. Uncle Baelor was gone. He had left several weeks ago, and it was all any of the grownups wanted to talk about. Daeron didn’t know where he went, but it wasn’t good. 

“Daeron?” Mama settled a hand on his wrist. “Your grandfather asked you a question.” 

“Sorry.” Daeron fidgeted. 

“That is alright,” the king said. Daeron liked his grandfather. He never raised his voice. “I asked if you have had any interesting dreams as of late. Your mother mentioned your impressive imagination to me.” 

Daeron thought hard. Sometimes he didn’t remember his dreams, and those were the good nights. Usually he had bad nights. Mama always asked about his dreams, too. He liked telling her about them, so that less was stuck in his head, but she also told him not to tell anyone else. Sometimes he told Valarr anyway, but Mama didn’t know that. 

“Yes,” he admitted, because Mama nodded. “The one about the lions. I’m in a lion’s cave.” 

“That must be frightening,” the king said. “I myself have never seen a lion.” 

“It’s not frightening,” Daeron said. “The lion is scared, but I’m not.” 

“Why would a lion be scared?” Valarr asked. “Lions are big and mean. Your dreams are always funny.” 

“Because I’m going to kill it.” Mama was frowning, and so was the king. Had he done something wrong? “Sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize, darling,” Mama said quickly. “But that is … interesting. How could you kill a lion? You are very small.” 

He shrugged. “I dunno.” 

In his dreams, the lion pawed at him, but could not roar. It shied back with every forward step Daeron took, until even the cave itself was Daeron’s. When light hit the beast, Daeron realized it had been very small all along. 

“Well,” Grandfather said with a small smile. “Thank you for telling me, Daeron. I often dream I can fly. The inner mind is such an interesting thing.” 

It was a good thing that they did not ask about his other dreams. The worse ones. 

Sometimes when Daeron woke up, he could still taste the blood. 

When they were finished eating, Mama walked them both back to Septa Eustace herself. He did not want to go to Septa Eustace. At least she held each of their hands. Daeron’s felt sticky from syrup. 

“Yanna?” Valarr asked. 

“Yes, dear?” 

“Mother told me I must be on my best behavior for the king, but he did not seem so scary.” 

“Even kings are just people, too,” Mama said. “But your grandfather is also a great person. He wants to know you as you grow into fine young princes.” 

“But why did he want my dreams?” Daeron asked. “You said no one wants my dreams.” 

Mama stopped walking and crouched down between them. Valarr was frowning. 

“Daeron, listen to me,” she said. Daeron met her eyes. They were his favorite color. “Sometimes people can become confused when they hear the extent of our big imaginations. Or scared. But sometimes… our imaginations can be a gift. Your grandfather knows you have a gift.” 

But Daeron just shook his head. “No I don’t. Gifts are supposed to make you happy. My dreams are only ever bad.” 

~~

Looking out across the great lawn, it was difficult for Baelor to feel that he had not destroyed Summerhall. 

Their idyllic country escape had been turned over the course of only a few nights into a fully operational war camp. Hundreds of tents had turned the grass to mud, and every day another tree was taken down for wood. The movements of cooking fires and supply wagons caught his attention, overlaid with the constant sounds of soldiers drilling and the smithy at work. 

A massive mahogany table had been dragged down into the ballroom, which was normally packed with officers. Loose papers stuck with dirty footprints to the marble floor. A cool, damp breeze blew in from the massive glass doors that led out to what had been the gardens. He could recall, not long ago, standing in this very spot to watch Valarr run around chasing butterflies. 

Baelor turned away from his maps with a rough shake of his head and went to continue his patrol. 

By far the most frustrating piece of commanding an army was learning how very slowly armies moved. It had taken days to mobilize the 1,500 men he took from Dragonstone and to put them on ships. More days to sail to and land at Griffin’s Roost, then to parlay with Lord Connington. More days still to march overland to Summerhall, and to settle Summerhall itself. Even more days for 3,000 men from Storm’s End to arrive and another 900 from Blackhaven. 

“Latest supply reports, Your Grace,” Edric Rosby caught up to him in the long gallery, which had been turned into a makeshift medical unit. There were no injuries yet besides standard camp errors, but there would be soon. 

“Let me see.” 

Edric, the Seneschal of Dragonstone, could not have been a more welcome addition to his war council. The man was organized to a fault, and Baelor would not hesitate to admit he was his closest friend. His wife Mya was also one of Aegon IV’s bastards, and the couple’s staunch loyalty to the crown was a powerful symbol. 

“May I suggest we use the money that the crown has in abundance to offset the upsets we are causing by purchasing local livestock at standard price en masse?” 

“This army has its own budget.” 

“Yes, but we will need every penny. Let it come from the king. May I write to the Master of Coin?” 

“Make it happen.” Ed peeled off with a nod. 

Baelor made a point to be seen around camp by senior officers and infantry alike. He could have had his advisors bring him reports in the ballroom, but there was merit, he thought, in being involved in every aspect of his campaign. He wanted these men to respect him by knowing him. 

He went to the makeshift training yard to watch Ser Davith Merryweather of the Kingsguard lead men through their forms. Baelor’s father had insisted he take at least one white cloak, not only as protection but as an advisor. Merryweather was also from the region. 

“My Prince,” a wizened voice called. Baelor turned from his spot to see Maester Gaunt approaching. He bore a sealed scroll in his hands. “You asked to receive messages from your wife instantly. This came just now.” 

“My thanks.” Baelor took the paper but would not open it in view of others. He tucked it inside his jacket, near his heart. “Have you received a response from Lord Ashford?” 

“None yet.” 

That was odd, indeed. Ashford Castle sat almost directly in between Summerhall and Cider Hall. Their scouts had reported the castle locked down, and the town shuttered. Daemon had seemingly not bothered the place, but if they also refused to answer missives from the crown, it was not a good omen for aid or popularity. 

“Shall I write again, Your Grace?” Gaunt asked. 

“No. Send a rider with my standard,” Baelor said. 

“Blackfyre’s scouts will surely see.” 

“My uncle knows that we are here and what we intend to do, I am sure. Let him react how he will. I intend to parley with Lord Ashford one way or another.” 

“I will see it done.” 

Baelor turned his attention back to the soldiers. Ser Merryweather had given them a short pause to drink water and refasten their straps. He could feel the soldiers’ attention on him. It was not judgment or awe, but pure and simple curiosity he saw in their eyes. He could fulfill that need. 

Baelor undid the clasp of his cloak and draped it over the back of a stone bench. He was dressed in leathers anyway. 

“Good Ser,” he said as he approached the senior knight. “How do our men fare?” 

“Your Grace.” Ser Merryweather bowed. He was just slightly younger than Baelor’s father, and boasted a magnificent head of thick dark hair and similarly impressive mustache. “Your men are in fine form. Though I will say that the regiments from Dragonstone lead an excellent example.” 

“I am glad to hear that. We will need fine form in the fight ahead. You and I especially. Trade blows with me.” 

Merryweather did not hesitate. He was a wise knight, and caught on immediately that Baelor meant to put on a show for the men. What kind of commander would he be if he did not train with them? Work with them? 

The spar was quick and refreshingly inelegant. No courtly sword flourishes, just cuts and jabs of steel. Baelor relished the feel of his muscles working and the pound of blood rushing in his ears. Merryweather was an excellent partner. He did not give an easy win, but conceded gratefully with Baelor’s sword pointed at his gorget. 

“Well fought, Ser,” he said. “Anyone else?” 

The men were not slow to take up his challenge. Old and young, they met him in the circle of dirt that had been formed by watching bodies. Baelor was nothing if not a fair fighter, and he walked a fine line of not humiliating younger men who were far beneath his level of skill without conceding his own strength. As the soldiers became more comfortable, they hooted and yelled out encouragement. The only person who managed to hit him was a grizzled marcher veteran, but Baelor only smiled and said again. Every single man he fought, Baelor shook hands with and thanked. He only stopped when the air began to mist and drizzle. 

He wondered whether Daemon trained his own men. Perhaps, but somehow he thought not. 

Baelor knew he must change out of his mud- and dirt-stained clothes. He made his way back to the family wing of the palace, where all of the furniture was still covered in white tarps. The rooms were kept locked. He had considered loaning them to his senior officers, but they had guest rooms for that, and something about it felt wrong. 

So the only room in use was the suite he shared with Jena when they came here. Most of the castle’s valuables had been put inside in a pile of chests near the hearth. Some serving man had been kind and lit it. Baelor stripped off his wet boots and socks and put them near the flames to dry. He sat on the colorfully printed silk sofa, no doubt staining the poor thing irreparably, and took out his wife’s letter. 

It smelled like her. She must have doused it in her perfume. Baelor let his eyes fall closed as he imagined her near. He opened it with incredible delicacy. 

Dearest Baelor, 

I thought it might be quiet without you here, but the Red Keep has never seemed louder. I have foregone my confinement as much as I can manage. It comforts the other ladies to see me. I have been spending my hours with your mother, and visited many orphanages around the city to lend aid myself. You will be pleased to know that I have received word from my aunt, Lady Swann, and her lord husband. They mean to send as many men as they can to Summerhall — though I am sure you have heard this by now. At the Queen’s encouragement, I have also written to my grandfather, Lord Tully. Nothing of importance yet, but it is good to establish a rapport should things ever escalate in the Riverlands. 

Is Roland truly there with you? I knew that my father would send Manfred to you, and suspected he would keep Burton close, but Roland? I suppose he is a man grown, but he still seems a boy to me. I have not seen him in so long. I know it is the nature of these things, but please do your best to look out for him. Maekar has actually asked after him, as well. His best ever squire, he said. 

You will be pleased to know that your father has taken an interest in spending additional time with Valarr and young Daeron. It surprised me greatly, given the state of things, but I imagine he is feeling sentimental. Valarr’s excitement over this has proved a good distraction for your absence, though he misses you so. 

As I miss you so. I will not write you a waxing lament, but know that every step I take I am imagining you here with me. In this way, you lend me support from afar. Please take solace in knowing that I am well and the babe is well. I am being kicked all of the time. Do you still favor the names we discussed? I know we spoke of this at length, but I want your triple confirmation. 

It feels flimsy to give you my best of luck as you begin your campaign, but I must give it to you anyway. May my love protect you, and your own fine heart. 

Your Jen

Baelor was smiling by the time he finished the note, despite all. Jena had even included one of her small drawings of Valarr attached by her signature. He examined every perfect pen stroke. 

What he would not give to be spending the most ordinary of days with his family. 

Three nights later, they were marching. 

A long trunk of men crawling along the Cockleswhent riverbanks towards the Mander. Baelor had taken three quarters of the men assembled at Summerhall and left the remaining garrison to guard the palace from intruders. Every town they passed along the way was a wreck. The traveling stragglers they passed all had the same story to tell: Bittersteel’s band of sellswords were setting the world afire wherever they went. Corpses littered the roadways. His people. 

And according to the scouts they sent in waves up ahead, Daemon was biding his sweet time in Cider Hall, patiently waiting for their approach. It made Baelor uneasy. 

“He has a large host,” Manfred Dondarrion said in his commander’s tent on the fourth day of their journey. They were just near Ashford Castle, and had summoned Lord Ashford to them to no avail. Every attempt Baelor had made to reach the man had proved futile. “He may expect to defeat you even in such a penetrable castle.” 

Jena’s oldest brother was not a seasoned warrior or leader by any means, but he was the senior officer of the host Lord Dondarrion had provided. Baelor did his best to show the young man respect, but it was difficult when he said such obvious things with such self-confidence. He was joined by Roland Dondarrion, who was wise enough to watch and learn more than speak. 

The group of men around Baelor was lit by flickering torchlight. The sounds of an active camp surrounded them outside. His scribe and cupbearer, Virgil, was busy setting up all of the wooden pieces on the map of the Reach spread out before them. 

“According to all of our scouts, we have the numerical advantage by over a thousand,” said Ser Lucan Baratheon. He was a second son, and brother to the current Lord of Storm’s End. With him was his young, eager nephew Lyonel, who would someday be Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. 

“Which is why we should storm the gates. Make an example of that Blackfyre Bastard,” Lyonel said. 

“There are barely any gates to storm.” Ser Merryweather pointed to the carved apple figurine on the map. “Cider Hall is an agricultural estate. Its largest defense is its moat. Daemon won’t let himself be trapped inside or under siege. I expect his army to be spread out along the countryside for a fight.” 

“Heavy rains mean that all of these downhill orchards will be flooded. On top of that, the banks of the two rivers Cider Hall sits on will be swollen,” Ed Rosby pointed out. “They will have had to concentrate in this acreage. We do not want to be wading through muck, but we must position some men in the mire so that Daemon’s forces do not have a clear path of escape.” 

“What of Aegor Rivers?” Baelor asked. “He does not lead these village raids himself, but must order them. I will not have these bands of sellswords sneaking up on us in the night. Is he still at Whitegrove?” 

“According to every source, yes.” 

The flap of the large tent ruffled open abruptly, and an out-of-breath messenger dropped into a hasty bow. “Your Grace. A letter from Lord Tyrell.” 

Baelor tore it open as soon as it hit his palm, and bade the boy thanks. His eyes scanned the words hungrily. Well, this was fair news indeed. He passed the parchment off to Ser Merryweather. 

“Tyrell has retaken Dustonbury,” he announced. His men nodded in appreciation. “He reports few losses, and he managed to take several officers prisoner to await justice. House Tarly was instrumental in the success. However, there has been no sign of Quentyn Ball.” 

“Could he be at Cider Hall?” Manfred asked. It was a good question. 

“That depends on how important Cider Hall is to Daemon,” Baelor said. “No, I suspect Ball has moved to Starpike, Whitegrove, or his own seat. Back to the issue at hand — I mean for our forces to surround Cider Hall completely. It may spread us thin, but we can trap them without laying siege to the castle. To do so, we must occupy every nearby road and secure the river crossings. Daemon has burned the smallfolk and waits for us in plain sight. I believe he means to invite me into hasty provocation, which I will not give him.” 

“That is wise,” Lucan Baratheon said. “But I must add that Bittersteel’s forces at Whitegrove could ride up to attack our flank at any time.” 

Ser Merryweather shook his head. “In that case, there will still be a river between them and us. And Aegor cannot abandon Whitegrove if Dustonbury has fallen.” 

“Alright. Then we break into four divisions. North, South, East, West. If it please Your Grace, allow House Baratheon to go ahead and secure the Westmost front. The largest boon of Cider Hall is waterway access. If I take that away, perhaps Blackfyre will retreat before you even arrive.” 

“I find that unlikely, Ser, but I will grant your order. If you can take back the Mander crossing, we will have a better fight in store,” Baelor agreed. “But you must travel North to go West. Cross near Longtable.” 

“Understood, Your Grace.” 

Baelor called the meeting to an end not long after, and thanked his men as they trickled out. Somewhere, soldiers were singing shanties in the night. He rose from his seat with a sigh, and was surprised to see Roland Dondarrion hanging back. He had grown into a very fine young man. 

“Was there something else?” he asked. 

Roland’s attention was fixed on the map. He looked very much like Jena, more so than Manfred by far. Baelor longed for his wife’s wise counsel. 

“I am still thinking of Lord Ashford, Your Grace. The obvious assumption is that they have taken up Blackfyre’s cause, but I do not believe that to be true.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“Ashford is a fortified castle with a standing army — small, yes, but an army all the same. If they had pledged for Blackfyre, our scouts would have seen Ashford men on the move. On the other hand, if Blackfyre wanted to take Ashford by force, it would require a siege. We would know if he had done so. So if neither has happened, why the complete silence?” 

“Perhaps Lord Ashford is a craven,” Baelor said. “I have never met the man.” 

Roland frowned. “But he is well reputed in the region, and wealthy. He has only things to be gained by pledging support of the crown. And it is not as if he could say he was afraid of retaliation from Daemon’s nearby forces. Our forces are also nearby to lend support.” 

“You have read my thoughts, Roland, but where are you going with this?” Baelor was not trying to be blunt, but he needed to get a head start on the precious few hours of sleep he was going to get tonight. 

“What if Lord Ashford is not craven, but afraid?” 

“What is the distinction?” 

“Threats, blackmail, that sort of thing. My apologies if I am only speaking off the cuff, but I cannot help but think that maybe Blackfyre has taken Ashford in some more subtle way, for some other purpose. Just a thought, Your Grace.” Roland bowed. 

“Thank you,” Baelor said warily, and watched the boy depart. 

He had a point — several points, in fact. But what could Baelor do with such incomplete intelligence? Even if Ashford sent their entire army to attack their flank once they surrounded Cider Hall, it would barely make a dent in his own forces. 

As they crept closer to Cider Hall, chaos crept closer to them. 

Every night near the hour of the wolf, the fringes of their camp were attacked by night raids. The perpetrators were Aegor’s sellswords. They came in unpredictable waves to kill horses, burn supplies, and shoot at sentries. On their daily marches, they were met with brief sorties from Daemon’s men and arrows shot from the treeline. No substantial losses were felt among Baelor’s men. 

“It’s like fighting gnats,” Manfred Dondarrion complained, swatting flies away from his own horse’s mane. 

It was like fighting gnats. Little annoyances to swat at, never anything to hit. It was an odd way for Daemon to conduct this battle. Baelor would expect him to consolidate his forces. 

“It’s some attempt at delay,” Ser Merryweather said when Baelor raised the point. He was inclined to agree, but the question was why? Why delay the first major confrontation of this conflict? 

Cider Hall itself was disappointing for all of the fanfare it had caused. When Baelor first laid eyes on it from a distance, he observed what was less a castle and more a squat manor house. The walls would be difficult to defend, and its greatest advantage was a shallow moat. There was an assortment of barns, storehouses, wineries, and large watermills, but it was small stuff. 

Still, Daemon’s inverted Targaryen banner flew high above it all. The apple orchards, thousands of trees, provided the perfect cover for Daemon’s army. Once down in the thick of it, it would be impossible to see more than fifty yards ahead. Heavy cavalry was useless in the muddy earth by the riverbanks, but that’s where the Baratheon host was lying in wait, having successfully retaken the Mander. 

From his higher vantage on a ridge, Baelor listened as Ser Merryweather pointed out at least ten groups of armed men he had been unable to immediately spot, hidden in clusters of greenery. Instead of one battle line, Daemon had turned the entire countryside into his defense. It still struck a bad chord for Baelor. This formation would only delay the inevitable of his own army retaking the castle. It was still a delay. 

Well, Baelor would not play cat and mouse. He let his army unfold like a massive net around Cider Hall’s grounds, joining men that had already taken major roads for them in advance. 

Instead of attacking outright, Daemon’s men retreated from the lines Baelor established. They seemed disturbingly content to cede ground. A no-man's land quickly formed, a barrier between two camps. His opponents had built barriers out of wagons and freshly cut apple trees. The air was sweet with rotting fruit. 

In his war tent, Baelor exchanged messages with his commanders stationed all across the map. Many were anxious to strike hard and fast. 

Instead, Baelor sent along terms of surrender. Generous terms. 

The messenger’s head was raised a few hours later staked to a flagpole. 

“If they really wanted to delay,” Ser Merryweather said. “They would march out the Fossoways and threaten their safety. Then this would become a hostage crisis. But Daemon cannot afford to do that. He wants the lords of Westeros to turn for him. I am sure the Fossoways are being treated very well in there.” 

With every advantage but feeling like he was missing something crucial and obvious, Baelor finally launched his assault. 

He led the van himself, armored in full plate. Cavalry was impossible in these woods. Every hedge concealed another score of men. Every bit of orchard had to be taken twice. The rebels melted away before any truly decisive blow could land, only to emerge somewhere else amongst the trees. They attacked and fell back and attacked again. In such low visibility, Baelor ordered his men to utilize horns to send signals and call for aid. 

He ended the day slick with gore and aching all over. His men set new defensive lines, ever closer to Cider Hall itself. The orchards were red all over, and his armor was saturated in apple pulp. The tendons of his sword arm ached. How many men had he killed today? 

“You are a gifted commander, Your Grace,” Ser Merryweather told him in his tent. The screams of wounded and dying men echoed across the landscape outside. Alongside that were his own men, singing taunts at their enemies who had been put on the defensive. Daemon would be idiotic to attack in the night from such a disadvantaged position. Daemon himself had not been seen fighting. They had also won the bulk of barns and wineries to use as their own refuge. 

“My thanks, Ser,” Baelor said. He was crouched over his blade, cleaning and honing it for tomorrow’s foul business. Every now and then, an apple fell from its bough and hit the ground outside his tent, and he fought not to flinch. “But this fight is too simple.” 

Daemon’s forces stopped dancing around the next morning and planted their feet at the two large mills that framed Cider Hall. 

The mills were the two largest crossings into the manor, spanning the moat that was fed by both the Mander and Cockleswhent. Each mill was attached to a bridge with its own covered mill house. They were the only way to bring infantry across in force. Even so, it would be a bloodbath. There would be no room to maneuver, only a brute force push through enemy forces who would be free to drop rocks on their heads and fire arrows from the upper balconies of the manor. 

Baelor divided his command. Manfred Dondarrion would force the eastern bridge while he himself took the western crossing. If one attack stalled, the other might yet break through. If both stalled, they would bleed together rather than feed men into a single slaughter. 

Dragonstone men formed the van beneath fluttered three-headed dragons, shields interlocked tightly. Long spears jutted over their shoulders in two ranks. Behind them waited Stormlanders with axes and swords. Baelor had scarcely given the signal to advance when hoofbeats thundered up behind him. 

“Your Grace!” a rider shouted. “The Baratheon line has been engaged. The rebels are striking the crossings along the Mander in force.” 

“They’re trying to divide us,” Ser Merryweather said at his side. Baelor looked once toward the distant smoke rising where the river bent. 

“No, hold your ground,” he decided. “We must finish what we came here to do.” 

Baelor watched his first ranks reach the bridge from his spot amongst the trees. Immediately, arrows and rocks rained down. Boiling water was thrown from the upper windows of the mill house. A wave of enemy soldiers met them in filthy fighting in the middle of the bridge. He watched his men not break but hesitate because there was nowhere to go but forward, but death was forward. The pause rippled backwards through hundreds of men. If the van lost its nerve, the assault was going to fail here and now. They needed something to make them brave. 

It was easy to make the decision when it came down to it. Baelor dismounted and reached for his helm and shield. He felt Merryweather at his back, a steady presence that would defend him against the worst of the throng. 

“With me!” he shouted as he crossed the threshold of the bridge, his men parting to let him through. 

It was a battle of endurance. 

Baelor was forced into a brutal, mechanical repetition of shield bash, stab, one step forward. He was crushed in a wave of men around him. Water churned black and red beneath the great wheel of the mill, which groaned beside them as arrows rattled from shields overhead. Men could neither sidestep nor retreat, and every fallen body was yet another obstacle to climb over. 

“The Prince!” His men shouted for him. “Dragonstone! Breakspear!” 

His front line surged alongside him when he reached it. Merryweather shielded him from the worst of the fire, and Baelor found men guarding his flank the second he came near them. His blood was a rush in his ears, everything narrowed down to the press of bodies around him. To taking just one more step. To living. Where Baelor went, his enemies died. 

“Breakspear! Breakspear!” 

First, his men took the mill house, throwing screaming soldiers from the upper windows and down into the marshy moat water to drown. The only remaining arrows now came from the manor itself. The mill had rattled to a stop as the water below became clogged with bodies. The noise was overwhelming. He had no way to tell how Manfred’s assault was faring. 

Baelor kept shoving forward. Was Daemon inside or had he gone to fight the Baratheon forces to attempt an escape? Could he tell that he was losing, that he had gambled on Cider Hall for nothing? 

The bridge had fallen. 

The rebels withdrew, slamming into the weak oak gates to the inner courtyard of Cider Hall. They were such a throng of bodies that they could not organize to get them open. Baelor used this to his advantage. He pressed them further with his own men, using the soldiers themselves as a siege engine. The door burst inward within a quarter of an hour. 

The fight continued inside the inner courtyard, but Daemon’s forces were quickly overwhelmed. Baelor redirected half of his men to circle back to the eastern mill or to approach the flank of the rebel force giving Lucan Baratheon trouble. 

By the time Baelor had fought his way all the way to the Great Hall, he was thrumming with feeling. He thought he might be able to fly just now if he only dared to try. 

With Merryweather at his side and a small battalion of men at his back, Baelor broke into the heart of the keep. 

There was no Daemon Blackfyre. 

The inner chamber was filled with hostages, and any remaining men left to guard them quickly fled. Baelor let them try — they would not get far in the mess outside. He took off his helm. 

“Lord Fossoway?” he called. 

A man of perhaps fifty rose unsteadily from amongst the crowd, both hands lifted in surrender. His clothes, once a rich green velvet embroidered with crimson apples, were stained with dirt. Beside him, a woman clutched two frightened girls to her skirts while a boy of perhaps twelve held a carving knife up. There must have been thirty souls crowded into the hall altogether. The group was made up of family, servants, and household knights stripped of their swords. Little children were weeping. 

Baelor slid his dripping sword into its scabbard. 

“... Prince Baelor?” Lord Fossoway asked, examining the sigil on his breastplate. 

“Yes. Is anyone wounded?” 

“My steward took an arrow.” 

“It will be looked at, I assure you,” Baelor said, approaching. The lord did not flinch away. “Your house is under the king’s protection once more. As we speak, the battle winds to a close. Rebel forces are fleeing, trying to cross the Mander. Where is Daemon the Pretender?” 

There was perfect silence for a moment. Lord Fossoway frowned. “I only saw him once, Your Grace, when he put us in captivity. All he said was that the realm would soon belong to him, and he wished its lords alive. He demanded we bend the knee, but I refused. He has not been here since.” 

He has not been here since. 

Baelor’s victory turned to ash in his mouth. For a moment, he floundered. 

“Then who commanded this place?” he demanded. 

“A son of House Peake.” 

Rage boiled up in him, but he could not let it out here. 

He has not been here. 

“Have guards posted, and send a maester to this hall. Give these fine people food and drink, but no one leaves or comes without my approval,” he ordered. “Lord Fossoway, I must finish this. Merryweather, with me.” 

It took the entire rest of the afternoon, into the evening when the sun had long set, for the rest of the fighting to completely die out. 

The full picture of the battle came to Baelor slowly. Baratheon forces had turned the Mander into a dam of rebel bodies, though a large portion of Daemon’s army had managed to escape toward Whitegrove. While Manfred Dondarrion’s assault of the eastern mill had been a failure, both brothers were alive, if injured. 

All of Cider Hall, from its manor to its waters to its orchards, was unnaturally quiet. No birds sang, no critters darted through the trees. Death was everywhere. Once the medics finished finding survivors, Baelor would have to send out pickers for valuable equipment, and then order the digging of massive graves. Baelor had won, but he had also done this. This blood was on his hands. 

He gave his soldiers a riotous feast even so, to let them simmer in the glow of victory. There was no decorum to it at all. No tables, no chairs, not enough cooks for so many people. Still, he could hear singing from where he sat in Lord Fossoway’s solar. It was entirely discordant with the mood in the room. 

His war council surrounded him, along with their unwilling host. Lord Lorne Fossoway seemed shell-shocked by the events that had taken place here, and Baelor did not blame him. Who would ever have expected such a battle would take place at Cider Hall? 

“Where is Daemon Blackfyre?” Baelor asked his men the moment they were all assembled. He had not changed out of his gore splattered armor. None of them had. Edric Rosby, who was not a warrior by any means, looked clean and out of place. Only Manfred was not present on account of an axe he’d taken to the leg. 

The men began to argue back and forth, lending counsel, but Baelor was sick of it. He had recaptured a castle and sacrificed thousands for seemingly nothing. It made sense now — the odd delays truly were delays, buying time while Daemon moved elsewhere. 

Baelor received a message halfway through the meeting from Lord Ashford of all people. He tore the letter open furiously. The man had better have a good excuse for his utter ineptitude. Baelor scowled as he read, his heart a stone in his chest. Seven above. 

“Blackfyre was at Ashford,” he said through grit teeth. His voice was hoarse from screaming orders all day. “He smuggled himself in under false pretenses and held Ashford’s wife at swordpoint to force refuge. Lord Ashford begs my mercy. He says the Pretender has left now, to do what he does not know.” 

Horrific silence descended. Baelor resisted the urge to bow his head and squeeze his eyes closed. 

“Ashford?” Lucan Baratheon was the first to break the silence. “Why on earth would he risk looking craven there, hiding out while his men died for him?” 

“He could not risk being captured here,” Merryweather offered. “Especially not if this was some kind of diversion. And forcing Lord Ashford’s hand gave Daemon the assurance that we would receive no quick reinforcements in this battle.” 

Diversion for what? For what? Baelor slammed the flat of his palm into the table, causing a few people to jolt. 

“Daemon was at Ashford yesterday. He cannot have gone far. Send out scouts. Send out ravens. Find him. You are dismissed.” 

But Baelor did not have to wonder for long. The very next morning, when he woke with every one of his bones aching, he was greeted by Ed Rosby’s long face at his door. 

“Your Grace,” his man said. “Quentyn Ball is marching towards Lannisport… And Daemon has joined him.” 

~~

[missgardenrose]

Cosmic Love (18+) | Maekar Targaryen x Dyanna Dayne | ONE

Maekar's name day was going so well until Daemon Blackfyre decided to ruin his good mood. Lucky for him, Dyanna has a plan to take her husband's mind back to a better place.

Words: 3.7k

Ao3 | Masterlist

CW: smut, fluff, lingerie, foreplay, porn with very little plot, pregnant sex

AN: If you've read my other work, this takes place directly after the events of Chapter 11 of It Will Come Back. I don't think you need to read that to understand this (other than that Dyanna is ~3 months pregnant). I thought since my current Blackfyre Rebellion story is so very serious, I would treat you to some smutty one-shots (yes there will be more). Shout out to @jaenaera for the wonderful brainstorm sesh we had.

The copious amount of wine that Maekar had consumed tonight had evaporated inside of him. As he stormed back toward the Great Hall of the Red Keep, he was suddenly appalled at the festivities being held in his name. 

Do you ever stop to think about the consequences of your actions? Baelor’s words ricocheted around his skull. Every new place they hit left a bruise. He wiped the sting from his eyes. 

What did Baelor expect him to do? Allow Daemon Blackfyre to threaten his heavily pregnant wife, their crown princess, without consequence? They were lucky that Jena was alright. When they had stumbled out onto the balcony and found Daemon gripping Jena’s arm, Maekar had simply seen red. He did not regret rushing at the bastard to defend his family. 

The pressure of Baelor’s forearm still stung on Maekar’s windpipe, and when he pressed at his neck he winced. For all of his effort, he had been thrown into a wall and admonished. Daemon was allowed to leave the party without ceremony. 

Do you ever stop to think about the consequences of your actions? 

Maekar shuffled back into the Great Hall. It was only minutes ago that he had been deliriously tipsy and glad. His name day celebration was still in full swing, oblivious to the political catastrophe that had just taken place; dancers turned to lively music, lords snacked on canapes, and his parents still sat at the high table observing all. 

Where had he left Dyanna? She had not wanted to stop dancing, and he had been uninterested in letting other men dance with her. Except someone had insisted on taking his place for decorum's sake. Maekar quickly spotted the offender. 

“Aerys,” Maekar barked. His brother turned from where he was deep in conversation with Ser Merryweather. “Where is my wife?” 

Aerys looked him up and down. “Well, you look green around the gills. I’m not sure if that’s better than tripping over yourself or not. What’s happened?” 

“Ask Baelor if you must. I want my wife, what did you do to her?” 

“She’s with her brother, you blind, besotted fool.” 

Maekar shoved roughly past Aerys, making his brother spill half his drink and curse. The crowd parted around him. He grabbed a glass of water from a passing servant and downed the entire thing in three gulps. 

He spotted Dyanna from afar and literally felt some of the tension slip from his shoulders. She was glowing in layers of purple silk, adorned with glittering diamonds. She grinned and laughed at something Altan said. When her eyes landed on him, pulled by that invisible string between them, her face somehow brightened ever further. 

“Sweetheart.” She held both arms out as he approached, and instantly found places to have her hands on him. She was warm and gorgeous and smelled of lilies. 

“I told Dyanna if she took one more turn around the dancefloor she would catch a dancing fever and never be able to stop,” Altan said. “It’s a real thing, you know. It happened in Myr. An entire town of people started dancing and didn’t stop until they all dropped dead.” 

Maekar ignored his good brother. “I want to leave.” 

“Leave your own celebration?” Altan raised a brow. “You northerners have no sense of propriety. Or perhaps it is just you, Prince.” 

Any other lady would have pointed out that Maekar’s mother would be cross, and their guests confused, and that people might talk. Instead, Dyanna took his hand. He could see in her eyes that she had recognized some poor shift in him. 

“My thoughts exactly,” she said. “Who wants to stay at a celebration where they are not even allowed to dance however much they like? This has gotten very boring.” 

Altan scoffed, but he was smiling. “And I’m sure you have an idea of a place that would be more exciting? You two are shameless.” 

“Goodbye, Altan,” Maekar said over his shoulder as he led his wife out of the nearest exit. He did not look back to check for his mother’s disapproval. He had dealt with disappointment from enough of his family today. 

“It’s a shame I don’t do well being told what to do, because my heels are bleeding, but why should I stop dancing with my husband, on his name day, just because some old stuffy fart thinks I should?” Dyanna giggled, still walking on air from the day’s excitement. 

Maekar’s head was privately reeling, but he wasn’t going to bring up his troubles where anyone could hear. Take that for thinking about the consequences of his actions. 

“I have a solution for your need to prove a point,” he said instead, and swept her off her feet. Dyanna yelped as he adjusted her weight in his arms to carry her fully. She wrapped her hands around his neck. “There. Dance as much as you like. I’ll always get you home.” 

He would never in a thousand years admit that he spent time in the training yard every morning lifting bushels of grain that were her approximate weight for precisely moments like this. The guards at Maegor’s were smiling at them as they passed the drawbridge. Maekar carried his wife all the way up to their apartment before setting her down on the bed. 

“What happened?” Was the first thing out of her mouth. Maekar sighed roughly and collapsed into a nearby chair facing the bed. He winced when Dyanna reached down to pry off her slippers, revealing silk saturated at the heel in blood. He went to stand and fetch the water basin, but she shook her head. “I’ve got it. Talk to me.” 

“I don’t know… I was getting drunk. Daemon Blackfyre was alone with Jena, and when Baelor and I arrived he had her in a grip and would not let go. I… charged him, and Baelor attacked me instead. He just let Daemon leave, and then admonished me.” Maekar shook his head. “I was defending his wife and unborn child!” 

“Is Jena alright?” 

“Yes, yes. Everyone’s alright. Except me, because Baelor fucking crushed my windpipe.” Maekar could not bring himself to mention the way his dagger had also scratched Baelor’s neck in the brief confusion. 

Dyanna frowned, padding over to him as she finished rinsing her shallow wounds. She tilted his chin up and gingerly inspected his throat. “Well, you aren’t bruised. I am sorry that happened.” 

“Do you think he gets sick of being so perfect all the time? Of never, ever messing up? Well, I am sorry, the rest of us mortals actually act on our feelings.” 

“If you had successfully attacked Daemon, I fear things would have ended in bloodshed beyond these walls…” Dyanna said, and then sighed when Maekar must have scowled. “My love, you are loyal, fierce, and you were extremely tipsy. I am certain that Baelor also regrets his conduct. Perhaps you can speak to him about it when you have both cooled down?” 

“No,” Maekar said immediately. Dyanna rolled her eyes. “I have no interest in being condescended to by my brother.” 

“I understand,” she said. She was standing in between his legs, and cupped his jaw in her hands. Her thumb stroked across his skin. “Are you still tipsy?” 

“What? No. Dyanna, I’m speaking seriously—” 

She held up a patient hand. “Do you want to keep talking about your brother?” 

“Not particularly,” Maekar said warily. 

“I am more than happy to discuss this with you,” she said. “But it is your name day, and I hate to see you so put out. I have loved to see you smile this entire afternoon.” 

“Mm. I suppose it is truly Daemon Blackfyre’s fault in the end. That fucking imbecile.” 

“That’s the spirit.” Dyanna smiled and bent down to peck him on the lips. When he went to reach for her waist she stepped back. “I had something planned… So would you rather keep talking about other men, or would you allow me to take your mind off it?” 

Maekar’s attention instantly narrowed down to her and only her. It was almost embarrassing how quickly every other thought fled him. 

“Yes,” he said. 

“Yes? It was not a yes or no question, darling.” 

He raised his chin. “Take my mind off it.” 

A coy smile took over his wife’s fair face as she approached him again, and then turned to show him her back. 

“My laces.” 

Maekar obeyed hastily, fingers tangling in the thread as he let it loose. He stood to help her out of her mantle, but she was away again, out of arm’s reach. 

“Dyanna,” he said. He wanted to feel every inch of her pressed up against him, to feel the silk slide from her skin. 

“Patience,” she actually laughed at him as she disappeared into her dressing room and shut the door. 

Maekar frowned at his sudden aloneness. The room felt colder without her near. When it became clear she would be a minute, he went to light a few additional candles. He also took the opportunity to do away with his boots, belt, and scabbard for his ceremonial dagger (the dagger that Baelor had tossed into the bushes, and he really ought to fetch). What could she possibly be doing? One of his great joys was helping her out of her fine clothes. 

“Patience is not one of my virtues,” he called. “I thought you knew this about me.” 

“Ahem.” 

Maekar turned and nearly fucking fell over. His mouth went dry and dropped open, and he forgot how to form words. Dyanna stood in the doorframe, one shoulder leaning casually against the wood. 

His wife had decided to try on a new outfit. It was made of transparent red silk, bits of lace, and silver chains. Scraps of nothing, really. It revealed every curve and soft, perfect expanse of skin. His eyes could not help but focus on the ever-so-slight bulge of pregnancy that made him feel as if he’d popped a blood vessel. He had never even imagined something so scandalous could exist. The most covered part of her was her calves, from her matching stockings held up with shiny ribbon. 

“Fuck me,” he said. She’d done this for him.

“Not yet,” Dyanna said, smirking. She took several steps toward him and Maekar nearly moaned aloud at the way she moved. The sway of her hips. He wanted to rip the cloth off of her with his teeth. “Pull that chair closer to the bed… That’s good. Now sit.” 

Maekar did, restraint hanging by a thread. Dyanna was the only person he had ever enjoyed being ordered around by. He had pulled the armchair within two feet of the mattress. Could one be killed by being so aroused? His pants felt tight already. She took her sweet time approaching him, and stood once more between his open legs. 

With hands that were practically shaking, Maekar skated his palms across her waist, then one up to her breast and the other to her hip. Her skin was soft and warm. He was bending forward to lick her when she pushed his head back. 

She was looking down at him, eyes heavy lidded and cheeks flushed. “You can’t unwrap me yet. You have to watch first.” 

“Watch?” His mouth was so dry he could not swallow. Had he hit his head in that skirmish? 

“Mhm.” Dyanna bit her lip and took a step back until her knees hit the edge of the bed. She sat delicately, one of her hands reaching up to squeeze her own breast. “I got this just for you. I’m going to make sure you enjoy it.” 

He saw a glint of something in her eyes, shyness despite all of her bravado. 

“I must be allowed to touch you,” he said. 

Dyanna smiled sweetly. “Not until I say so.” 

~~

Dyanna felt like the most powerful woman alive with her prince looking at her like this. His brow was furrowed, eyes filled with focus as they raked across her form. He was gripping the arm rests of his chair so tightly that the wood creaked. 

She had had this idea for some time; his name day, the expensive clothing from Braavos, the way she would not let him do what he wanted until he couldn’t stand it anymore. Some other man might have liked a wife who put themselves at their mercy as a “gift” — and Dyanna was very much looking forward to putting herself at his mercy soon — but she knew that Maekar liked a challenge. 

Since their recent marriage, it had been nearly impossible to keep their hands off of each other, so Dyanna was used to being completely exposed. This felt different. This was downright filthy. She could feel herself blushing as she slid a hand down her sternum, teasing the edge of the red silk panties. 

She heard him suck in a breath as he realized what she was going to do. As she moved her fingers down to the center of her thighs and began to gently, gently stroke where it felt best. Maekar hummed low in his throat, and when she looked up at him his eyes were full of provocation. He leaned back in his chair like he was settling in for a show. Oh fuck. 

He knew that she wanted him frothing at the mouth, and he wasn’t going to give it to her yet. She was going to have to work for it. 

Dyanna let her thighs fall open further as she touched herself, awakening her body to the sensation. She tweaked her own nipples through the thin fabric. The admiration in her husband’s eyes was animalistic and heady with intent. 

“Get undressed,” she said, and hardly recognized the dark register of her voice. 

Maekar obeyed her again without question, which made a bolt of want crash through her. She watched his long fingers work on the buttons of his tunic, then the laces of his pants. When he was bare he was good and sat again, shining gold in the candlelight. Gods, he was gorgeous. 

“Your turn,” he said. She would grant him that. She ever so slowly peeled off the red silk bottoms and then tossed them to him. A zing of embarrassment hit her as she watched him bury his nose in them, but it was not an unpleasant embarrassment. 

Dyanna dipped down into her gathering wetness and spread it across the folds of her skin. He let out a low groan. But when he reached down to stroke his erection, Dyanna withdrew her hands from herself entirely. 

“Did I say you could touch yourself, sweetheart?” She asked. The endearment fell from her lips, but made the question almost condescending in a way that made her simmer with lust. 

Maekar looked almost appalled and stunned at the effect she was having on him. “Dyanna.” 

“Tell me what to do instead.” 

“I thought you didn’t do well being told what to do?” 

“Then make me.” Her heart was hammering beneath her ribs, but she kept her body loose and her face coy. She half wanted him to just pounce at her. Her voice was shaking. “Make me do well.”

Maekar huffed out a sound that was almost a laugh, but helpless. She watched his lethal focus slot into place. She had given him a task and he would be damned if he did not rise to it. 

“Slide your hand back between your legs,” he said. “Lower. Mhm. Put two fingers inside yourself.” 

“Like this?” Dyanna teased around her entrance but did not obey. 

“Inside.” His pupils were blown so wide his eyes looked black. Dyanna did as she was told, pushing in, stretching and feeling her own warmth. It always felt best when he did this, but his undivided attention was almost as good. “In and out. Just like that. Gods, look how wet you are. Is that for me or for you?” 

“For you,” she sighed. 

“I can be generous. Put your fingers in your mouth.” Dyanna moved her other hand from her breast but he shook his head. Her heart was pounding in her chest. “Not those fingers. I want you to taste yourself.” 

Dyanna did him one better. She took her glistening wet fingers and licked them slowly before sucking them clean with a wet pop. Maekar hissed. He was so hard it looked painful, blushing all the way down to his chest. 

Without permission, Dyanna began to touch herself again. Faster circles that made her breath stutter and her legs squirm. The band of tension between them just stretched tighter and tighter. When was it going to snap? She was desperate for it to snap. 

“Maekar,” she moaned, just to torture him. 

“Going to make me beg for you, hm? On my own name day? Oh, I know that face, don’t you dare finish without me.” Maekar slid out of the chair and onto his knees. “Fine, I’ll fucking beg. Please.” 

He kissed her knee, her thigh, still keeping his hands to himself. Dyanna moaned at his slightest breath across her skin. She was getting closer with every flick of her fingers, but she wanted him to take her over the edge. Her husband, her prince, on his knees pleading. She could not say no. 

“Touch me,” Dyanna panted. 

Maekar descended on her, dragging her hips forward so suddenly she gasped. 

His tongue met her center with hot, greedy licks that sent the sensation in her gut snapping tighter. She pulled on his hair and he gripped her hips with bruising strength to keep them in place. He sucked and nipped at her and then her back was arching off the bed as she came with a sharp cry. 

He did not let her catch her breath even for a second. He crawled up her body and ripped the flimsy silk from her breasts. 

She moaned into the filthy kiss he gave her, and he growled in response as he tugged her up the bed so that they were not hanging half-off. His hands were rough and hot and everywhere all at once. In her hair, on her breasts, gripping her arse. 

“So fucking naughty,” he said between kisses to her throat. “Is this what you wanted?” 

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes. I want more. I want all of you. Please.” 

“Who’s begging now?” Maekar maneuvered both of her wrists above her head with one hand and held them there as he explored every curve of her body. 

His biceps, good Gods. But she didn’t want that, she wanted— her hips bucked involuntarily, and she hiked her thighs up around his waist. The only bit of cloth left on her were her stockings.

“I am. Take me.” 

“That’s better.” 

“I did say you could make me do well— Ah!” 

Maekar lined up their hips and seated himself inside of her in one thrust. He swore something in Valyrian as he began to move, and let the hands above her head go free. 

Dyanna gripped him for purchase. She could not control the moans that punched out of her on every exhale. The pressure of him inside of her, every slide, made pleasure ripple through her entire body. It was almost too much. 

“Do you see what you do to me?” Her husband pressed open-mouthed kisses to her cheek. “Gods, look at you.” 

She could not answer beyond a ragged groan. Not as he gripped one of her thighs and hiked it up over his shoulder. The sound of their skin slapping filled the bedchamber. The deeper angle had her legs shaking. Maekar undid the ribbon holding up her stocking with his teeth and tore the whole thing off. She had turned him nearly feral. 

He suddenly backed up only enough to flip her onto her stomach. Dyanna loved it when he maneuvered her just how he wanted. He did not bring her up onto all fours, instead draping his weight over her back as he entered her again. One hand kneaded her arse then came up to pinch her breast. 

All Dyanna managed to get out was a slurred bunch of syllables. Even she was not sure what she was trying to say. Every roll of his hips sent waves of warmth rolling through her, increasing by the second. When she tried to bury her head into the pillows to muffle her sounds, he guided her into a kiss instead. 

“My darling,” he groaned, and nipped at her cheek. His breath came in hot puffs across her skin. “My—” 

He cut off on a gasp. Dyanna managed to reach her arm back to hold his head close to hers as his hips stuttered. 

“Come for me,” she managed. “I want to feel you.” 

“Not before you.” 

He lifted her hips only enough to get a hand underneath her, stroking the wildly oversensitive skin between her legs. Dyanna keened, grabbing at the sheets. He did not let up. 

She was shaking all over, gasping. She had to squeeze her eyes shut. She felt her muscles flutter around him as he picked up the pace, and then she was crashing over the edge. It felt like a fall from a great height. She saw stars as her body went tight and slack. Felt him spill inside of her as he bit the back of her shoulder. She was nearly sobbing as he stuttered to a stop, all of her limbs tingly and numb. 

Their ragged breath filled the chamber. 

Maekar pressed his lips to the spot he’d bit, then to her cheek. She felt her lips twitch into a smile. 

“Alright?” His voice sounded wrecked. He brushed some hair behind her ear. 

“Mhm,” she hummed. But she still had no interest in moving as he eased out of her and went to fetch a towel. She stretched out only when he returned to clean her off. By the time Maekar collapsed back into bed beside her, Dyanna had returned somewhat to her body. “Happy name day.” 

Maekar laughed as he tugged her close, stroking his hands up and down her skin. She was happy to bury her face into the warm skin of his chest. She would sleep very well tonight.

“How did you even get such a thing?” 

“The ensemble? A lady must keep her secrets.” 

“Right,” he relented. He traced lazy circles up and down her spine. Dyanna pressed a kiss to his jaw. “Well, it is still not the best name day present I got today.” 

“No? Careful, I am easily offended,” she said. 

“No, Dyanna. My best present would have to be you.” 

~~

[missgardenrose]

Hey MSG

You have included name explanations for valarr and daeron in your fics and they both make sense

Dmhave you imagined why aerion is named that way ? It seems to have no marticular signification and its only homonym is aegon, visenya and rhaenys father. I guess unknown for most in the fandom, aerion brightflame has become the first one people think about. Was it because dyanna is actually a nerd about targaryen history and chose an old one ? Or because they couldn't find one with no bad predecesor (they chose aemon right after so it may not make sense)

Hi! That is a really good question, and tbh I hadn't really thought of it. I didn't know that was the conqueror's father's name, but that's probably it! Dyanna and Maekar took an extremely traditional approach to naming all of their children, especially their sons. I actually think that Maekar is sort of just uncreative and very by the book? Lol. He's like "yeah, it's a good name, a family name, done deal." I can imagine him going through a book of ancestors. I guess Dyanna also likes the classic Targ names.

[missgardenrose]

can you spill us some T in the topic of Rhaegel's and Alys' betrothal???

Yes!

I actually think that Alys Arryn was brought to the Red Keep to serve as one of Queen Myriah's ladies. Chapter two of "Caught" takes place in 194 AC, and Alys and Rhaegel are newlyweds, so let's say Alys arrives in KL in 193 AC. So she made an immediate positive impression on Myriah and Dyanna (also lady-in-waiting) . I think of Alys as very kind, compassionate, and creative. She is a social butterfly who can soothe any tense situation.

But I actually don't think they were set up! I have also portrayed Rhaegel as a social creature, and I think that he and Alys hit it off during some long walks in the garden. When Myriah learned of this, she was probably initially extremely protective/defensive, but after watching Alys with more scrutiny and seeing them both together, she realized that Alys' gentle nature complemented Rhaegel very well. And they were in love! I imagine the couple as extremely sweet and romantic with each other. House Arryn is also politically a fabulous attachment to make. King Daeron was thrilled to approve the match.

[missgardenrose]

Breath of Life | The Blackfyre Rebellion | Part Four

From The Wall to Drone, one thing is clear: the entire realm is about to go up in flames.

As Prince Maekar Targaryen takes his first command and Princess Dyanna Dayne struggles to protect her children from a realm unraveling before them, brothers become enemies, bastards become legends, and history marches inexorably toward Redgrass Field.

The only thing that can tear down the House of the Dragon is itself.

Words: 6k

AO3 | Masterlist | Previous | Next

Some fairy tales do come true, Rohanne thought as she looked down from the high table of the great hall of Starpike. She sat in the place of honor, on her husband’s left, Lord Gormon Peake on his right. 

The musicians in the high gallery played a jolly ditty called The Blackfyre King. As men and soldiers laughed at the long tables, serving wenches bore steaming platters of fresh food. Every few minutes, like clockwork, another hedge knight or peasant man came up to pay their respects to Daemon. Sometimes this was with their sword, or a promise of harvest bounty, or information. 

Your Grace, they called them both now. King Daemon, Queen Rohanne. 

They had even fashioned her a crown, a pretty obsidian circlet that matched the one on her husband’s fair brow. She watched torchlight flicker across it. 

Rohanne was used to being watched wherever she went. Even as a very young girl, she had captured the attention of all. She knew how to get what she wanted with a quirk of her lips or a swish of her hips. It was an asset, a weapon, nearly as deadly as the blade her husband so prized. It was one of the reasons she had been brought to Westeros at age ten to be paraded around on display to every high lord hoping to secure a prosperous trade agreement with her family. She had flowered so very early. 

It was King Aegon IV who had looked at her, however, and declared, “I would take her for myself if I did not have such a gaggle already. Perhaps I will gift her to my son.” 

Not his grandchildren of an age with her; Prince Baelor, or Aerys, or Rhaegel, or Maekar, but the king’s eldest bastard. At that time, Daemon had not even won his sword, and had made no name for himself. They were wed in the small sept of the Red Keep. The king personally took it upon himself to strip her of her clothing before sending her to her marriage bed. 

“Your wife is quite the beauty,” Lady Peake said, raising a glass of wine. 

“Yes, she does grow more radiant by the day.” Daemon smiled his showman’s smile. Lord and Lady Peake observed her with eyes like cattle herds. How much is this foreign beauty worth? 

Daemon had never once looked at her like that. He had refused to bed her that first night, cutting a spot on his own thigh to draw blood to fool the servants. Instead, he asked her questions, and spoke to her in a tongue she was still learning. They had lain side-by-side in that bed, not touching, for nearly four months before Rohanne so much as kissed him. 

Now, sometimes she forgot that she and Daemon were separate people at all. It was easy to become so wrapped up in someone, so fuzzy at the edges. As they grew taller, so did her knowing of him. His every anguish was her anguish, his every joy her joy. Every slight against him and his status was a bruise against her, and every insult to her nationality was a punch to his stomach. 

Queen Rohanne. King Daemon.

For a girl who had been sold and bought, it was a fairy tale, indeed. 

“Would you allow me to retire early?” she asked her husband, leaning close so that others would not hear. She was sure that the merriment would continue for hours and hours. She did not even have the patience to hold a single conversation. 

“Are you well?” Daemon’s violet eyes flickered down to the swell of her stomach. 

“I have never been happier.” 

Rohanne walked from the hall, flanked by guards she did not bother to learn the names of. She went as she pleased, in silence, until she found two great oak doors to exit. The cool night air hit her like a balm. 

The raised stone walkway she had stumbled upon overlooked the outer yard. As she went to stand between the merlons, Rohanne studied her kingdom. 

Starpike sat above a ragged hill, encircled by a great moat. The castle itself was an upraised fist of white stone surrounded by a double ring of defensive walls. Inside and out, soldiers had raised tents. Campfires glimmered all the way into the nearby forest. If she squinted, she could see the beacon of Whitegrove some many leagues away. To the west was where the open fighting lay.  

Aegor Rivers held Whitegrove and Fireball Dustonbury. That, along with Ballston, the seat of House Ball, gave them a long oval of territory that Lord Tyrell could not easily retake. Attempt to besiege one castle and risk your lines and flanks being overtaken by the garrisons at your back. 

It had been Rohanne’s idea — House Peake with their three castles and the Red Mountains guarding their back. Fireball took the credit to any lord who listened, but Daemon knew the truth. He knew that Rohanne was his first and only real friend in this world.

A constellation of fires below, a constellation of stars above. Once, she and Daemon had lain together, tangled naked in their sheets as he drew universes with his hands on the upper canopy. I will give you all of the stars in the sky, and a kingdom, too. My kingdom. 

He was drunk when he said that. 

Rohanne sighed and scratched the dirt from underneath her nails. This child inside of her was making her feel fat and nauseous. 

“Lady Ro,” an all too familiar voice interrupted her thoughts. She was startled to see Bittersteel approaching her. 

“You are supposed to be holding Whitegrove.” 

“I am.” He spread his arms wide as if it were obvious, and came to stand beside her. “But a man must run errands. I am here for Daemon once he finishes his mummer’s obligations.” 

“A king is no king without the love of his people,” Rohanne said tightly. It was of paramount importance that Daemon be seen holding court. 

“Or fear. But that is my job.” 

Aegor had been a blight on her, always, even in moments when they got along. He was the most loyal companion a man could hope to have, and extended that loyalty to her because she belonged to Daemon. He would kill for her, die for her, but she did not take comfort in that. He would say something oddly touching and then he’d turn around and slaughter an innocent. He was erratic and reckless and he had pushed Daemon into this rebellion. 

But so had she, so she could not very well complain now. 

Her husband had a gift, see, a strange magic. The world fell open wherever he walked. People stopped to look and listen. He could calm a crying child in an instant and make the birds sing for him. Money fell into his lap, lords bent over themselves to please him, armies jumped into his hands. How could Rohanne not imagine it was his destiny to be king? 

“You must make a move soon. Is that why you’ve come?” Rohanne asked. She jerked her chin out at the soldiers below. “How many of these men will you kill?” 

“They’ll shed their blood for you.” Aegor always spoke with a heavy scowl. He smiled sometimes for Daemon, but even that was a rare occurrence. “You know the funniest thing? Not a single village we ride through tries to shut us out. They greet us with open arms and purses and legs. They tell us how Tyrell has taken them through three terrible harvests — as if he can control the weather. Fucking idiots… Where have all your sweet smiles gone? Shouldn’t you be off flirting on my brother’s behalf? Has being queen gone to your head?” 

“Yes,” she gave him a coy smirk just to get him to shut up. Being queen may very well mean my head, and my husband’s head, and my children’s heads. 

Did she want it? Yes, because Daemon was the rightful and lawful heir of King Aegon IV, unlike his false brother Daeron. Because she would follow Daemon into the jaws of hell, if only because hell would find her anyway without him. 

“Go do something then. Don’t stand here and brood. The men won’t like it.” Aegor left her with those departing words. What a charming man. 

Rohanne forced herself to go visit the babies. While Aegon, Aemon, Calla, Daemon II, and Haegon were allowed to join the feast, the rest were too small. She found Aenys, Maegor, and Jahaerys in the nursery they had usurped from the Peake’s brood. 

Rohanne had been pregnant nearly every year since she was fourteen. She hoped the child inside of her now would be a girl, but a tiny part of her also wished that this new child did not exist at all. 

The nurses were teaching her youngest sons The Blackfyre King. Aenys clapped along. Rohanne could not watch, but she could not leave. She spooled inside of herself, very far away. 

Her thoughts drifted to the Sea of Dorne, where her brothers, uncles, and countrymen were fighting on her behalf. It was a suicidal mission. Tyrosh, for all its wealth, was a tiny island. But the Dirrin family had hired swords and ships all the way from the mainland of Essos. She had never met these people who fought for her husband's crown, but she knew from reports that the biggest ship was called Queen Rohanne, and that its mast was done in the likeness of herself. Stark naked. 

Rohanne realized she had been gone too long when she came back to find herself waving a little toy in Jahaerys’ face. The baby was crying as he reached for it. She had kept it away from him for too long, and the game was no longer amusing. She mumbled an apology and passed it back, avoiding the eyes of the nursemaids. 

That was her sign to retreat. She went to the master suite of the castle and allowed a mix of her own maids and those of House Peake to undress her and bathe her in hot honeyed water. The steam did not make her eyes heavy like it used to. 

The bed was large and lumpy, and she fussed for ages trying to get comfortable with her stomach. When was the last time she had slept on her belly or back? She could not remember. 

When Rohanne simply could not take it anymore, she finally ventured out of the bedroom and into the solar. She arrived just in time to see Daemon and Aegor shaking hands. The two of them stood before the hearth, plainly having finished sharing cups of mulled wine. 

“Lady Ro,” Aegor bowed as he slipped from the room. He nodded once more to Daemon, some secret passing between them. The heavy doors closed behind them. 

Daemon let out a sigh that made his shoulders droop, and Rohanne knew that she was safe again at last. No more performing. She came to his side and ran her hand down his arm. 

“What did he want? I thought he would be most needed at Whitegrove,” she said. 

Daemon took the crown from his brow and set it on the grand table. She thought he might embrace her, but he was too distracted to remember. 

“He is. I called him here for another pressing matter. I would like him to marry.” 

“Marry?” Rohanne nearly laughed. “It is hard to think of a less agreeable person than Aegor, and that is without him being obsessed with Shiera Seastar.” 

“Shiera is loyal to Daeron and Brynden Rivers,” Daemon said. His gaze was hard and focused on the flames. “Any entertainment she gave Aegor in childhood was for her own amusement. But between his public history with Shiera and these reports I am getting of his conduct at Whitegrove, he must wed. He cannot be seen as having mixed loyalties.” 

“I understand. Who did you have in mind?” 

Daemon’s depthless eyes returned to her. He took her hand. “He will wed Calla.” 

The words took a moment to hit her. The subject of them, the content of them, and the way they were said. A declaration, not a question. 

“He wants our Calla?” Rohanne asked, drawing her robe more tightly around herself as she took a step back. “She is eleven.” 

“It will be an engagement until she flowers,” Daemon charged ahead as if they were discussing the weather. “Binding one of my chief advisors to our house will solidify us. A united, legitimate front against my bastard brother and his false court of outsiders.” 

Calla was her only girl, a sweet and modest child who enjoyed ponies and singing. She had inherited her father’s coloring, making her look nearly Valyrian. In a way, Rohanne supposed, Calla even looked somewhat similar to Shiera Seastar. 

“Do not do this,” Rohanne said. She was feeling nauseous again. Aegor was a grown man and a brute. One of her husband’s eyebrows raised. 

“Do not? It is a fair deal and sacrifices must be made of us all if we are to win this.” He sighed and looked away, then back with a more gentle energy. “Ro… I am securing our kingdom. Your throne. Our children’s betrothals are one of our most powerful assets.” 

The worst part was that she could not fault his logic. But before he was King Daemon, her husband never would have even thought up a decision like this. They would have talked together for hours and hours, going over every contingency together. 

“She is eleven,” was all Rohanne could think to say in her own defense as tears welled in her eyes. If her words pained Daemon, he did a good job of hiding it.

Rohanne turned from her husband and toward the bedroom, unable to face him a second longer. A panic welled inside her chest, an intense claustrophobia. Part of her had the sudden and absurd urge to run, but she would not get far. 

They were surrounded, after all, by soldiers. And where would she even go? 

~~

The solar was a mess, but Jena could not fault herself for doing nothing to fix it. Stacks of letters sat piled in various states of regard across the table. A long-cooled pot of tea attracted gnats. Maps and scrolls and books were interspersed with ink splotches. 

Jena stretched out her own stained palms, pushing each finger back until it popped. Her handwriting was growing messy from overuse. Any more of this, and the men she was writing to would deem her unstable before they even read the content of her messages. 

She rolled out her neck and blinked the stars from her eyes as she went to fetch a towel. Even that was buried under debris. She nearly tripped over one of Valarr’s toy dragons. On a large map of the Reach they had pinned up over the hearth, Baelor had written his own thoughts to the notes she left: Good thought. Remind me tonight. 

They had not been accepting visitors here out of an abundance of caution. They either took meetings in the Queen’s Ballroom, the Tower of the Hand, or the Small Council room. Even King Daeron himself might laugh at the state of Baelor and Jena’s apartments. It revealed an amount of disarray and anxiety that none of the royal family could afford to reveal in public. 

With clean hands, Jena melted wax and sealed a dozen long letters. They might accomplish nothing at all, but she could not bear to sit powerless as the realm devolved into chaos around them. These past weeks, she watched Baelor wither, finding him in stolen moments when the council did not demand his pressing attention. There was not just fear in his eyes, but shame. This should not have happened, he said. 

But it had. Daemon Blackfyre had raised his banners against his sovereign, a bastard accusing a king of bastardry, using ire against Dorne to stir up calls for blood. Jena had been afraid for so long that it might come to this that now that it had, she was only furious. If she had the skill, she would pick up a sword. 

Jena had been still for too long, and the baby inside of her was awake, moving all about. She rubbed her stomach. She had spent years recovering from the mental trauma of her first pregnancy, but by the time they were blessed with a second babe, she had felt ready for one. Valarr was so excited for a little sister or brother. 

Nauseous again for reasons not at all to do with pregnancy, Jena stood with her letters and made for the door. She had to keep moving. 

Her sworn shield, Ser Selmy, accompanied her as she walked through Maegor’s Holdfast and into the broader Red Keep. He knew much better than to question why she was delivering letters herself instead of finding some maid to do it. He waited just outside the Maester’s Tower. 

“Is Grand Maester Aleryn here?” Jena asked one of the novice boys tending to an elderly nobleman with gout. The man tried to rise and bow for her, but she quickly settled him. 

“No, Your Grace, but Maester Colt is just behind those shelves. He can help you in the rookery.” The boy nodded to her letters. 

“My thanks.” 

She had hoped that the Grand Maester would not be in. She had never liked the man, on account of his disregard and judgment for the choices she made as a parent. For the entire time she breastfed Valarr herself, she had insisted she act as her son’s primary caretaker. Aleryn had repeatedly inserted himself into that decision. It was perhaps unfair that Jena hold this against the Grand Maester and let it influence her in distrusting him so, but she was allowed to be bitter about something. 

Jena did not bother with young Maester Cole. Hidden by view from the bookshelves, she ascended the steps to the rookery herself. 

The rookery was a tall pointed structure filled with hundreds of birds. They rattled and squawked in their cages, molting feathers and peppering the stones with white splotches. Every single cage was organized by castle and region. Through the narrow windows, nearly every tower but for the Tower of the Hand was dwarfed in comparison. 

“Ahem,” a low voice cleared itself. Jena turned from the archway she’d come out of to see none other than Brynden Rivers attaching some parchment to a bird’s leg. “My apologies, Princess; I did not wish to startle you.” 

So long for secrecy, though Jena supposed she must trust Bloodraven. He was the Master of Whispers  — and the youngest Master of Whispers in recent memory — for a reason. His sister Mya was also one of her dearest and greatest friends. She was grateful that her friendship with one of Aegon IV’s bastards had allowed her to look upon the rest without immediately assuming treasonous intentions. 

“I am surprised to see you here. I believed all of the small council was holed up,” she said. It was also odd to see him in the sunlight, though that would be rude to say. He was so very pale, and uncanny with those red eyes. 

“I should be,” he admitted. Brynden finished tying the twine and let the bird jump from his gloved hands and into the air. 

A huffing, puffing, stumbling sound made them both turn. Maester Cole came breathlessly to the top of the stairs. “Princess. I was told you were here. I apologize, did you not see me? I can send your letters.” 

“That is all right, Arnold,” Brynden said calmly. “I am helping the princess. You may return to your duties.” 

A princess was not supposed to send covert letters, but she may with permission of the Master of Whispers. Jena turned away to hide her smile as Maester Cole muttered something about protocol. She waited until the man had finally descended back into the lower tower to return her gaze to Brynden. 

“I appreciate that, My Lord,” she said. She squeezed the thick parchments in her hands. “I have written letters to many marcher and stormlords whom I believe may waver in their loyalties if given the chance.” 

Brynden nodded. “Blackmail?” 

“Nothing so overt,” she admitted. “But they will get the message.” 

It could not truly be called blackmail. Jena had merely written reminding these lords of their years of good service to the crown and of their very close ties with her father, the Lord of Blackhaven. If there were any threats, they were coyly hidden. 

“Good. I will let my birds know to keep an eye on the maesters and lords of these castles and watch for their reactions.” Oh, she was certain he would do that and more. Perhaps it was luck that she had found him here. He held out a long-fingered, pale hand. “May I?” 

Jena only hesitated a moment. She had never found Brynden as frightening as some. He nodded appraisingly as he examined the addresses, then handed half of the stack back. They worked silently to attach the letters to the corresponding ravens. 

“You should know that the fighting will spread soon,” Brynden said, interrupting the quiet. 

A chill went down her spine, just from the tone of his voice. Jena would not have been able to articulate why to any other soul. There was some change there, though, something being flipped. When she peeked over at him, he was not looking back. 

“That is what we are preparing for,” she said warily. “Leo Tyrell can do little about House Peake when he is unable to lay siege and unable to rally his bannermen.” 

Brynden nodded, brows furrowed. He looked suddenly almost frustrated with himself. Jena had heard the rumors that he could see things that had not yet come to pass. She had heard more than rumors from her lady Mya. It still baffled her mind. The idea of foresight seemed as foreign as if a dragon were to fly overhead at that very moment. 

Brynden finished with his raven and came two paces towards her. “I do have one bit of news for you. I am not sure if you will like it or hate it. Both, perhaps.” 

“For me?” Jena’s brows rose. She knew better than to think herself irrelevant, but she was not a chess piece in the grand scheme of things in the way that Baelor was. News trickled down to her through others.

“Daemon has taken it upon himself to orchestrate a handful of political marriages. Aegor and his daughter Calla is one… Do you recall Daenora Velaryon?” 

Did she ever? 

Daenora was the daughter of Dragonstone’s Captain of the Guard, and had done her best to make Jena’s first few months as crown princess a tightrope walk. She had been exiled to Driftmark when the extent of her blackmail and scheming came to light. But privately, before she left, she had told Jena that her true prejudice was against Dorne. 

“What did she do?” Jena asked. 

“She has been engaged to Aegon Blackfyre.” 

Aegon Blackfyre was all of twelve. Jena felt her brows shoot up. It should not have surprised her that Daenora would resurface as Daemon declared his rebellion, but the manner of this resurfacing was somewhat shocking… or not. If Blackfyre won, Daenora would provide an in to Dragonstone, Driftmark, and the rest of Blackwater Bay. She was also a stunning Valyrian beauty with the cunning of a queen. A powerful asset. 

“What a cunt,” Jena said, and then nearly choked on her own tongue. If she was not mistaken, Brynden’s lips twitched before settling back into his usual neutrality. “My apologies. Thank you, I suppose, for informing me.” 

“Lady Velaryon was quite rude to my sister Mya, if you recall,” he said. “I am informing you because should some tragedy befall the Lady, I want you both to know that I got you your revenge. Princess.” 

The Master of Whispers bowed low and left Jena there, surrounded by crying ravens. A month ago, she might have been horrified by such words. Now they soothed her in a way that nothing else quite could. 

~~

Maekar was woken from bed in the dead of night by someone knocking at their door. Dyanna grumbled against his bare chest, pulling him closer in her sleep. 

“My Prince, your presence is requested in the Small Council.” A servant appeared carrying a candlestick. 

“Alright, alright, now get the fuck out,” Maekar said. He pulled the blankets up higher for Dyanna’s sake, shooing the man with one hand. He untangled their legs, hating everything, and smoothed down her hair. She did not stir further. 

It took splashing water on his face and nearly falling over trying to put on pants for Maekar to fully come to. He did not bother trying to fix the mess that was his long mane of hair.

A small council meeting at this hour — where his presence was needed of all people — could only mean that something awful had taken place. Was it Daemon, or an emergency in the city? A peek out of the window revealed only a calm night beyond. 

The halls of Maegor’s Holdfast and the Red Keep were silent save for the occasional shuffling of guards. Maekar realized he had forgotten to even grab his sword, but his belt still held an empty scabbard. Now he just looked like an idiot. 

“Do you know what’s happened?” he called out when he saw his brother Aerys only a few paces ahead of him. Aerys had not even bothered to change out of his night robe. 

“No clue. Nothing good,” he said. “If I had any guess, it’s that Blackfyre has stopped playing the defensive.” 

They arrived at the small council chamber together to find everyone assembled. The lords were in varying states of disarray, sitting and standing and talking amongst themselves. They were all focused on the gigantic map of Westeros that had been spread across the table. Mother and Father were at the head of the table speaking lowly with Baelor and the Hand, Ambrose Butterwell. Ronnel Penrose, Master of Coin, and cousin Elaena were locked in tense discussion with Symond Hayford, Master of Laws. Grand Maester Aleryn and Master of Ships Monterys Velaryon were in a similar argument. Bloodraven stood slightly to the side, observing. 

Maekar saw what was out of place immediately, even as Mother looked up to greet Aerys and himself. The figurines being used to symbolize Daemon — black rectangles, as they could not very well use the dragon pieces — had extended beyond the territory of House Peake. 

“Thank you for coming,” King Daeron said. “Join me. All of you, settle down! Sit and listen.” 

The Small Council settled down quickly, returning to their chairs. Maekar took the empty seat beside Baelor. He was not sure he had ever seen his eldest brother’s face filled with such resigned determination. 

“Cider Hall?” It was Aerys who spoke. “He took Cider Hall?” 

“We received official word just a few hours ago,” Father said. “But Lord Brynden informed me last night, which is when the attack took place. Daemon led the affront himself.” 

Maekar sent Bloodraven a wary look. A seer or a spy? It was downright unnatural. 

“Is Cider Hall even fortified?” Maekar asked.

“Hardly,” Lord Butterwell said. “It is a working castle. Their cider may be the best in the realm, but they do not have a standing army. Ripe for the picking, one could say. A flimsy win.” 

Cousin Elaena scoffed at the joke. “I would not call it flimsy, My Lord. Cider Hall sits at the confluence of the Mander and the Cockleswhent. If he captures those waterways, he will have unrestricted access to the Reach. Lord Tyrell is stuck fighting Aegor’s front at Whitegrove, which is blocking the way upstream, and it is not as if Ashford or New Barrel have the resources to uproot Blackfyre.” 

“Overmore,” the king continued. “It is a power play. He took Cider Hall because he could take Cider Hall, and it is one step closer to King’s Landing. He is trying to provoke me.” 

“What of House Fossoway?” Aerys asked. Ever the diplomat. 

“Taken as political prisoners. We have received no ransom notes. Perhaps he believes that he has their allegiance.” 

“In other news,” Mother spoke up. “Lord Tyrell has had some success with Quentyn Ball at Dustonbury. He has taken the opportunity of Daemon leaving Starpike to launch a more direct attack on the closest castle to Highgarden.” 

It was an assault of information that sent Maekar’s mind spinning with possibilities and contingency plans. Cider Hall and House Fossoway had never been relevant in its entire fucking existence. It was an odd play, despite all of the reasons that had been raised. Maekar frowned as he studied the map. He was only starting to come to a realization when Baelor beat him to it— 

His brother cleared his throat. “I do not believe he took Cider Hall as a move toward King’s Landing. That would be folly for many reasons. He is moving toward Summerhall.” 

“To make fools of you all,” Lord Hayford agreed instantly, nodding sagely. “Capturing a Targaryen palace — and one that symbolically represents our peace with Dorne. Losing Summerhall would be an enormous political blow.” 

“It would also put him closer to his Tyroshi allies in the Sea of Dorne,” Maekar spoke up. He pointed to the blue splotch on the map. “They could take ships straight up the Slayne River.” 

“And perhaps there are stormlords lying in wait to change allegiance at the first whiff of blood,” his mother agreed. 

Silence fell over the table as the most powerful minds in the realm turned over themselves. It was an affront against the gods that Daemon had managed to get even this far in his campaign, and a terrible omen for the stability of the realm. This was not a problem that Leo Tyrell was going to be able to handle for them. 

Maekar nodded resolutely. He knew what must be done. He must take an army south, rally the lords of the realm, and lead his family to glory. It was his duty as a younger son, and he had years of experience leading men in the City Watch. He steeled himself, prepared to open his mouth, and was interrupted when Baelor’s hand shot out and caught his knee. He instantly cut a questioning glare at his brother. 

“Give me a command,” Baelor said. For one shameful heartbeat, Maekar hated his brother for saying the words first. The feeling vanished as quickly as it came. 

“No,” their father said instantly. His eyes were still glued to the map. The rest of the council plainly agreed with Baelor from body language alone. Well, perhaps not Mother. Maekar did not like it either. 

“I will guard Summerhall and recapture Cider Hall. It is time we joined this fight, and I am the one who must lead our campaign.” Baelor spoke flatly, gravely. He clearly took no joy in his proposition. “The smallfolk call me Baelor Breakspear, for my tourney defeats of Daemon. There is power in that. I can defeat Daemon again.” 

“No, Baelor. I can send a Baratheon host to accomplish the same.” 

“Lord Baratheon will have the same issue as Leo Tyrell. No one knows which of their bannerman are still loyal. I, on the other hand, will take our own army to deal with our own problem. And the marcher lords will rally in the name of my wife. My good father, Lord Mason Dondarrion, will give me all the resources of Blackhaven.” 

When the king did not speak, and the queen only frowned, Cousin Elaena took over. 

“It is wise, My Prince,” she said. “Take your garrisons at Dragonstone and sail to Griffin’s Roost. Have the ships be loaned to Lord Baratheon’s fleet for his naval operations in the Sea of Dorne while you travel overland.” 

Baelor nodded. “Time is of the essence. I can board a ship to Dragonstone at first light.” 

“You are my heir, and Prince of Dragonstone, besides,” King Daeron said darkly. “I will not send you headfirst into bloodshed… Though we must motivate, and your strategy is a sound one. Ambrose, I need a list of suitable commanders.” 

Father did not seem to understand that he was insulting Baelor’s manhood in front of the entire council. 

“Send me, then,” Maekar said. He could do it. It would be a brutal and long campaign, but he knew he could see it through. 

“No,” Baelor said sharply. “It must be me precisely because I am your heir. Daemon is a warrior who charges into battle himself. He inspires victory with action. You may not be found leading a van, Kepa, but I can. Putting me on the line is a show of strength and sacrifice.” 

It only hit Maekar then, for some reason, that they were talking about Baelor going off to war. Baelor, atop a destrier, charging into bloody, deadly battle. His big brother. Anything could happen. He might not come back. If he did, it would be long after the birth of his second child. 

“Your Grace,” Bloodraven finally spoke up from his perch at the end of the table. “The prince has spoken wisely.” 

It was this that fucking did it, for some reason. Maekar supposed his father truly did believe that Bloodraven could peer into the future. Whatever Bloodraven condoned had to happen, then. It was too much power for one man to have. 

Father nodded slowly. “I see the merit in what you have laid out. I had hoped… Well, it does not matter what I had hoped. This is what is happening. If it is you who puts down Daemon, I suppose it will cement our legitimacy… Very well. Let us discuss this plan, then.” 

Baelor sat taller in his seat, and Mother lower. Maekar thought that he might have been glad for this turn of events, this chance for escalation and revenge, but instead his heart just sank like a stone in his chest and kept on sinking. 

~~

They had not slept a single second, even while they were quiet. The very first rays of dawn were turning the sky to a light plum. Baelor kissed her again, again. He brushed the sticky tears from her cheeks. 

“I know, I know,” he muttered against her. Jena ran her hands through his hair. They were sitting up in bed, all of their words exhausted. They had spoken for hours about everything and nothing. Time had just kept on moving, no matter how desperate she was to stop it. 

Her husband was leaving for war. 

Any minute now, he was going to stand and dress himself, and she was going to help him. Then he would go to wake Valarr, to tell him the news and say goodbye while the boy was still too groggy from sleep to remember how to be upset. Jena would not accompany her husband to the harbor, for if she did all of King’s Landing would see her weep and know what was happening. 

Do not go, she wanted to say. Don’t you dare. 

Take me with you. 

Baelor was crying too, silent tears that only she was allowed to know. She kissed them away, skated her fingers from his jaw to his collar to his arms. She had touched him so many times, drawn him so many times, and still she wished to memorize him so well it would feel as if he were always with her. 

It was made all the worse by the fact that they were both terrified of the other dying in their absence. Baelor, on some battlefield. Jena, in this very bed in labor. It was unimaginable to be separated. When was the last time they had been apart for longer than a handful of days? Had they ever? 

“I am proud of you,” Jena said instead of anything that would make him console her more than he already had. She could be brave for him now, if only to fall apart later. She could help him get out the door. Baelor bent down to kiss her stomach, then to kiss her forehead. “You will make us all proud.” 

Her husband swung his legs out of bed. 

~~

[sihtryggr]

bruh imagine being king daeron and queen myriah hanging out peacefully in the red keep because half your family has gone to a tourney and 3 of your grandsons will be participating in it and another grandson is squiring for one of them, only to find out the tourney has ended with 2 of your grandsons going missing then being found, 1 grandson shaming himself in the tourney, your youngest son killing your oldest son and heir in a trial of seven (that the !!kingsguard!! were participating in) because 2 grandsons fucking lied about some shit. the only grandson who actually acted appropriately now doesn’t have a dad and is the new heir to the iron throne and your squire grandson is travelling the seven kingdoms with a random hedge knight who’s like 100ft tall (and is the same person your two grandsons lied on and your heir died defending).

[missgardenrose]

I find you on Tumblr wowww ! ! ! !

I am curious about how do you think why Brynden chose Daeron's side? Besides of his magical ability, maybe he foresaw Daeron's blood would be very important in the future (about Daenerys). Sometimes I imagine that he has a bit of a sense of normal kindness, such as Daeron and Mariah really took care of his mother and sisters and he thought "why not offer some help to that not-so-bad brother" and just do that.

I followed your writing from the first chapter of All This and Heaven Too till now 🥹. Thank you so much for your wonderful writing. Because of the time difference, I always get the update when I wake up and read it on my way to work. For me this is like a reward for continuous workdays’ sign-ins and the work time is no longer boring😆.

Oh hi!! Welcome :)

It means so much to have people who have followed this saga from the beginning, when I spontaneously decided to start writing All This and Heaven Too. One of my favorite parts about doing this has actually been connecting with people all over the world. It is so cool, and it always brightens my day to think about.

I am hoping to do some slower exposition for this in Breath of Life, but yes, let me get into Brynden. When I was doing canon research, I found it really interesting that out of six named bastards (Daemon, Aegor, Brynden, Shiera, Gwenys, Mya), only two of them are official traitors. We know that Brynden and Shiera are Targaryen loyalists, and Gwenys and Mya only have their names as information on them. One thing I think is very important is that the bastards and Daeron and Myriah's children all grew up together, which built certain feuds and certain loyalties.

I think that Brynden's abilities were something he had to develop and cultivate — something he probably recklessly explored with Shiera when they were children. So he was powerful, didn't get along with Aegor, and didn't really have a relationship with Daemon. He wanted to be trusted and make himself useful to King Daeron. Everyone at court always thought he was creepy and weird, but Daeron — who is an intellectual and historian — saw potential. Brynden is certainly not omniscient, especially at his current young age, but he probably also has a vague sense that Daeron's lineage will be important. Also, it would be terrible for Shiera is Aegor Rivers won this conflict, and Brynden loves Shiera.

I hope this is helpful and not just a rant!