Summery for this chapter: Forced to marry Prince Baelor after her betrothal to Daeron is abruptly broken, the reader spends her final days at Summerhall mourning the life she lost. While clinging to a fragile fantasy of the family she and Daeron should have built, reality cruelly catches up to her. A single letter from the capital arrives, officially sealing her fate as the future Queen.
Warnings: sad news. that’s about it for this chapter but it will get darker
The heavy stone walls of the storage closet had offered a temporary sanctuary, but morning always brought the harsh reality of the sun. When she finally slipped back into her chambers in the dead of night, her eyes were swollen and her chest felt hollowed out, as if her soul had been scraped clean by the hours of weeping.
When dawn broke, painting the skies above Summerhall in bruised shades of violet and gold, she didn’t sleep. She couldn't. Instead, she washed her face with freezing water, changed into her nightgown, placed a shawl on her shoulders, and slipped out into the quiet corridors before the rest of the castle could wake.
There was only one place she could go.
Daeron’s chambers were dark and stifling, thick with the stale scent of fermented grapes and sour wine. He was tangled in his silk sheets, his gold hair a chaotic mess across his pillows, his brow pinched in a deep, habitual frown even in sleep. He looked small. Not like a prince of the blood, but like a boy trying to hide from the world.
She sat softly on the edge of his mattress, the wood giving a low, familiar groan. Carefully, she reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. Her touch was feather-light, but Daeron stirred instantly. His violet eyes fluttered open, blinking against the dim morning light, cloudy with the immediate fog of a hangover.
"Mmm... it’s early," he mumbled, his voice thick and raspy. He reached out a lazy arm, reaching for her hand and pulling it to his chest. "Come to bed. The sun isn’t even up."
"Daeron," she whispered. Her voice cracked, small and broken, and the sound of it seemed to slice straight through his stupor.
Daeron blinked, his eyes focusing on her face. He saw the dark circles under her eyes, the redness of her lids, and the tight, painful set of her mouth. In an instant, the drowsiness left him. He sat up, the blankets pooling around his waist, his grip tightening on her hand.
"What is it? What’s happened?" he demanded, his voice dropping into panic. "Are you hurt? Did someone—"
"Your father called me into his study last night," she interrupted, her voice entirely flat. It was the only way she could get the words out without shattering all over again. "The King has written from the Red Keep. He broke our betrothal, Daeron."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Daeron stared at her, his jaw slightly slack, his mind trying to process the words as if they were spoken in a foreign tongue. "He... what? No. No, that’s a mistake. We’re to be wed by the turn of the moon. My father wouldn't—"
"I am being sent to King's Landing at the end of the week," she said, looking down at their joined hands. Her knuckles were white. "I am to marry Prince Baelor. I am to be the future Queen."
Daeron let go of her hand as if he had been burned. He scrambled out of the bed, his bare feet hitting the cold stone floor as he began to pace the room like a caged animal. He tugged at his silver hair, his face flushing a dangerous,
"Baelor? My uncle Baelor? He’s old enough to be—he has sons our age! Why would my grandfather do this? He promised me! He promised me a quiet life, with you"
"Because Baelor needs a queen," she whispered, a single tear escaping her eye and tracking down her cheek. "And the King believes I am the piece that fits."
"I'll speak to my father," Daeron yelled, his voice cracking with a sudden, desperate fury. He kicked a stray goblet across the room, sending it clattering against the wall. "I’ll tell him I won't allow it! I'll ride to King's Landing myself. I’ll tell the King—"
"Daeron, stop." She stood up, crossing the room and grabbing him by the shoulders. He was trembling, a wild, helpless rage vibrating through his thin frame. She forced him to look at her. "Your father tried. Maekar loves me like his own daughter, and he couldn't change the King’s mind. It is done. The royal escort is already on its way."
The anger drained out of Daeron just as quickly as it had arrived, leaving behind a pathetic, crushing defeat. His shoulders slumped. He looked at her, his eyes filling with fat, silent tears that made him look younger than his years.
"They're taking you away," he choked out, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in her neck. He sobbed openly, his body shaking against hers. "They take everything. They leave me with nothing."
She held him tightly, resting her chin on his shoulder, staring blankly at the stone wall over his shoulder. She didn't cry this time. Her tears had dried up in the dark of the storage closet. Instead, a cold, heavy numbness began to settle deep into her bones.
"We have until the end of the week," she murmured into his hair, her voice steady, almost eerie in its calm. "Let’s not waste it on the thought of the Red Keep. Let’s just... have this week. For us." Daeron sniffled, pulling back just enough to look at her. He nodded miserably, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
For the next few days, that was exactly what they did. They became ghosts haunting their own paradise. They walked through the pine-scented woods of Summerhall, picked sweet fireplums from the orchards, and sat in the sunlit solars, talking of meaningless things.
They spoke of history, of legends, of anything that wasn't the Iron Throne. They memorized each other’s faces, pretending the shadow hanging over them didn't exist.
By the fourth afternoon, the heat bled into the courtyard of Summerhall, making the air thick and heavy. Seeking relief, she found herself out in the palace gardens, sitting on a stone bench beneath the shade of a massive weirwood tree.
A sudden explosion of giggles broke the heavy silence.
"You can't catch me, Aegon! You're too slow!"
A little girl with wild silver curls and bright, mischievous eyes came bursting through the rose bushes, her fine silk dress snagging on the thorns without a care in the world. It was little Rhae, barely four or five years old, her short legs scrambling as fast as they could manage. Right on her heels was her older brother, Aegon. At seven years old, he was already showing the tall, sturdy build of his father Maekar, his longer legs pumping furiously as he chased his little sister with a fierce, playful grin.
"Rhae! Wait!" Aegon called out, but as he lunged forward to tag her, his boot caught on a protruding tree root. He tumbled forward, tripping over his own feet and landing hard in the soft grass.
Before he could let out an embarrassed shout, she was off the bench. She caught him up by his arms, helping the 7 year old brush the dirt and grass from his knees. "My, what a fierce knight. Defeated by a rogue root."
Aegon flushed a light pink, instantly beaming with a boyish grin as he wrapped his arms briefly around her waist in a quick hug before standing tall. Little Rhae stopped running, panting heavily as she trotted over on her tiny feet, leaning her chin directly against her aunt's hip.
"Auntie, tell him he's too big to chase me that fast, he's going to knock me over," Rhae complained, though she was grinning from ear to ear, her violet eyes sparkling.
Looking down at the two children, a strange, beautiful ache blossomed in her chest. These were her late sister's children. They carried the same blood.
She sat back down on the stone bench, pulling the young Rhae into her lap while Aegon sat closely by her side, leaning his shoulder against her arm. She began to fix Rhae's messy curls, while Aegon proudly showed her a smooth river stone he had found earlier. For a brief, intoxicating moment, the numbness in her chest melted away. She closed her eyes and let herself slide into a dangerous, beautiful delusion.
These are mine, she told herself, the lie tasting like sweet wine on her tongue.
‘This is Summerhall. I am married to Daeron, and these are our children. Aegon is our bright firstborn, and Rhae is our sweet girl. This is the life we built.’
She imagined Daeron walking down the steps of the solars, completely sober and clear-eyed, a proud smile on his face as he watched his son and daughter growing up in the courtyard. She imagined a life where she was just a lady of a summer house, loved, safe, and entirely free. She smoothed Rhae's hair and rested her hand gently on Aegon's shoulder, letting the fantasy wash over her until it felt entirely real.
The voice shattered the illusion like a stone thrown through glass.
She opened her eyes, the warmth vanishing instantly. Standing at the edge of the garden path was a royal messenger, dressed in the dark, imposing colors of the capital. He looked entirely out of place among the roses of Summerhall. He held a small leather tube in his hands, sealed with thick, black wax.
Aegon and Rhae scrambled away from her, sensing the sudden shift in the air, and ran off toward the safety of the septa waiting by the palace doors.
Slowly, she stood up, brushing her skirts. Her hands were perfectly steady as she approached the messenger. "What is it?"
"A raven from King's Landing, my lady," the messenger said, bowing low as he extended the tube. "From Prince Baelor."
She took the tube, the leather cold against her palm. The messenger bowed again and retreated, leaving her completely alone under the shadow of the weirwood tree.
Her fingers worked mechanically, breaking the black wax seal and pulling out the crisp parchment. The handwriting was elegant, strong, and completely foreign.
I know that this match comes as a sudden weight upon your shoulders, and that the realm asks much of a young lady of House Dayne. I cannot promise you the quiet of Summerhall, but I promise to you my utmost respect, my protection, and my devotion. I will do everything in my power to ensure your happiness in the capital, and I look forward to the day you stand beside me as my Princess.
Travel safely. Kings landing awaits its future Queen.
She stared at the words until they blurred. It was a kind letter. It was the letter of an honorable, good man who meant every word he wrote.
And she hated him for it.
She hated his kindness. She hated his honor. She hated the fact that he was the Crown Prince, and most of all, she hated the elegant script that officially sealed her fate. The week was over. The fantasy was dead.
Slowly, she crumpled the parchment in her fist, her nails biting into the paper until it tore, her eyes fixed on the distant, jagged horizon toward the north.
