✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺ your sustenance, your goodbye kiss... ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺
｡･::･ﾟ★,｡･::･ﾟ☆ ｡･::･ﾟ★,｡･::･ﾟ☆｡･::･ﾟ★,｡･☆｡･:
selkie | 24 | irish | poc | ao3 | if you look like adrian tepes hit me up | asks are always open!
—a song of ice and fire
pity me, i need you / one / two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten / maekar i targaryen x reader / the prince needs company. you are obliged to give it.
if i was a rich man / modern!valarr x reader / a little drabble about valarr's time in cambridge.
so deeply are you engraved (certainly, within mine heart) / young!baelor x reader x young!maekar / nsft / the keep is quiet. your solar is not.
where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes / regency!maekar i targaryen x reader / the earl targaryen attempts to put an end to his indulgences.
—jujutsu kaisen
it couple / actor!sukuna x singer!reader / a most unexpected couple makes waves in hollywood.
bad boy gone good / actor!sukuna x singer!reader / a further peek into your unexpected relationship.
so if you're lonely (you know i'm here, waiting for you) / actor!sukuna x singer!reader / your boyfriend has a strange aversion to the b word.
oh, the man that you are / vague nanami kento x reader / nanami kento, as seen from the outside looking in.
old dog, old tricks / nanami kento x reader / suggestive / your coworker, at his old, decrepit age of 28, reminisces on all he's too old for.
bite hard, bite deep / vampire!choso x vampire!reader / nsft /satoru has told you to stay away from his coven more than once -- so why does he keep dangling them right beneath your nose?
worship and those who give it / wargod!sukuna x priestess!reader / your home and family destroyed, you're urged -- forced, even -- to use your purposeless life for the greater good. someone's greater good, at least.
disciple / wargod!sukuna x priestess!reader / nsft / an expansion of worship and those who give it
big ol' freak / satoru gojo x reader / nsft / satoru and all of his pecularities.
lonesome town / cowboy!nanami x reader / a no-good man and his no-good heart.
summer wine / cowboy!nanami x reader / a no-good man, his no-good heart, and a chance he can't pass up.
curses, and those who carry them / nanami kento x reader / nanami’s unexpected journey back to jujutsu society.
labour of love / nanami kento x reader / nsft / something is on your husband's mind — nothing that can't be solved with a morning in bed, you're sure.
innocence and the art of losing it / choso kamo x reader / loserboy choso and his first kiss
numerology / satoru gojo x reader / nsft / numerology — the belief in an occult, divine or mystical relationship between a number and one or more coinciding events. or: trying to move on.
—my hero academia
my sweet, my terrible / ares!bakugou x aphrodite!reader / it's not the first time he's found you, and it surely won't be the last.
this old heart of mine / regency!deku x reader / spinster, meet heart of gold.
tale as old as time / alpha!sero x omega!reader / nsft / this isn't a romcom, so you're sure everything will work out fine. right?
it's alive! (romance) / bakugou x reader / not a romantic bone in his body, he says. it seems he's prone to lying.
maekar targaryen ii x reader
wc; 11.6k
summary; a day comes and passes. a celebration is had. things change -- for worse, before better.
cw; grief, mourning, angst w/ happy ending, alcohol, marriage
previous part / masterlist
read on ao3!
Peace did not seem to last long where you were concerned.
It started as a small, niggling sort of feeling; a distinct feeling of wrongness that sat stubbornly in your chest.
The children — whom you'd spent almost a fortnight entertaining in secret, across cyvasse boards and naturalist tomes and (terribly poor) embroidery — slowly, surely, began to withdraw. You wondered whether it was somehow a fault of yours, but all you'd truly done was send for sweets and listened as they spoke themselves into a stupor… Admittedly, you still stumbled over certain interactions, acclimating slowly to the motherly role you would soon take; and thus, your table was soon empty, the gardens home only to the tweeting birds, the library as quiet as death.
It wasn't a worry you could bring to Maekar, for obvious reason; as Daeron had said, he was very particular about these things, and you had no desire to get the children in trouble with their father. Not only would it shatter the trust that you'd built with them, but besides that, Maekar had grown to be a problem of his own.
In truth, he'd done nothing of grand offence.
Of course, there was the matter of the missing proposal, which you gave some grace — it was to be, perhaps, the most politically pertinent alliance between Westeros and Essos of a generation, and thus there was much to prepare: correspondence to send across the Narrow Sea, dowries and settlements and resources to partition. It was not the proposal (or lack thereof) which vexed you most — it grated on you incessantly, but this you could forgive — no, it was the distinct feeling of distance which had descended on each and every interaction with him.
Slowly, surely, his mind had closed itself to you. The progress you'd made over many moons — prying his thoughts from him with a gentle hand and open ear and, yes, more than a little insubordination — seemed to be lost, fading with an imperceptible gradualness. There was no physical evasion, and for that you were glad at least: you could find him easily in his solar, or his apartments, or in the training grounds, and he had no qualms with spending time with you — but his mind had carried itself to a place you could not follow, and you were ignorant of how to bring it back. How to bring him back.
But no matter. It was clear there was some problem which you weren't privy to, but nonetheless you were determined to remain positive — when this odd period of retreat passed, you would be waiting. In the meantime, you did all those things a lady should do; read the appropriate books, wore the appropriate dresses, danced the appropriate dances to the appropriate music. You'd even begun hosting some of the courtiers in your apartments, having mixed properly with some at the tourney. There, of course, sprouted new problems.
Syrah was officially betrothed to Lord Yronwood. It was a development worth celebrating; you gifted her a fine spool of Braavosi silk with which to make her wedding dress, and took great pleasure in listening to her gush over her husband-to-be. The fact that Syrah was so quickly engaged, though, had become a point of some conversation in court — namely, in comparison to your own status of scandal and sin. It was no secret that you and Syrah were fond of each other; you imagined there was some spiteful humour in the fact that one of you — the less inflammatory one — was to be married without delay, while the other had nothing to show, apparently, for entertaining royalty.
(Though you allowed a litany of snide comments to roll off your back, you were able to concede that you were near green with envy. You'd waited a year. Never before had you exhibited such patience.)
Then, of course, there was the matter of—
"He wishes to marry me," Thoma said, hands wringing together. "Tyel, I mean."
The news sat between you for a moment.
Thoma had, apparently, struck up a romance with one of your guards.
This came as a great surprise to you — a great surprise, and a fair amount of hurt, no matter how much you pretended otherwise. It seemed you were missing more and more these days. Your sharp eyes and sharper tongue evaded you completely — it was all you could do to realise your mouth was agape, and close it.
Tyel and Thoma. You tried to imagine it. Thoma, who had never once insinuated her desire to marry, or anything more than a passing fancy; who turned her nose up at any who came close, and complained as easily as she breathed. Tyel, with his dark, curling hair, and bright green eyes, and mischievous smile. Thoma had, of course, spent more time with him than you ever would, and had obviously found something desirable; you knew very little about him, apart from his fighting prowess and talent with a flute. Sometimes you'd hear him on sunny days, playing when he was supposed to be guarding.
It was not an… unfavourable match. You were sure they'd be happy. It was only that there was a time where you would be the first to know such things. A time where Thoma trusted you to know. How much longer before you were a stranger to the woman you'd been a girl with? Before she disappeared into the ether to keep his home and have his babies, never to see or speak to you again?
"Only," Thoma said quietly, "he cannot afford to buy out my contract."
"Oh," you said smartly. "I… see."
Would she have told you about it, you wondered, if she had no need of your coin? It was a terrible thought, and you perished it.
"Well, of course it shall be dealt with — that should go without saying," you said. "I… congratulations, Thoma. Truly. Anything you might need, of course, I'll—"
Her mouth lengthened with a smile, a beaming thing, and she surged forward to take you in her arms. You had only just remembered to return the embrace — still shocked, really, at the news — when she pulled away, turning on her heel. "Thank you, my lady. Thank you!"
The door shut behind her. You blinked.
It seemed everything was intent on changing, and you were powerless to stop it. The thought infuriated you as much as it saddened you. You were to be married! You should be rosy with the light of love, glowing with youth, elated to begin a new chapter — instead, you were plagued by courtiers, hounded by your own loneliness, and grappling with your ineptitude.
Yes. Peace was an elusive mistress, it seemed. She did not come to you at breakfast, nor luncheon, nor in the gardens, or in dreams; you sat and waited for her to join you at your dinner table, idly prodding at your meal with a fork.
Maekar. Rhae, Daella, and Aegon. Syrah. The court. Thoma. A weary sigh left you — and as if called to action, a throat cleared.
"My lady," Zelma began, shuffling to stand before you. "If I may…"
"Yes?"
"I — well. I wonder if I might show you something. To raise your spirits."
"Oh?" It was comical in a way. Your spirits were not terribly low, but then you supposed they weren't at all high either. Clearly, your staff could tell. You wondered if it unsettled them, your uncharacteristic silence. The past few weeks had been spent in ignorant elation, after all, anticipating a proposal that hadn't yet come; then, a high-strung sort of annoyance as you realised the fickleness of the world around you. "Yes, of course."
Amused, you watched as she scampered from your solar and disappeared. She returned within a minute, something bundled in her arms — without realising it, you'd held out your hands, and she placed the item gently down.
It was a mask.
Made to cover the entire face, constructed entirely of cloth-of-gold; beaded from top to bottom in a swirl of cascading flowers, with loops of golden embroidery framing it, and tassels hanging from the sides as if to mimic earrings. It was familiar — and you'd never held it before, never seen this particular mask, but it was familiar in that way that certain things are, like the sea or sky.
Your throat suddenly tightened, and you cursed yourself.
In your hands was a piece of home, and it was small, and you knew the warp and weft of it as if it were the surface of your own skin.
The Unmasking of Uthero was a yearly celebration commemorating the revelation of Braavos to the world — a ten day masked soiree of revelry and food and dance. For those ten days, the city was awash with excitement; all petty squabbles and grudges could be set aside to drink and make merry. On the final day, at midnight, the Titan would sound his fearsome roar, and all masks would be removed. It was a unity you hadn't experienced since you'd left home.
Swallowing, you attempted a smile, though a pang of sadness soured your stomach. "You thought to bring masks? I… I didn't even realise what time it was."
"You've been otherwise preoccupied," said Zelma, not unkindly. "I thought, when we left, that it might make us feel more at home — though the first day came and passed, and I thought better of it. These westerners already think us strange."
Your mask last year had been a dark, bloody red, bejewelled with emeralds and sapphires. You wondered if it was still where you left it, in the trunk at the end of your childhood bed, beneath cloaks and dresses you'd long outgrown.
"It used to be my favourite festival." Your sisters had tried to trick you once by wearing identical masks, but you'd always been able to tell them apart, no matter how similar they looked or spoke. How long has it been since you'd received a letter from them? A few moons, no doubt. They were young girls steadily coming into their own, too busy to think of you. And you, in turn — disgracefully — had done the very same. Their eldest sister. "And I did not remember."
You seized your bottom lip between your teeth to keep it from trembling.
"'Tis no fault of your own, my lady," Zelma rushed to say. "Though, er… it is the eighth day, today — we shan't have the full ten, but surely we could celebrate?"
You hesitated. She was right. It would unnerve the court to see you walking around, face shrouded, and so you'd have to sequester yourself away — but it would be nice to partake, even if the celebration would be short-lived and poorly-planned and not at all like it should be.
'Tis only two days, a part of you said. You can afford to disappear for two single, measly days, can you not?
You looked up at Zelma — eyes hopeful, hands clasped before her. She was waiting for your permission, and your guilt only worsened. Admittedly, you tended to forget that your staff had left their homes much like you had — that you weren't the only one yearning for a time and place that had surely changed in your absence.
"I… suppose so," you said finally. "But Zelma, we must stay between our quarters—"
"Oh, you shan't regret it!" she exclaimed. "I'll run to the kitchens and ask them to prepare a feast, my lady, and we'll have dancing—!"
Her excitement was infectious, and she began clearing away your plates with great zeal. You found yourself laughing, blinking away the beginnings of tears. "Was I the only one who didn't prepare?"
"Yes," she admitted. "But you've had more than enough to worry about, my lady. Sit tight! I shall be back, and with sweets and music and company."
Your smile lasted even when she left. You held the mask up, watching it shimmer even in the low, dreary light.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
To say it was the first day that you felt most yourself would be false. You had felt very much yourself in Maekar's champion's tent, hands upon his armour; in his solar, drinking tea and reading aloud; playing cyvasse and listening to his hissed curses when you stole a particularly important piece. Or walking with Syrah through the gardens. Looking after Rhae's birds, and following Daella's deft movements as she embroidered. Watching Aegon's brow furrow as he regarded his pieces upon the cyvasse board.
It wasn't that you had never felt yourself in the Red Keep — rather, it was that you'd left a certain version of yourself in Braavos, and hadn't worn her in many moons. She was even more carefree than you; she danced in circles with her handmaidens until fatigue forced her to stop; woke late the next day, and ate sweets for breakfast, and danced again. Beneath her mask, she smiled and pouted and grimaced and didn't bother to dim them. She danced herself into a tizzy and collapsed into a chair on her balcony, soaking up the sun.
The mask removed most of your periphery. It could be suffocating, at times — the hotness of your breath, and the incessant press of it against your skin, and the obstruction of your vision. But it also seemed to make everything brighter, too; you had a much greater appreciation for that which you could see, and the sun that heated your arms, and the freshness of wind through your hair.
The King held court as he always did, and you did not rush to join. Instead you opened all the windows and doors to your apartments and listened to the sounds of the city from your balcony. The rain had stopped through the night, a passed sadness, and the sky was clear and crystalline once more. You could hear everything: yelling from the harbour, smallfolk calling to each other in the street. Music from somewhere, light and lilting in the gentle breeze, carried in from a little street you'd likely never visit. A world far outside your purview.
You were reminded of Braavos in such a sudden jolt that a sickness twisted your stomach. You wished you could walk from this place like you would back home, traipse through the lanes and over the canals. You'd buy sweets from the first vendor you saw and sit with your handmaidens, eating with mannerless fervour. You'd pull Thoma into a dance with the performers on the street, and watch the young bravos peacock about with their swords with Zelma. For a few hours, you would be completely and utterly free — until you returned home, of course, and faced the tongue lashings of your mother. It was often easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.
You perked up suddenly.
"Zelma," you called. "Where is Neema?"
Zelma snickered, stretching her hands out like a cat. "Tucked away with a bottle of summer wine, I reckon."
"Hm."
"A curious hm if I've ever heard one."
"Yes. Say, if we were to go into town—"
She sat up suddenly. "Was it not by your own decree that we should stay inside?"
"Yes," you said smartly. "Inside my apartments. But if we go out — out there, where not a soul knows us—"
A snort. "Yes, and you can be stolen away for ransom."
"We shall take guards, of course. And masked and cloaked, who will recognise us?"
"I… suppose. Whatever's so important that it must be now?"
You thought of the night prior, blurred and muddled by wine and laughter. Now that you knew the nature of Thoma and Tyel's relationship, you couldn't miss it. Tyel had played his flute, and watched closely as she twirled and danced. He took every one of her requests with no complaint — The Fall of Racallio Ryndoon, which he'd played twice; The Maid Who Bathed in the Rhoyne; A Thousand Brides for the Father of Waters… And they had been playing dice together that morning, huddled together over two cups of tea.
You'd gifted them a necklace of rubies and garnets the size of your fist. It was enough to buy out their contracts, book passage across the sea, even build a house wherever they so desired. You hadn't asked what they planned to do. You supposed it really was none of your business, no matter how much the need to know niggled at you.
You shrugged, then. What could you say, really? Perhaps it was to satisfy a curiosity, or to experience life fully outside the court for the first time in moons — or to feel, for one moment, that you weren't being predated upon by an endless slew of treacherous families. Perhaps you wanted to experience something new, something novel, something that would take your mind off of Maekar and his brood and Thoma leaving and—
"King's Landing must have more to offer," you said eventually. A flock of gulls convened overhead, cawing as they descended towards the harbour, and you followed them until they disappeared from sight. "And when I marry, I will be carted away to Summerhall, only to return here upon matters of great importance. When will I have another chance to be as free here as I am now?"
If I marry, you thought dourly.
Your companion gave a hum of agreement, albeit a hesitant one, and within the hour you were bundled into a wheelhouse. Dressed in your mask and your most unassuming cloak, you painted a timid picture; Thoma and Zelma looked almost identical, chattering excitedly between themselves opposite you. The topic of conversation was, of course, Thoma's betrothal.
You chewed the inside of your cheek, staring out the window. It was a horrid thing, you knew; you should share in her excitement, but all their talks of marriage only turned your mind to Maekar. You wondered whether he missed you any, if he wondered where you were. It had only been two days since you'd last seen him, but your mood still worsened at the fact that he hadn't called on you since.
Sighing, you shook away such thoughts. Instead, you elected to focus on the land around you — this was why you were here, wasn't it? You'd traversed King's Landing twice before, and neither had satisfied.
The first came after almost a moon at sea, and you'd been in dire need of a solid bed to sleep on, conscious only through sheer power of will and nervousness. You remembered it the way one remembers bad dreams: in strange, blurred flashes. You'd entered through the River Gate, its opening like the maw of a great beast; beyond it was the never-ending clamour of King's Landing, beginning with Fishmonger's Square — and oh, you remembered that well. The stench of decaying, rotting fish. The incessant din of yelling and heckling. The streets had been chock-full; for at least an hour, your wheelhouse remained stagnant as Gold Cloaks attempted to clear the way of smallfolk and horses and carts and mules. It all seemed a bizarre apparition, a figment of your imagination.
Then there had been your short trip to the tourney. For the King's name-day a special route had been prepared, cleared of all any and all obstructions; the streets had been lined with pennons of black and red, muck shovelled from the road. A neat and pretty performance.
This time, you made a great effort to take notice of the city. The coachman took the wheelhouse down Shadowblack Lane. It was a quieter passage out of the Keep, twisting and steep, and soon left you at the foot of Aegon's High Hill; from there, the wheelhouse trundled onto a narrow street, pushing its way through little lanes and tight passages, splitting the sea of smallfolk like a hot knife through butter.
Even as your nose wrinkled, offended by the mud and dirt and ever-present stench, you found your excitement slowly mounting. How had you been here nigh on a year, and never thought to explore further than the Keep?
Well, it wasn't as if the thought had never struck you — it had, more than once, but you were easily dissuaded by the smell, and the danger, and a grimace from a certain pockmarked man with opinions that simply must be heard. Then there'd been the tourney, of course, and your curiosity had been momentarily sated — but this was a world away from the tourney grounds, the stalls and crates erected in the field. The streets were less manicured, the buildings tall and teetering; it seemed, in its vastness, a sprawling beast not even the King could hope to contain.
Eventually, as the shadow of the Keep grew more distant, the congestion worsened. The wheelhouse slowed and slowed until it stopped altogether, and there was a sharp knock on the door.
"Apologies, m'lady," said a Gold Cloak, peeking his head in. "The streets prove difficult to clear."
"That's alright," you said. "We can continue on foot from here, can we not?"
"On foot, m'lady?" he echoed.
You blinked. "Well, how close are we to our destination, good sir?"
"Er—" He cast a doubtful look at your handmaidens— "No more than ten minutes, I reckon, but—"
"Ten minutes by wheelhouse," Thoma interjected. "By foot, we'll be almost half an hour — it's dangerous."
"If it please you, m'lady," said the guard, "between your own guard and those of the City Watch, we number five. Two can stay to keep the wheelhouse, three can accompany you."
"Then it is settled." You glanced over at Thoma and Zelma — you could sense their hesitance, even behind their masks. "Oh, come now. We were to peruse the markets anyways. What difference does it make if we walk a little longer?"
"At least we're away from Flea Bottom," Zelma said. "And… not too far from the market, I suppose."
With a victorious grin, you took the Gold Cloak's proffered hand and ducked beneath the doorway — instantly, you're thrown into streams of smallfolk, moved back and forth as if pulled by the tide. Your shoulder was jostled, and you're pressed uncomfortably forward, side jutting into the sharp edge of his couter — but you reached out and seized Thoma's hand in yours, and she Zelma's, and the guards closed ranks around you.
"I don't believe your beloved will be very happy," somebody muttered behind you. You didn't deign to give them a response.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
The markets served their purpose. Of course, you garnered a fair number of stares (masked as you were), but between your guards' formidable stature and the relentless movement between stalls and shopfronts, the smallfolk left you alone. They had better things to do, it seemed, than ogle your strange group; hauling baskets, carts, and sacks, the world bustled past you in a blur of noise and colour.
It was refreshingly loud. You enjoyed the gentle sounds of the Keep, the music played in the ladies' solar, and water trickling from fountains, and the distant clang of sword-fight, but there was great liberty in knowing you could speak as loud as you wanted, and nobody would blink an eye. You wouldn't be heard over the woman crowing an unmissable deal on her Dornish lemons, which you believed were actually yellow-painted apples, or the man announcing the sale of his odds and ends.
Of course, it was dirtier than you were accustomed to. You were used to brick and tile and pavement, and canal-boats; mud and filth had soaked through the hem of your cloak and dress, and you knew it would have to be scrubbed in boiling water to save it. The streets did not smell of gold or roses, but the mask obscured enough to make it bearable, and if you ducked into a shoppe or two, you'd avoid it completely.
It was in one such shoppe that Thoma suddenly confronted you, standing between two bolts of velvet. Zelma was using her time to flirt with the Gold Cloak that had accompanied you — you could see her through the window, grinning and staring like the cat who got the cream.
"Are you very upset with me?"
You glanced over at her, brows furrowed. "Upset?"
She was quiet for a moment.
"I know my… involvement with Tyel came as a surprise... This colour dulls your complexion, my lady. This one will suit better."
She brought you instead to a bolt of fabric the colour of dark, red wine, and you regarded it curiously.
"Yes, it did," you said, sniffing. "In fact, I… was quite upset."
Thoma shot you a look. "No longer?"
"… Perhaps, in a way. I admit, I… I couldn't imagine a time where you might've fallen in love and not told me. It was this that came most as a shock."
"I am sorry," she said quietly. "I only wanted something for myself for a while. My life is yours, my lady — it has always been yours, since I joined your staff. It can wear, at times."
The fabric was as smooth as silk; when you lifted it towards the light, its sheen was a bright, burned orange, almost unnatural in its brilliance. You waved a hand, and the attendant scurried over; at your request, he carried the fabric away to cut a length from it, and you were left alone. You pretended to not be hurt by her words — in truth, there was nothing hurtful in them. She had every right to act as she had. It was you who craved more than most could give — you who expected full, unyielding loyalty, you whose gluttony could be surpassed by none.
"Should you wish to leave," you said, "I shan't stop you."
"I know." Whether it was pity or joy in her voice, you did not know; you imagined a sad sort of smile upon her pretty face, and dug in your cloak for your coin pouch. From this, you obtained a single silver stag.
"I would never force you to stay by my side."
"Yes, my lady. I know."
The stag sat upon the table. You could feel her eyes boring into the side of your face, and sighed.
"I've lived more than ten years by your side," you said quietly. "I have not learned, yet, how to be without you."
You did not imagine the shake in her voice, then; the tremble in her hand as she reached out and clasped it around your wrist. "You will learn, my lady."
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
Upon waking that morning, you had felt that things were coming to a head.
'Twas not a particular sense of doom that sat heavy on your chest; it was something different, a sick sort of anticipation, a foreboding that had you burrowing deeper into your blankets. Your head ached, but it was not the familiar dullness of wine-sickness.
The world had swollen with rainwater. You woke to the sound of it pitter-pattering through your open window, roaring and rushing with such power that you believed, for a moment, you were right beside the sea. Yes — you could see it. Rolling, navy waves crested by foaming white; a sky like blackened charcoal as far as the eye could see.
You opened your eyes and found your quarters dark, as if the sun hadn't bothered to rise. The curtains were drawn open, as you'd left them the night before after drinking yourself to sleep, and through the window you saw your imagination hadn't been too distant: the world was grey. The heavens had split open, and their fruits obscured all of King's Landing — the bright roofs, and the shadow of the Blackwater, and the spires and towers. It was all grey. All blurred. Yesterday, the sun had been scorching.
Yes, you thought, gaze fixed on the ceiling. Something is amiss. Unsettled.
They said the Bloodstone Emperor ushered in the Long Night upon usurping his sister. A terrible darkness fell across the earth, bathing everything in blackness; his betrayal laid waste to entire generations, spreading famine and war and terror across the known world. You looked to your ceiling and wondered if you were being punished for something.
The door to your inner chambers creaked as it opened.
"Good morning," came Neema's familiar husk. A lit match in hand, she rounded the room, setting each sconce afire and casting the room in warmth. Her mask was missing. "Your breakfast has been set out, my lady. Up you come, now."
You sat up — pushed away the lethargy that desperately clung to you, wiping at your eyes. She had extinguished the match, but made no move to gather your garments for the day; instead, she stood at the foot of your bed, looking for all the world as if she had more to say.
Your stomach turned. Something was afoot.
"What is it?" you asked. You thought the worst. Had there been word from your father, displeased with the fourth prince's offer of marriage? Or was it Maekar? He'd discovered your clandestine meetings with his brood, and the disrespect was too much for him to accept— "Why… why are you looking at me like that? Where is your mask?"
Neema shuffled, the action so at odds with her usual confidence that you felt your throat tighten. "I… thought it important you know," she said carefully, "that this day is a sombre one. The anniversary of Lady Dyanna Dane — the day of her passing, that is."
Oh.
Your back was suddenly straight as a blade, the sheets clutched tight between your fingers. The weight of the Keep itself had pinned you to your bed, tossing you abruptly into awareness. You saw yourself, for a moment, as if peering down from the ceiling; sitting in the large expanse of your bed, wide-eyed and undone, hair still pulled back for sleeping. Ignorant that the man she would marry — that she expected to marry — was saddled with such mourning. Sleeping late on a day where she should be showing the courtiers that she, too, was mourning a woman she'd never known.
In the back of your mind, you'd known the day would inevitably come — that it existed — but it had always presented itself as a distant, intangible thing. The death of his wife. It happened, and it had happened before you, and it was brushed over in that way that one brushes over uncomfortable things, like bruised and tender skin.
Maekar hadn't said anything, you thought with a strange and sudden sense of shame. Neither had Rhae, nor Daella, nor Aegon.
It dawned on you, then, that this was the source of their strange behaviour, their withdrawal. You couldn't imagine what they might feel approaching the day they lost their mother, and preparing for a new one all the while — they were young, yes, and did not remember her as well as Daeron or Aerion or even Aemon, but they had known her enough to love her. Why would you expect them to have told you? To speak the words, as if they would not tear the throat from them?
But Maekar? Were you so untrustworthy? Too shallow or callous? Perhaps he thought you wouldn't care — or perhaps, worst of all, the idea simply hadn't struck him: you weren't significant enough to tell such things. Who were you? A young woman not yet betrothed. A foreigner in a foreign land. A conveniently ignorant confidant.
You released the sheets. Your palms were sore, your knuckles aching from the force with which you'd tensed them. You suddenly felt very tired, though you'd slept through the night like a milk-warmed babe.
No. No, don't be a fool. You pinched the bridge of your nose between your fingers, screwing your eyes shut.
Their mother was dead. His wife was dead, and you couldn't be so selfish as to overstate your importance in it all, as much as it pained you. You'd forgotten his reservation in the privilege of his company; it had taken many moons before he'd divulged more than surface-level pleasantries and indignation — memories of his mother, and Dyanna, and his fondness for his brothers, especially Rhaegel. The Blackfyre Rebellion and its bloody battlefield. Scars that marred his skin, pockmarks on his cheeks.
You'd forgotten, in the midst of your knowing him, how difficult it was for him to allow it. It was often — when faced with matters of particular sentimentality — that his tongue and countenance stilled, froze themselves into impenetrable barricades; he would rather swing a sword than speak to vulnerability, and of this you held no illusions.
Still. You thought you allowed him the space for it. You thought…
The shame deepened. You pressed your palms to your eyes, and sighed wearily. You'd expected Syrah would tell you, at least, but then she was all aflutter over Lord Yronwood. It wasn't her fault.
"Breakfast," you mumbled. "Breakfast, and then… we should pray."
"At the alter?" A note of surprise lifted her voice.
"No," you said. "Or, yes. I… I must be in the royal sept, with the rest of them, where they can see me. But later… later, I shall light candles..."
It was ironic in an infuriating sort of way. The courtiers held no love for their Dornish peers, and you can't imagine much was changed when Lady Dane was alive; but she was dead, and so they venerated her while scorning her compatriots all the while. Were she still living, they'd be the same vipers they were now, and nothing would change.
But if you dared to hide away today, to seek privacy and meditation, your reputation — which was already sullied, for obvious reasons — would be completely and utterly beyond repair.
"Modest clothing," you said finally. "Modest, and humble."
Your mask was left upon your nightstand.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
After breaking your fast, you dressed in a gown of dark, green silk. The collar fastened where your shoulders began, and it covered almost every inch of skin except your hands, face, and a sliver of neck. There was no grand ornamentation or jewellery, nothing that could be misconstrued as haughty or boastful. Even your hair was tied back simply.
You had been to the royal sept only thrice before — each time accompanied by Syrah, who was not particularly devout, but took the sept to be yet another meeting place where one could engage in courtly politics. This was, of course, her favourite pastime.
It was not as large as the Great Sept of Baelor, the grand domes and spires of which you could spy from a great distance, but it could quite comfortably seat hundreds in its rows of benches if needed; the ceiling was impossibly tall and pointed, and the walls impregnated by high crystalline windows. Had it been sunny today, they would cast rays of rainbow through the space, illuminating the pale marble in colour — but it was decidedly not, and the interior remained colourless, save for candlelight. It seemed fitting.
It was a pleasant place, familiar in that way that places of worship tended to be. A comforting stillness blanketed the interior, and the air was fragrant with incense and candle-wax. The only sounds to be heard were quiet, whispered prayers from the clusters of courtiers who came and went, and the constant hum of rain. You were glad for it. You were in no mood to talk, though you often felt the press of eyes against your spine.
Remembering what little you knew of the Seven, you lit candles before the Stranger and the Maiden, praying for Dyanna and yourself alike. You took a seat on a bench, and hoped your own gods wouldn't be too offended by your offerings.
In truth, you hadn't planned to stay long; you would light the candles, be seen with your head bowed in supplication, and leave to mull over your thoughts in your quarters. But your mind had been at war with itself since that morning, and the sept offered a certain breed of silence that tempered it.
You had wondered — from the very moment you'd discovered the importance of the day, really — whether you should seek to comfort Maekar. You were no stranger to his usual haunts, and could most likely find him with ease; whether he would appreciate it, though, was another conversation entirely. Maekar's feelings around Dyanna's death were not a topic you commonly stumbled into; he had shared some memories of her, you remembered, but both of you tended to give the reality of your relationship a wide berth, in that way one avoids uncomfortable truths.
(But was it not your right to offer such solace?
Had he need of it, he would have told you, said a distinctly petulant part of you. Instead, he left you to realise the importance of the day from your servants.)
He was most likely spending the day with his children. It wouldn't do to intervene where you weren't wanted. You were already praying for the woman he loved — praying to gods you didn't believe in for a woman who'd had everything you wanted. That terrible, no-good, jealous part of you shuddered at the thought of seeing him bereft over another woman. It was a terrible thought — it made you sick to your stomach. And yet, it was you.
Hunger, greed, spoiled as curdled milk. The worst of you. You wanted in a way that was unsavoury — and quite frankly, you'd been reminded of it far too many times in the past moons. You'd never given it deep thought before, but every time your limits were tested — by Lenila Lannister, by Thoma, by the ghost of a dead woman, or by Maekar himself— it presented itself, maw bared and bloody. Selfish.
You wished you'd been born twenty years earlier, been given the opportunity to meet him before he'd been given to anyone else, before he'd even laid his eyes upon another woman — that you could have stolen him away in his youth and seized his heart as Dyanna had, and claimed the same unfaltering ownership that she had. You wished he had never known any woman as wife, for the very thought of it soured something rotten in your stomach. You wished he only thought of you, that his mind was plagued by it, that it sickened and satiated him in the same breath — you screwed your eyes shut and imagined scrubbing his mind of all traces of her, of her touch, so that he only knew you and your skin and your scent and your voice and—
Your breath came trembling. Your disgust was a palpable thing, curling and churning in your stomach; it was the same sickening twist of shame that had grasped you early that morning, only you couldn't blame your weariness any longer. You were awake, wide-eyed and watchful; terrible in your jealousy, and your selfishness, and your envy. You didn't think it would ever leave you — it was sewn into your very being, entwined with your very sense of self.
In truth, you'd never given much weight to goodness or badness — on account, mostly, of never truly having to. But you remembered the storybooks of your youth, the tales of heroes and princesses, the black and white of it all. You had wanted to be those princesses, once. Your father had told you it'd never happen if you kept being so mean, the terror of a child that you were, and you had ignored him as you often did. Whether you or he was right remained to be seen — your aforementioned meanness had never left you penniless, only lonely.
The blank, knowing visage of the Maiden stared back at you. These gods could hear your thoughts sullying their land, their place of worship, spilling like brackish water across their pristine tile and marble. Perhaps it was they who sought to punish you.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
It was a strange mood that you found yourself in: somehow, despite yourself, you left the sept both lighter and heavier than you were when you first arrived. The rain had not eased — in fact, it seemed to have gotten worse — but it did not carry the same trepidation; you regarded it not as an omen of ill-will, but a simple, dreary day. Water for the crops.
You had missed luncheon and hardly noticed it, and the time for dinner was soon upon you. It had been a long time that you'd sat in the sept, silent, suspended in an odd sort of trance. There was some comfort in confronting that which plagued you, and that which you held great shame for; you sat in the malaise of it, stewed in your shortcomings, and the sky had not shattered upon you. The gods did not strike you down. You were covetous and invidious, and the world had not ended in darkness or flame or ice; apparently, your personal complications were to be the height of your penalty. You almost preferred the sky-shattering.
Upon returning to your quarters, you donned your mask again, hoping, absurdly, to salvage the last day of celebration; you ate a paltry meal, and then resigned yourself to your alter. It was a tiny thing shoved into a mostly-forgotten nook in a corner of your apartments. You never were very devout; the alter was mostly for your staff, who'd added their own pendants and figures.
It was cluttered. Your father and mother worshipped two different gods of the same pantheon, and thus you'd grown up somewhere betwixt the two. There was the Maiden-Made-of-Light, carved from pale, pearlescent stone — your mother's patron, who, upon witnessing the cruelty of man, turned her back upon the world; there was the Lion of Night in dark obsidian, then, favoured by your father. He who came forth to punish man's wickedness during the Long Night. Whether you favoured either more, you did not know.
You sat before that alter and stared. At the statues, the incense, and the offerings — jewels and precious things, from you; food and scraps of pretty fabric from your staff. It was a pity that you'd never been more pious; perhaps it could have made you a more graceful girl. But even with your gracelessness, you lit a candle for Dyanna Dane, and shut your eyes and prayed for her, even though your jealousy burned something fierce.
She had been his first wife. The mother of his children. A woman with hopes and likes and dislikes, much like you, and a stranger in King's Landing. You wondered whether she felt the Keep's walls tightening around her at times, as you did. Whether the sense of alienation ever fully went away.
You hated her. And yet you were her, in many ways.
A throat cleared. You looked up from the Maiden-Made-of-Light, and met Neema's gaze. How long had you spent on your knees? Your ankles ached, and from the window you could see the sky had become inky. Deeper in your apartments, you could hear the distant sound of music and merrymaking, cheers as rounds of dice were thrown.
"Oh. Hello."
"It has been a long time since I've seen you pray," she said, kneeling at your side. She bowed her head for a moment, and you imagined her lips moving beneath the mask in silent prayer. "It reminds me of when you were a girl."
"I did say I would."
"Saying and doing are often two very different things."
You hummed. You could feel the heat of her beside you, shoulder to shoulder, and you thought of a time before — before, when your mother would send you to pray after you'd been particularly horrid. You'd huff and puff the whole way, but sometimes, when Neema took pity on you, she'd sit by your side, silent and reverent as she completed her own worship. Back then, you were smaller. Kneeling together, the top of your head would barely reach her shoulders.
"To think," Neema mused, "there was once a time where you could only be dragged here."
A snort-like laugh left you. "It seems I've grown in more than height."
"So you have," she agreed. You felt her eyes upon your cheek, then, and turned your gaze to meet them. "I know there was some difficulty in today. And that Thoma's betrothal was… unanticipated."
"Yes, that goes without saying."
"I imagine you have a lot in that mind of yours," Neema said. "Speak, and I will listen."
She gently nudged her shoulder against yours, and you shook your head.
"I have made peace with Thoma. I was saddened, at first, of course, but there is more to life than I.
"The prince… at first, I didn't know what was worse," you admitted. "That he hadn't thought to inform me of the day, or that he had planned to, and thought better of it. Both ideas infuriate me."
You worried your skirt between your fingers. But there was nothing to fear, not from Neema. She knew you the way a mother knew her child.
"You know, I pitied myself this morning. Told myself that I wouldn't be wanted by his side. And then there was the thought of it, of seeing such sadness upon his face, pining for a woman long passed — I know myself. I know I couldn't handle it." You swallowed. "Even so, I… I wanted him to call on me, to seek comfort in me. And he hasn't, and so he has proven me right."
"Your pride has been wounded."
"'Tis not a matter of pride, but of… of…" You shook your head. You didn't know. Perhaps it was pride — but you knew pride, had walked alongside her your entire life. You'd felt her thorns and needles those weeks after you'd promenaded with Valarr, and had overcome it. This feeling, now, was edged with melancholy. Doubt. "And then I thought — how selfish of me! A woman has passed, and I pity myself. I covet her husband, and her children, and her life. I was disgusted by my own cruelty."
"Cruelty," Neema mused. "Is that what you call it?"
"What would you?"
"Fear, I think."
For a moment you stared at your hands in your lap, bunched up together and clutching each other; then you eyed the flickering flames of Dyanna's candle, the long shadows it cast over the cluttered table. The rain had eased to a gentle trickle, the night humid and muggy, tempered only by a light breeze. It stirred the curtains, and you listened to the whisper of wool against the ground. The music continued; Tyel was at the flute again, but somebody had brought a lute, and together they played a jaunty tune.
Neema groaned as she pushed herself to her feet, rubbing at her hips as she did. "I am not as young as I once was, my lady, and neither are you."
The soft scuff of her slippers against the floor neared the doorway, but—
"I do not know how to be unafraid," you blurted. "Not yet."
(I have not learned, yet, how to be without you.)
There was a pause, and she returned to you. A hand planted itself upon your head. You were seven again, pouting at the alter, refusing to pray out of spite. "It comes with time, and time alone."
(You will learn, my lady.)
Somehow, despite the ambiguity of it, you felt a sense of relief. As if, with those simple words and simple gesture, she'd given you permission: live, and you will learn along the way, and it is neither a shame nor a hindrance.
"Now, do hurry," she said warmly. "It won't be long until the unmasking, and wine to go with it."
You couldn't help the smile that overcame you. "Yes, of course. I shall."
With a final smile of her own, she left you to your devices, and you were alone once more.
For the first time that day, you felt oddly at ease. The tension you'd been holding simply seeped from you; you found yourself slumping, resting your weight upon a single arm. Your eyes fell shut, and you listened to the pleasant sounds of living around you.
It had been a long day. A heavy one. You'd be glad to put it behind you; you'd be glad to see your bed, in fact, but it wouldn't do to miss the celebrations. Yes, once you'd drank and danced yourself to sleep — and fastened your head correctly upon your shoulders — you would go to Maekar, and you would tell him quite plainly how much you appreciated being left in the dark.
You wondered how often Dyanna had to wrangle him into sense, like diverting a charging boar. It seemed a never-ending task, separating the man from the warrior. It wasn't that he was totally unpractised in the ways of sociability, either — only that, more often than not, he simply didn't care to engage in them. Who cared for niceties on the battlefield?
His was a blunt sort of love, fitting a blunt sort of man. You'd never trade it for anything, as unhappy as you presently were with him.
The door creaked behind you.
"Yes, yes," you called. "I'll be there in a moment. Surely you haven't drank all the wine already?"
"…That explains the behaviour of your staff, then," came a familiarly miffed voice.
Your head snapped to the doorway.
There, in his regular ebony-and-red, stood the very man of whom you'd been thinking. Maekar's hands were clasped behind his back, and he regarded you with his usual frown — one not borne of any particular grievance, but simple habit. There was darkness beneath his eyes, though; a certain limpness to his hair, and a pallid sort of colour to his already pale cheeks.
He was standing there, as if it were a day as customary as any.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
The girl stared at him — he could see those eyes of hers, even beneath the mask, even in the candlelit room. He could find them in a crowd, he thought. She often had the habit of widening them — batting her eyelashes and rounding her gaze into something innocent and girlish, but now they were narrowed, like those of a cat. Fixed upon him with a similar sort of intensity.
Clasped in his hands was a letter. It had arrived that morning — miraculously dry, for the weather, baring a seal of emerald green. It had come at breakfast, and the arrival of it had pierced the tension at the table like a hot knife through butter. There was no mistaking the emblem: a golden key and coin. Daella's sharp eyes had followed its path through the room to Maekar's hands.
The courier had ridden and sailed non-stop through the rain, and was sopping with water, completely ragged. Maekar would have felt some modicum of pity for the man if he hadn't been awaiting him the past fortnight.
Of course, he thought, it would come to me today, of all days.
He did not look forward to Dyanna's anniversary. Sun or rain, wind or humidity — he dreaded the day like he dreaded the point of a sword, and the apprehension of it begun long before the day itself.
He disliked remembering her loss; he disliked the sullenness that overcame his children, the sadness that seeped all joy from living. He disliked the constant, unremitting introspection the day forced him into, the kind that would have his mind wandering without his permission. He disliked saying the words aloud — the my wife is dead words — and he disliked, especially, the idea of saying them to you.
Dyanna was no longer his wife. She hadn't been for a long time, and his heart had bloomed anew, softened into something he didn't think possible. But habit was habit was habit, and Maekar was a decidedly old dog. He hadn't said the words to you.
It was a selfish decision. An easier decision. Courting you had been maddening, yes — infuriating, rife with little squabbles and tiffs punctuated by the sharpness of your smile. Every disagreement could be ended by a simple wave of your pretty hand and a murmur of his name — damn him, it was true. But no matter how vexing, nothing yet had cut as deeply as this.
It was easier to not look you in your eyes — narrowed, widened, batting eyelashes or not — and tell you that Dyanna was dead, and the day was approaching, and there was no stopping it. And there would be no stopping it. For as long as he lived, the day would cut, and he didn't love you any less.
You would be angry with him. He anticipated this.
"The winds," the courier had wheezed, holding the letter out, "they were most unfavourable, my lord."
Fuck the winds. He knew you to be as impatient as he was, and his own tolerance was wearing thin. He'd rolled his neck to dislodge some of his tension.
He'd tore the letter from the man's hand and sliced the seal away with a bread knife — pretending quite well to not feel the weight of his children's eyes on him. His eyes traced the lines of Lord Manwoody's hand, and not for the first time, he was glad of the man's presence in Braavos; your father was incredibly vigilant where you were concerned — you, and his coffers. Had Lord Manwoody not returned to Braavos to mediate your betrothal, Maekar feared it would've taken thrice as long as it already did.
He read the words. Agreeable. More to discuss followed, but it mattered not. He'd seen all he needed to see. He held a future in his hands — a future he'd coveted, and wished for, and desired for the better part of a year.
The letter was placed down, and he leaned back in his chair, abandoning the plate he'd been idly picking from. It felt as if a great weight had been taken from him — and yet he couldn't move, couldn't make use of the nervous energy gathering in his legs. He had to remember what day it was — what was expected of him, and what was deserved.
He visited the sept — not the royal sept, but the Sept of Baelor, which he only found himself in once every decade, it seemed. It was where he had gotten married, and now it was where he mourned. Aegon couldn't stop squirming in his seat during prayer, and Rhae barely prayed at all — just stared at the candles and dipped her fingers into the wax when she thought he wasn't looking.
He dined with his father and brothers, then; a quiet affair, mostly, though Rhaegel had insisted on a song to brighten spirits. Maekar hadn't the energy nor heart to stop him. He stared into his wine and thought about the letter in his pocket.
He sent away the septas and maids and put the children to bed; extinguished the candles, read a story (Ten Thousand Ships, an account of Queen Nymeria's battles during the Rhoynish Wars — Aegon's favourite, it seemed) and tucked them in amongst their furs and blankets.
It felt like an apology of sorts; he wondered if they knew where he'd go, now that they were sleeping. If they had felt the warmth of the letter burning a hole in his pocket as they prayed and ate. If it felt as much a betrayal as it had to Aerion.
Unconsciously he took the letter from his doublet held it in his hands as he made his way to your quarters. His thumb traced the folds in the parchment, the wax of the seal. He could see the words in his mind's eye. Agreeable. Finally. He'd sent the first letter just after the tourney — that same night he made his choice clear to his father — and two more had followed since, each more pedantic than the last.
(Annoyance aside, he supposed he could admire your father's solicitude. He often felt the same.)
He held that letter in his hands now, clutched behind his back. Your stare had not abated.
"The Unmasking of Uthero," you said finally. "A celebration from home."
"That explains the masks," he said, on account of not knowing how to broach the obvious. Your frown deepened. "Your lady-servant said you've had them on since yesterday."
"They are to be removed at midnight," you said.
"You went to the markets," he added. He couldn't help the note of disapproval that made itself known. "King's Landing is dangerous."
There was a pause -- a scoff, and you shook your head. "You have no right to indignation, my lord."
Unconsciously, a scowl pulled at his face. My lord. You turned from him, then, lifting a matchstick to a candle. "How fare the children?"
"They... it is a difficult day."
A slow inhale. "Yes. I… thought it best to give you space today. I had no desire to intrude."
"You've never cared much for intrusion before. And I have always welcomed it."
"This is different." Your voice had sharpened. He despised it, he realised, not being able to see your face. Your eyes were most expressive, but there was much to know in the curve of your mouth, the tension of your brow. "You know it to be."
Silence reigned. Neither moved.
Then: "I am displeased, Maekar."
His jaw set. He deserved it, he knew, but it didn't make accepting it any easier. "Yes, I… know."
"Many times I have been angry with you, in fact, and I have held my tongue."
At this, he took pause — shifted in place, and replied with a sharp, disbelieving laugh. Today, he could admit. But others? He was not prepared for others. "Really?"
"Yes."
"Do tell."
Your glare was piercing. "I recall your punishment for my entertaining other men, though it was by your own suggestion—" He winced— "Or when you took Lenila Lannister's favour; or, perhaps, when you became distant and impenetrable over the past few weeks—!"
"Excuse me—" he tried.
"—but no anger I have felt thus far has matched that of today," you said. You had bunched up your skirt in your hands — grabbed the wool between your fingers as if to ground yourself. "To wake up and be informed of the day by my lady servant. To be completely and utterly clueless in the savagery of the court, as if they haven't enough reason to hate me already!"
His mouth snapped shut. A great well of pity rose within him.
He had assumed, admittedly, that you were much like him — open in your dislike of the court and its politics, its two-faced fellows and its cut-throat diplomacy, but willing to ignore it in the end. You often complained to him of ladies' luncheons and snide comments, and he, in turn, made clear his strained relationship with almost everyone; it was one of those inescapable things, the reason why he missed Summerhall more than anything.
He was not Baelor, who excelled in such places despite his own hatred for it; Maekar was not learned in the art of communication, and had never had to be. He had no need for charm or soft words on the battlefield, in the lists.
"I have been in this place for nigh on a year. You have known of my hatred for it, and you still — you still leave me to fend for myself at every turn."
Something like guilt sat in his stomach. He was not accustomed to the feeling. It was greatly uncomfortable — stuck his feet to the floor, and his frown to his face, and his hands tight around the letter.
"I have never given thought to what the court says or thinks. They're cunts," he said. He didn't know whether these words were the right ones — wincing, he continued: "And I — apologise, for that. For all I've angered you."
The discomfort remained, but he moved around it regardless; left the doorway and neared you with, perhaps, less caution than he should. He paused a moment at your side — waited for you to swipe out and push him away, forbid him from your quarters — but there was nothing to fear. You only watched, quiet. Maekar eased into the space beside you, huffing as he dropped. His old bones creaked.
He was face to face now with what he realised was an alter. He had paid little attention to it — his focus had gone straight to you. The table was awash with figurines and statues, bundles of colourful cloth, strings of jewels and beads. He imagined your head bowed in deference and felt inclined to raise it. He couldn't imagine your submission to anyone who was not him; he did not want to imagine it.
(He knew, in reality, that you were more likely to command him than the other way around.)
It was quiet again. Upon his entrance, your staff had quietened down some, but he could still hear the gentle strumming of the lute, the low thrum of chatter. The letter sat in his lap.
He grit his teeth.
"I have no talent with words. Forgive me," Maekar spoke. "I… had every intention of returning to the Stormlands within a moon of my coming here. I have little love for the Keep — if it were not my father's seat, I would be happy to never return."
"And yet, you stayed."
He nodded. "And yet."
Your fingers had released your dress. He watched as they slowly, surely made their way from your lap to his — hesitating over the letter, before moving to take his hands in them. Your skin was soft as satin, free of calluses and roughness. He couldn't imagine his hands were very pleasant to hold — large and unwieldy, callused and brutish. Made to hold a mace, not a lady. You cupped them gently regardless.
"You know that I care for you," he said quietly. "If I had not come across you that night, I would have returned to Summerhall. You have been infuriating, and maddening, and I have been ailed by the very thought of you, and I have stayed here for you."
A laugh erupted from you — and his eyes shot to your face, because the laugh was a warbling thing, thick with tears. Your eyes were glassy. "Infuriating. How romantic!"
He almost snorted. It would be the first time in years someone had called him that. Things were like that with you, he found; the first in years to touch him gently; to temper his vexation; to look at him not as the realm's prickly, impatient prince, but with a fondness he craved like air.
"Saying such things aloud — it has never been where I excel." His voice had taken on a note of pleading, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "You know this."
You hummed, thumb smoothing over a tensed tendon along the back of his hand. Your eyes were downcast. He wanted to rip that infernal mask off and see your face — your cheeks, your nose, your lips, your chin. "I thought, perhaps, that you thought me unimportant, or shallow. Unworthy of knowing."
The idea was almost offensive. Unimportant. He grimaced. Perish the thought. "Don't be a fool."
"Do not make a habit of it," you returned. Your eyes met again — and there they were. Widened and round, the picture of girlish innocence. "Do not close yourself to me again, Maekar. I couldn't bare it."
He swallowed. Traitorously, his hands twitched in yours, closing over your fingers. "I shan't."
"I will hold you to it. Now — what is it you've brought me?"
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
"The winds were unfavourable," Maekar said, peering down at the parchment. The seal — a sparkling, emerald green, emblazoned with the golden key and coin of your family — had been split from the parchment messily, as if he'd opened it with great impatience. "And your father has the fastidiousness of his daughter. The response took longer than anticipated."
You felt distinctly as if you were looking at your very own future — there, in his grasp, scrawled in dark ink in your father's hand. You knew what the letter would say. There would be no reason to deny that which you asked for, and yet fear persisted in that way it usually does: illogically, and foolishly.
"I can be patient," you heard yourself say, "when it suits me. Though I should scorn you, Maekar. You did make me wait terribly long."
A noise left him. "You have scorned me enough, girl."
The hush returned. You gathered your hands in your lap again — mourned the loss of his heat, and the feeling of his skin against you — and watched as his thumb worried the folded edge of the letter. A lump had formed in your throat.
"In truth," you said, before he could speak, "I spent the day in the sept, praying for a woman I did not know, unsure of my standing with you. I lit candles for her. Spoke to your foreign gods for her -- and for me, too."
You could feel his eyes on you. Yours remained resolutely on the letter.
"In those moments, I realised something terrible about myself; a gnawing, persistent desire I carry. I have tried to temper it — Neema says these things take time, but I fear it will never fully leave me. I've been this way since young."
"Are you trying to dissuade me? I shan't be."
You shook your head, a smile tugging at your lips. "I wouldn't allow you to be dissuaded -- you are mine to keep. But you know not of what I speak, Maekar. The thoughts I have."
"Desire," he echoed — and it was back again, you remarked fondly to yourself, that edge of annoyance he carried in his voice, as if wholly unimpressed by your lamentations. "Whatever desires plague you, they plague me thrice over—"
"I thought of devious things," you said quietly. "Graceless, unkind, selfish things, in that place of gods. I cursed them for placing me along your path so late, and I thought of all the ways I could keep you, as if you were a dog to be kept. I wanted you to… to… be tortured by the very thought of me, to ache as I have."
Air shuddered in your lungs. Whatever words you thought to say next died in your throat, and you could not bring yourself to look at him again. Instead you watched him twist the ring upon his thumb, the ruby catching candlelight.
"Do you think me a septon or eunuch?" he demanded. Your head shot up, and his gaze was already fixed on you. You were reminded, quite suddenly, of the proximity between you — shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. He eclipsed you almost completely, the King's Anvil, and he was bowed towards you now, shoulders hunched. If you hadn't had the mask, you might almost be nose to nose. His stare was intense. Desperate. Your heart thudded in your chest. "I am a man."
Your voice came as a whisper. "I know."
"You do not know the ways of men," Maekar said. "I promise you. You do not know the ways I have… have hungered."
Your mouth was dry. "What would you have me do? To… to ease it?" Quiet. Anything louder would shatter the space between you, delicate as spun sugar.
He stared at you for a second. "I—"
A raucous, piercing volley of cheers suddenly erupted — you jolted in place, head snapping to the doorway. There was nobody there, of course. The festivities had not reached you.
When you turned, Maekar hadn't moved. His eyes were still fixed on you, narrowed as if in annoyance. His mouth was screwed up, pursed. With a tilted head, you opened your mouth to ask what he was thinking — but his hands were coming up, and you didn't shrink from them. You watched them disappear from your view, but you could feel the heat of them as they neared your body — and then his fingers were on you, warm and thick, hooked beneath the chin of your mask. Your heart was rabbiting, now, breath stuck in your throat. You couldn't breathe — wouldn't breathe, rather, caught in the anticipation of his touch.
Suddenly your cheeks were being cooled by as he pulled the mask up and over your head, unfalteringly gentle. Strands of hair clung to your forehead and cheeks, damp with sweat, but you felt no embarrassment. His fingers were still splayed across your jaw — just as they had been, back in his tent at the tourney. You'd dreamed of them ever since — but in all those dreams, he had never looked at you like this. It was frightfully vulnerable, even with his jaw clenched as it was, and his eyes glaring as they were — there was something in his that had softened, had bared itself to you. How had you thought yourself second-fiddle? How could you, for one moment, see what he felt as anything less than what it was?
"Your father has given his permission," he said, and his voice was softer than you thought possible. Maekar Targaryen, the Anvil, was whispering to you with such fragility. Holding your face like something precious, his nose nudging against yours. "Marry me."
Oh, gods. You were not being punished. This could not be punishment, divine or otherwise. Your hands shook, and you squeezed them between your thighs — a grin so bright and satisfied pulling at your lips, and you hadn't the strength to dim it. They were the words you'd longed to hear. The affirmation your heart had long desired. To hear them spill from his lips -- to see his face contort in abashment, as if to say the words were a weakness that struck the very heart of him...
"I — I will, of course," you said, embarrassingly breathless. If you just leaned forward, you could… "I've -- only been waiting a year, you foolish man."
His laugh came in a sharp burst. "Yes, and you've been ever so patient."
"Only as much as you have," you said. "Though I shall warn you — I am horrendously jealous, and scornful, and spiteful, and I have tried terribly to shield you from it. If you marry me, I shan't be any better."
A pale eyebrow quirked. "Oh?"
"I may be worse, even," you added. "A wife must covet her husband, after all."
"You'll find no argument with me," he said — and, as if noticing for the first time how close he'd pulled you, released your jaw like it burned him. Maekar cleared his throat, sitting straight once more, though you didn't miss his eyes' traitorous path back to your mouth.
"Come," you said, shaking your head fondly. A giddiness took you over — you were tired no more, springing to your feet with zeal. "There is wine to celebrate, and we simply must inform everyone, of course, and — are you quite alright?"
With a pained groan, Maekar pushed himself to standing. He stretched tall, and you winced as you heard something pop.
"Fuck me," he cursed. "I'm not as young as I once was."
maekar targaryen ii x reader
wc; 11.6k
summary; a day comes and passes. a celebration is had. things change -- for worse, before better.
cw; grief, mourning, angst w/ happy ending, alcohol, marriage
previous part / masterlist
read on ao3!
Peace did not seem to last long where you were concerned.
It started as a small, niggling sort of feeling; a distinct feeling of wrongness that sat stubbornly in your chest.
The children — whom you'd spent almost a fortnight entertaining in secret, across cyvasse boards and naturalist tomes and (terribly poor) embroidery — slowly, surely, began to withdraw. You wondered whether it was somehow a fault of yours, but all you'd truly done was send for sweets and listened as they spoke themselves into a stupor… Admittedly, you still stumbled over certain interactions, acclimating slowly to the motherly role you would soon take; and thus, your table was soon empty, the gardens home only to the tweeting birds, the library as quiet as death.
It wasn't a worry you could bring to Maekar, for obvious reason; as Daeron had said, he was very particular about these things, and you had no desire to get the children in trouble with their father. Not only would it shatter the trust that you'd built with them, but besides that, Maekar had grown to be a problem of his own.
In truth, he'd done nothing of grand offence.
Of course, there was the matter of the missing proposal, which you gave some grace — it was to be, perhaps, the most politically pertinent alliance between Westeros and Essos of a generation, and thus there was much to prepare: correspondence to send across the Narrow Sea, dowries and settlements and resources to partition. It was not the proposal (or lack thereof) which vexed you most — it grated on you incessantly, but this you could forgive — no, it was the distinct feeling of distance which had descended on each and every interaction with him.
Slowly, surely, his mind had closed itself to you. The progress you'd made over many moons — prying his thoughts from him with a gentle hand and open ear and, yes, more than a little insubordination — seemed to be lost, fading with an imperceptible gradualness. There was no physical evasion, and for that you were glad at least: you could find him easily in his solar, or his apartments, or in the training grounds, and he had no qualms with spending time with you — but his mind had carried itself to a place you could not follow, and you were ignorant of how to bring it back. How to bring him back.
But no matter. It was clear there was some problem which you weren't privy to, but nonetheless you were determined to remain positive — when this odd period of retreat passed, you would be waiting. In the meantime, you did all those things a lady should do; read the appropriate books, wore the appropriate dresses, danced the appropriate dances to the appropriate music. You'd even begun hosting some of the courtiers in your apartments, having mixed properly with some at the tourney. There, of course, sprouted new problems.
Syrah was officially betrothed to Lord Yronwood. It was a development worth celebrating; you gifted her a fine spool of Braavosi silk with which to make her wedding dress, and took great pleasure in listening to her gush over her husband-to-be. The fact that Syrah was so quickly engaged, though, had become a point of some conversation in court — namely, in comparison to your own status of scandal and sin. It was no secret that you and Syrah were fond of each other; you imagined there was some spiteful humour in the fact that one of you — the less inflammatory one — was to be married without delay, while the other had nothing to show, apparently, for entertaining royalty.
(Though you allowed a litany of snide comments to roll off your back, you were able to concede that you were near green with envy. You'd waited a year. Never before had you exhibited such patience.)
Then, of course, there was the matter of—
"He wishes to marry me," Thoma said, hands wringing together. "Tyel, I mean."
The news sat between you for a moment.
Thoma had, apparently, struck up a romance with one of your guards.
This came as a great surprise to you — a great surprise, and a fair amount of hurt, no matter how much you pretended otherwise. It seemed you were missing more and more these days. Your sharp eyes and sharper tongue evaded you completely — it was all you could do to realise your mouth was agape, and close it.
Tyel and Thoma. You tried to imagine it. Thoma, who had never once insinuated her desire to marry, or anything more than a passing fancy; who turned her nose up at any who came close, and complained as easily as she breathed. Tyel, with his dark, curling hair, and bright green eyes, and mischievous smile. Thoma had, of course, spent more time with him than you ever would, and had obviously found something desirable; you knew very little about him, apart from his fighting prowess and talent with a flute. Sometimes you'd hear him on sunny days, playing when he was supposed to be guarding.
It was not an… unfavourable match. You were sure they'd be happy. It was only that there was a time where you would be the first to know such things. A time where Thoma trusted you to know. How much longer before you were a stranger to the woman you'd been a girl with? Before she disappeared into the ether to keep his home and have his babies, never to see or speak to you again?
"Only," Thoma said quietly, "he cannot afford to buy out my contract."
"Oh," you said smartly. "I… see."
Would she have told you about it, you wondered, if she had no need of your coin? It was a terrible thought, and you perished it.
"Well, of course it shall be dealt with — that should go without saying," you said. "I… congratulations, Thoma. Truly. Anything you might need, of course, I'll—"
Her mouth lengthened with a smile, a beaming thing, and she surged forward to take you in her arms. You had only just remembered to return the embrace — still shocked, really, at the news — when she pulled away, turning on her heel. "Thank you, my lady. Thank you!"
The door shut behind her. You blinked.
It seemed everything was intent on changing, and you were powerless to stop it. The thought infuriated you as much as it saddened you. You were to be married! You should be rosy with the light of love, glowing with youth, elated to begin a new chapter — instead, you were plagued by courtiers, hounded by your own loneliness, and grappling with your ineptitude.
Yes. Peace was an elusive mistress, it seemed. She did not come to you at breakfast, nor luncheon, nor in the gardens, or in dreams; you sat and waited for her to join you at your dinner table, idly prodding at your meal with a fork.
Maekar. Rhae, Daella, and Aegon. Syrah. The court. Thoma. A weary sigh left you — and as if called to action, a throat cleared.
"My lady," Zelma began, shuffling to stand before you. "If I may…"
"Yes?"
"I — well. I wonder if I might show you something. To raise your spirits."
"Oh?" It was comical in a way. Your spirits were not terribly low, but then you supposed they weren't at all high either. Clearly, your staff could tell. You wondered if it unsettled them, your uncharacteristic silence. The past few weeks had been spent in ignorant elation, after all, anticipating a proposal that hadn't yet come; then, a high-strung sort of annoyance as you realised the fickleness of the world around you. "Yes, of course."
Amused, you watched as she scampered from your solar and disappeared. She returned within a minute, something bundled in her arms — without realising it, you'd held out your hands, and she placed the item gently down.
It was a mask.
Made to cover the entire face, constructed entirely of cloth-of-gold; beaded from top to bottom in a swirl of cascading flowers, with loops of golden embroidery framing it, and tassels hanging from the sides as if to mimic earrings. It was familiar — and you'd never held it before, never seen this particular mask, but it was familiar in that way that certain things are, like the sea or sky.
Your throat suddenly tightened, and you cursed yourself.
In your hands was a piece of home, and it was small, and you knew the warp and weft of it as if it were the surface of your own skin.
The Unmasking of Uthero was a yearly celebration commemorating the revelation of Braavos to the world — a ten day masked soiree of revelry and food and dance. For those ten days, the city was awash with excitement; all petty squabbles and grudges could be set aside to drink and make merry. On the final day, at midnight, the Titan would sound his fearsome roar, and all masks would be removed. It was a unity you hadn't experienced since you'd left home.
Swallowing, you attempted a smile, though a pang of sadness soured your stomach. "You thought to bring masks? I… I didn't even realise what time it was."
"You've been otherwise preoccupied," said Zelma, not unkindly. "I thought, when we left, that it might make us feel more at home — though the first day came and passed, and I thought better of it. These westerners already think us strange."
Your mask last year had been a dark, bloody red, bejewelled with emeralds and sapphires. You wondered if it was still where you left it, in the trunk at the end of your childhood bed, beneath cloaks and dresses you'd long outgrown.
"It used to be my favourite festival." Your sisters had tried to trick you once by wearing identical masks, but you'd always been able to tell them apart, no matter how similar they looked or spoke. How long has it been since you'd received a letter from them? A few moons, no doubt. They were young girls steadily coming into their own, too busy to think of you. And you, in turn — disgracefully — had done the very same. Their eldest sister. "And I did not remember."
You seized your bottom lip between your teeth to keep it from trembling.
"'Tis no fault of your own, my lady," Zelma rushed to say. "Though, er… it is the eighth day, today — we shan't have the full ten, but surely we could celebrate?"
You hesitated. She was right. It would unnerve the court to see you walking around, face shrouded, and so you'd have to sequester yourself away — but it would be nice to partake, even if the celebration would be short-lived and poorly-planned and not at all like it should be.
'Tis only two days, a part of you said. You can afford to disappear for two single, measly days, can you not?
You looked up at Zelma — eyes hopeful, hands clasped before her. She was waiting for your permission, and your guilt only worsened. Admittedly, you tended to forget that your staff had left their homes much like you had — that you weren't the only one yearning for a time and place that had surely changed in your absence.
"I… suppose so," you said finally. "But Zelma, we must stay between our quarters—"
"Oh, you shan't regret it!" she exclaimed. "I'll run to the kitchens and ask them to prepare a feast, my lady, and we'll have dancing—!"
Her excitement was infectious, and she began clearing away your plates with great zeal. You found yourself laughing, blinking away the beginnings of tears. "Was I the only one who didn't prepare?"
"Yes," she admitted. "But you've had more than enough to worry about, my lady. Sit tight! I shall be back, and with sweets and music and company."
Your smile lasted even when she left. You held the mask up, watching it shimmer even in the low, dreary light.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
To say it was the first day that you felt most yourself would be false. You had felt very much yourself in Maekar's champion's tent, hands upon his armour; in his solar, drinking tea and reading aloud; playing cyvasse and listening to his hissed curses when you stole a particularly important piece. Or walking with Syrah through the gardens. Looking after Rhae's birds, and following Daella's deft movements as she embroidered. Watching Aegon's brow furrow as he regarded his pieces upon the cyvasse board.
It wasn't that you had never felt yourself in the Red Keep — rather, it was that you'd left a certain version of yourself in Braavos, and hadn't worn her in many moons. She was even more carefree than you; she danced in circles with her handmaidens until fatigue forced her to stop; woke late the next day, and ate sweets for breakfast, and danced again. Beneath her mask, she smiled and pouted and grimaced and didn't bother to dim them. She danced herself into a tizzy and collapsed into a chair on her balcony, soaking up the sun.
The mask removed most of your periphery. It could be suffocating, at times — the hotness of your breath, and the incessant press of it against your skin, and the obstruction of your vision. But it also seemed to make everything brighter, too; you had a much greater appreciation for that which you could see, and the sun that heated your arms, and the freshness of wind through your hair.
The King held court as he always did, and you did not rush to join. Instead you opened all the windows and doors to your apartments and listened to the sounds of the city from your balcony. The rain had stopped through the night, a passed sadness, and the sky was clear and crystalline once more. You could hear everything: yelling from the harbour, smallfolk calling to each other in the street. Music from somewhere, light and lilting in the gentle breeze, carried in from a little street you'd likely never visit. A world far outside your purview.
You were reminded of Braavos in such a sudden jolt that a sickness twisted your stomach. You wished you could walk from this place like you would back home, traipse through the lanes and over the canals. You'd buy sweets from the first vendor you saw and sit with your handmaidens, eating with mannerless fervour. You'd pull Thoma into a dance with the performers on the street, and watch the young bravos peacock about with their swords with Zelma. For a few hours, you would be completely and utterly free — until you returned home, of course, and faced the tongue lashings of your mother. It was often easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.
You perked up suddenly.
"Zelma," you called. "Where is Neema?"
Zelma snickered, stretching her hands out like a cat. "Tucked away with a bottle of summer wine, I reckon."
"Hm."
"A curious hm if I've ever heard one."
"Yes. Say, if we were to go into town—"
She sat up suddenly. "Was it not by your own decree that we should stay inside?"
"Yes," you said smartly. "Inside my apartments. But if we go out — out there, where not a soul knows us—"
A snort. "Yes, and you can be stolen away for ransom."
"We shall take guards, of course. And masked and cloaked, who will recognise us?"
"I… suppose. Whatever's so important that it must be now?"
You thought of the night prior, blurred and muddled by wine and laughter. Now that you knew the nature of Thoma and Tyel's relationship, you couldn't miss it. Tyel had played his flute, and watched closely as she twirled and danced. He took every one of her requests with no complaint — The Fall of Racallio Ryndoon, which he'd played twice; The Maid Who Bathed in the Rhoyne; A Thousand Brides for the Father of Waters… And they had been playing dice together that morning, huddled together over two cups of tea.
You'd gifted them a necklace of rubies and garnets the size of your fist. It was enough to buy out their contracts, book passage across the sea, even build a house wherever they so desired. You hadn't asked what they planned to do. You supposed it really was none of your business, no matter how much the need to know niggled at you.
You shrugged, then. What could you say, really? Perhaps it was to satisfy a curiosity, or to experience life fully outside the court for the first time in moons — or to feel, for one moment, that you weren't being predated upon by an endless slew of treacherous families. Perhaps you wanted to experience something new, something novel, something that would take your mind off of Maekar and his brood and Thoma leaving and—
"King's Landing must have more to offer," you said eventually. A flock of gulls convened overhead, cawing as they descended towards the harbour, and you followed them until they disappeared from sight. "And when I marry, I will be carted away to Summerhall, only to return here upon matters of great importance. When will I have another chance to be as free here as I am now?"
If I marry, you thought dourly.
Your companion gave a hum of agreement, albeit a hesitant one, and within the hour you were bundled into a wheelhouse. Dressed in your mask and your most unassuming cloak, you painted a timid picture; Thoma and Zelma looked almost identical, chattering excitedly between themselves opposite you. The topic of conversation was, of course, Thoma's betrothal.
You chewed the inside of your cheek, staring out the window. It was a horrid thing, you knew; you should share in her excitement, but all their talks of marriage only turned your mind to Maekar. You wondered whether he missed you any, if he wondered where you were. It had only been two days since you'd last seen him, but your mood still worsened at the fact that he hadn't called on you since.
Sighing, you shook away such thoughts. Instead, you elected to focus on the land around you — this was why you were here, wasn't it? You'd traversed King's Landing twice before, and neither had satisfied.
The first came after almost a moon at sea, and you'd been in dire need of a solid bed to sleep on, conscious only through sheer power of will and nervousness. You remembered it the way one remembers bad dreams: in strange, blurred flashes. You'd entered through the River Gate, its opening like the maw of a great beast; beyond it was the never-ending clamour of King's Landing, beginning with Fishmonger's Square — and oh, you remembered that well. The stench of decaying, rotting fish. The incessant din of yelling and heckling. The streets had been chock-full; for at least an hour, your wheelhouse remained stagnant as Gold Cloaks attempted to clear the way of smallfolk and horses and carts and mules. It all seemed a bizarre apparition, a figment of your imagination.
Then there had been your short trip to the tourney. For the King's name-day a special route had been prepared, cleared of all any and all obstructions; the streets had been lined with pennons of black and red, muck shovelled from the road. A neat and pretty performance.
This time, you made a great effort to take notice of the city. The coachman took the wheelhouse down Shadowblack Lane. It was a quieter passage out of the Keep, twisting and steep, and soon left you at the foot of Aegon's High Hill; from there, the wheelhouse trundled onto a narrow street, pushing its way through little lanes and tight passages, splitting the sea of smallfolk like a hot knife through butter.
Even as your nose wrinkled, offended by the mud and dirt and ever-present stench, you found your excitement slowly mounting. How had you been here nigh on a year, and never thought to explore further than the Keep?
Well, it wasn't as if the thought had never struck you — it had, more than once, but you were easily dissuaded by the smell, and the danger, and a grimace from a certain pockmarked man with opinions that simply must be heard. Then there'd been the tourney, of course, and your curiosity had been momentarily sated — but this was a world away from the tourney grounds, the stalls and crates erected in the field. The streets were less manicured, the buildings tall and teetering; it seemed, in its vastness, a sprawling beast not even the King could hope to contain.
Eventually, as the shadow of the Keep grew more distant, the congestion worsened. The wheelhouse slowed and slowed until it stopped altogether, and there was a sharp knock on the door.
"Apologies, m'lady," said a Gold Cloak, peeking his head in. "The streets prove difficult to clear."
"That's alright," you said. "We can continue on foot from here, can we not?"
"On foot, m'lady?" he echoed.
You blinked. "Well, how close are we to our destination, good sir?"
"Er—" He cast a doubtful look at your handmaidens— "No more than ten minutes, I reckon, but—"
"Ten minutes by wheelhouse," Thoma interjected. "By foot, we'll be almost half an hour — it's dangerous."
"If it please you, m'lady," said the guard, "between your own guard and those of the City Watch, we number five. Two can stay to keep the wheelhouse, three can accompany you."
"Then it is settled." You glanced over at Thoma and Zelma — you could sense their hesitance, even behind their masks. "Oh, come now. We were to peruse the markets anyways. What difference does it make if we walk a little longer?"
"At least we're away from Flea Bottom," Zelma said. "And… not too far from the market, I suppose."
With a victorious grin, you took the Gold Cloak's proffered hand and ducked beneath the doorway — instantly, you're thrown into streams of smallfolk, moved back and forth as if pulled by the tide. Your shoulder was jostled, and you're pressed uncomfortably forward, side jutting into the sharp edge of his couter — but you reached out and seized Thoma's hand in yours, and she Zelma's, and the guards closed ranks around you.
"I don't believe your beloved will be very happy," somebody muttered behind you. You didn't deign to give them a response.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
The markets served their purpose. Of course, you garnered a fair number of stares (masked as you were), but between your guards' formidable stature and the relentless movement between stalls and shopfronts, the smallfolk left you alone. They had better things to do, it seemed, than ogle your strange group; hauling baskets, carts, and sacks, the world bustled past you in a blur of noise and colour.
It was refreshingly loud. You enjoyed the gentle sounds of the Keep, the music played in the ladies' solar, and water trickling from fountains, and the distant clang of sword-fight, but there was great liberty in knowing you could speak as loud as you wanted, and nobody would blink an eye. You wouldn't be heard over the woman crowing an unmissable deal on her Dornish lemons, which you believed were actually yellow-painted apples, or the man announcing the sale of his odds and ends.
Of course, it was dirtier than you were accustomed to. You were used to brick and tile and pavement, and canal-boats; mud and filth had soaked through the hem of your cloak and dress, and you knew it would have to be scrubbed in boiling water to save it. The streets did not smell of gold or roses, but the mask obscured enough to make it bearable, and if you ducked into a shoppe or two, you'd avoid it completely.
It was in one such shoppe that Thoma suddenly confronted you, standing between two bolts of velvet. Zelma was using her time to flirt with the Gold Cloak that had accompanied you — you could see her through the window, grinning and staring like the cat who got the cream.
"Are you very upset with me?"
You glanced over at her, brows furrowed. "Upset?"
She was quiet for a moment.
"I know my… involvement with Tyel came as a surprise... This colour dulls your complexion, my lady. This one will suit better."
She brought you instead to a bolt of fabric the colour of dark, red wine, and you regarded it curiously.
"Yes, it did," you said, sniffing. "In fact, I… was quite upset."
Thoma shot you a look. "No longer?"
"… Perhaps, in a way. I admit, I… I couldn't imagine a time where you might've fallen in love and not told me. It was this that came most as a shock."
"I am sorry," she said quietly. "I only wanted something for myself for a while. My life is yours, my lady — it has always been yours, since I joined your staff. It can wear, at times."
The fabric was as smooth as silk; when you lifted it towards the light, its sheen was a bright, burned orange, almost unnatural in its brilliance. You waved a hand, and the attendant scurried over; at your request, he carried the fabric away to cut a length from it, and you were left alone. You pretended to not be hurt by her words — in truth, there was nothing hurtful in them. She had every right to act as she had. It was you who craved more than most could give — you who expected full, unyielding loyalty, you whose gluttony could be surpassed by none.
"Should you wish to leave," you said, "I shan't stop you."
"I know." Whether it was pity or joy in her voice, you did not know; you imagined a sad sort of smile upon her pretty face, and dug in your cloak for your coin pouch. From this, you obtained a single silver stag.
"I would never force you to stay by my side."
"Yes, my lady. I know."
The stag sat upon the table. You could feel her eyes boring into the side of your face, and sighed.
"I've lived more than ten years by your side," you said quietly. "I have not learned, yet, how to be without you."
You did not imagine the shake in her voice, then; the tremble in her hand as she reached out and clasped it around your wrist. "You will learn, my lady."
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
Upon waking that morning, you had felt that things were coming to a head.
'Twas not a particular sense of doom that sat heavy on your chest; it was something different, a sick sort of anticipation, a foreboding that had you burrowing deeper into your blankets. Your head ached, but it was not the familiar dullness of wine-sickness.
The world had swollen with rainwater. You woke to the sound of it pitter-pattering through your open window, roaring and rushing with such power that you believed, for a moment, you were right beside the sea. Yes — you could see it. Rolling, navy waves crested by foaming white; a sky like blackened charcoal as far as the eye could see.
You opened your eyes and found your quarters dark, as if the sun hadn't bothered to rise. The curtains were drawn open, as you'd left them the night before after drinking yourself to sleep, and through the window you saw your imagination hadn't been too distant: the world was grey. The heavens had split open, and their fruits obscured all of King's Landing — the bright roofs, and the shadow of the Blackwater, and the spires and towers. It was all grey. All blurred. Yesterday, the sun had been scorching.
Yes, you thought, gaze fixed on the ceiling. Something is amiss. Unsettled.
They said the Bloodstone Emperor ushered in the Long Night upon usurping his sister. A terrible darkness fell across the earth, bathing everything in blackness; his betrayal laid waste to entire generations, spreading famine and war and terror across the known world. You looked to your ceiling and wondered if you were being punished for something.
The door to your inner chambers creaked as it opened.
"Good morning," came Neema's familiar husk. A lit match in hand, she rounded the room, setting each sconce afire and casting the room in warmth. Her mask was missing. "Your breakfast has been set out, my lady. Up you come, now."
You sat up — pushed away the lethargy that desperately clung to you, wiping at your eyes. She had extinguished the match, but made no move to gather your garments for the day; instead, she stood at the foot of your bed, looking for all the world as if she had more to say.
Your stomach turned. Something was afoot.
"What is it?" you asked. You thought the worst. Had there been word from your father, displeased with the fourth prince's offer of marriage? Or was it Maekar? He'd discovered your clandestine meetings with his brood, and the disrespect was too much for him to accept— "Why… why are you looking at me like that? Where is your mask?"
Neema shuffled, the action so at odds with her usual confidence that you felt your throat tighten. "I… thought it important you know," she said carefully, "that this day is a sombre one. The anniversary of Lady Dyanna Dane — the day of her passing, that is."
Oh.
Your back was suddenly straight as a blade, the sheets clutched tight between your fingers. The weight of the Keep itself had pinned you to your bed, tossing you abruptly into awareness. You saw yourself, for a moment, as if peering down from the ceiling; sitting in the large expanse of your bed, wide-eyed and undone, hair still pulled back for sleeping. Ignorant that the man she would marry — that she expected to marry — was saddled with such mourning. Sleeping late on a day where she should be showing the courtiers that she, too, was mourning a woman she'd never known.
In the back of your mind, you'd known the day would inevitably come — that it existed — but it had always presented itself as a distant, intangible thing. The death of his wife. It happened, and it had happened before you, and it was brushed over in that way that one brushes over uncomfortable things, like bruised and tender skin.
Maekar hadn't said anything, you thought with a strange and sudden sense of shame. Neither had Rhae, nor Daella, nor Aegon.
It dawned on you, then, that this was the source of their strange behaviour, their withdrawal. You couldn't imagine what they might feel approaching the day they lost their mother, and preparing for a new one all the while — they were young, yes, and did not remember her as well as Daeron or Aerion or even Aemon, but they had known her enough to love her. Why would you expect them to have told you? To speak the words, as if they would not tear the throat from them?
But Maekar? Were you so untrustworthy? Too shallow or callous? Perhaps he thought you wouldn't care — or perhaps, worst of all, the idea simply hadn't struck him: you weren't significant enough to tell such things. Who were you? A young woman not yet betrothed. A foreigner in a foreign land. A conveniently ignorant confidant.
You released the sheets. Your palms were sore, your knuckles aching from the force with which you'd tensed them. You suddenly felt very tired, though you'd slept through the night like a milk-warmed babe.
No. No, don't be a fool. You pinched the bridge of your nose between your fingers, screwing your eyes shut.
Their mother was dead. His wife was dead, and you couldn't be so selfish as to overstate your importance in it all, as much as it pained you. You'd forgotten his reservation in the privilege of his company; it had taken many moons before he'd divulged more than surface-level pleasantries and indignation — memories of his mother, and Dyanna, and his fondness for his brothers, especially Rhaegel. The Blackfyre Rebellion and its bloody battlefield. Scars that marred his skin, pockmarks on his cheeks.
You'd forgotten, in the midst of your knowing him, how difficult it was for him to allow it. It was often — when faced with matters of particular sentimentality — that his tongue and countenance stilled, froze themselves into impenetrable barricades; he would rather swing a sword than speak to vulnerability, and of this you held no illusions.
Still. You thought you allowed him the space for it. You thought…
The shame deepened. You pressed your palms to your eyes, and sighed wearily. You'd expected Syrah would tell you, at least, but then she was all aflutter over Lord Yronwood. It wasn't her fault.
"Breakfast," you mumbled. "Breakfast, and then… we should pray."
"At the alter?" A note of surprise lifted her voice.
"No," you said. "Or, yes. I… I must be in the royal sept, with the rest of them, where they can see me. But later… later, I shall light candles..."
It was ironic in an infuriating sort of way. The courtiers held no love for their Dornish peers, and you can't imagine much was changed when Lady Dane was alive; but she was dead, and so they venerated her while scorning her compatriots all the while. Were she still living, they'd be the same vipers they were now, and nothing would change.
But if you dared to hide away today, to seek privacy and meditation, your reputation — which was already sullied, for obvious reasons — would be completely and utterly beyond repair.
"Modest clothing," you said finally. "Modest, and humble."
Your mask was left upon your nightstand.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
After breaking your fast, you dressed in a gown of dark, green silk. The collar fastened where your shoulders began, and it covered almost every inch of skin except your hands, face, and a sliver of neck. There was no grand ornamentation or jewellery, nothing that could be misconstrued as haughty or boastful. Even your hair was tied back simply.
You had been to the royal sept only thrice before — each time accompanied by Syrah, who was not particularly devout, but took the sept to be yet another meeting place where one could engage in courtly politics. This was, of course, her favourite pastime.
It was not as large as the Great Sept of Baelor, the grand domes and spires of which you could spy from a great distance, but it could quite comfortably seat hundreds in its rows of benches if needed; the ceiling was impossibly tall and pointed, and the walls impregnated by high crystalline windows. Had it been sunny today, they would cast rays of rainbow through the space, illuminating the pale marble in colour — but it was decidedly not, and the interior remained colourless, save for candlelight. It seemed fitting.
It was a pleasant place, familiar in that way that places of worship tended to be. A comforting stillness blanketed the interior, and the air was fragrant with incense and candle-wax. The only sounds to be heard were quiet, whispered prayers from the clusters of courtiers who came and went, and the constant hum of rain. You were glad for it. You were in no mood to talk, though you often felt the press of eyes against your spine.
Remembering what little you knew of the Seven, you lit candles before the Stranger and the Maiden, praying for Dyanna and yourself alike. You took a seat on a bench, and hoped your own gods wouldn't be too offended by your offerings.
In truth, you hadn't planned to stay long; you would light the candles, be seen with your head bowed in supplication, and leave to mull over your thoughts in your quarters. But your mind had been at war with itself since that morning, and the sept offered a certain breed of silence that tempered it.
You had wondered — from the very moment you'd discovered the importance of the day, really — whether you should seek to comfort Maekar. You were no stranger to his usual haunts, and could most likely find him with ease; whether he would appreciate it, though, was another conversation entirely. Maekar's feelings around Dyanna's death were not a topic you commonly stumbled into; he had shared some memories of her, you remembered, but both of you tended to give the reality of your relationship a wide berth, in that way one avoids uncomfortable truths.
(But was it not your right to offer such solace?
Had he need of it, he would have told you, said a distinctly petulant part of you. Instead, he left you to realise the importance of the day from your servants.)
He was most likely spending the day with his children. It wouldn't do to intervene where you weren't wanted. You were already praying for the woman he loved — praying to gods you didn't believe in for a woman who'd had everything you wanted. That terrible, no-good, jealous part of you shuddered at the thought of seeing him bereft over another woman. It was a terrible thought — it made you sick to your stomach. And yet, it was you.
Hunger, greed, spoiled as curdled milk. The worst of you. You wanted in a way that was unsavoury — and quite frankly, you'd been reminded of it far too many times in the past moons. You'd never given it deep thought before, but every time your limits were tested — by Lenila Lannister, by Thoma, by the ghost of a dead woman, or by Maekar himself— it presented itself, maw bared and bloody. Selfish.
You wished you'd been born twenty years earlier, been given the opportunity to meet him before he'd been given to anyone else, before he'd even laid his eyes upon another woman — that you could have stolen him away in his youth and seized his heart as Dyanna had, and claimed the same unfaltering ownership that she had. You wished he had never known any woman as wife, for the very thought of it soured something rotten in your stomach. You wished he only thought of you, that his mind was plagued by it, that it sickened and satiated him in the same breath — you screwed your eyes shut and imagined scrubbing his mind of all traces of her, of her touch, so that he only knew you and your skin and your scent and your voice and—
Your breath came trembling. Your disgust was a palpable thing, curling and churning in your stomach; it was the same sickening twist of shame that had grasped you early that morning, only you couldn't blame your weariness any longer. You were awake, wide-eyed and watchful; terrible in your jealousy, and your selfishness, and your envy. You didn't think it would ever leave you — it was sewn into your very being, entwined with your very sense of self.
In truth, you'd never given much weight to goodness or badness — on account, mostly, of never truly having to. But you remembered the storybooks of your youth, the tales of heroes and princesses, the black and white of it all. You had wanted to be those princesses, once. Your father had told you it'd never happen if you kept being so mean, the terror of a child that you were, and you had ignored him as you often did. Whether you or he was right remained to be seen — your aforementioned meanness had never left you penniless, only lonely.
The blank, knowing visage of the Maiden stared back at you. These gods could hear your thoughts sullying their land, their place of worship, spilling like brackish water across their pristine tile and marble. Perhaps it was they who sought to punish you.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
It was a strange mood that you found yourself in: somehow, despite yourself, you left the sept both lighter and heavier than you were when you first arrived. The rain had not eased — in fact, it seemed to have gotten worse — but it did not carry the same trepidation; you regarded it not as an omen of ill-will, but a simple, dreary day. Water for the crops.
You had missed luncheon and hardly noticed it, and the time for dinner was soon upon you. It had been a long time that you'd sat in the sept, silent, suspended in an odd sort of trance. There was some comfort in confronting that which plagued you, and that which you held great shame for; you sat in the malaise of it, stewed in your shortcomings, and the sky had not shattered upon you. The gods did not strike you down. You were covetous and invidious, and the world had not ended in darkness or flame or ice; apparently, your personal complications were to be the height of your penalty. You almost preferred the sky-shattering.
Upon returning to your quarters, you donned your mask again, hoping, absurdly, to salvage the last day of celebration; you ate a paltry meal, and then resigned yourself to your alter. It was a tiny thing shoved into a mostly-forgotten nook in a corner of your apartments. You never were very devout; the alter was mostly for your staff, who'd added their own pendants and figures.
It was cluttered. Your father and mother worshipped two different gods of the same pantheon, and thus you'd grown up somewhere betwixt the two. There was the Maiden-Made-of-Light, carved from pale, pearlescent stone — your mother's patron, who, upon witnessing the cruelty of man, turned her back upon the world; there was the Lion of Night in dark obsidian, then, favoured by your father. He who came forth to punish man's wickedness during the Long Night. Whether you favoured either more, you did not know.
You sat before that alter and stared. At the statues, the incense, and the offerings — jewels and precious things, from you; food and scraps of pretty fabric from your staff. It was a pity that you'd never been more pious; perhaps it could have made you a more graceful girl. But even with your gracelessness, you lit a candle for Dyanna Dane, and shut your eyes and prayed for her, even though your jealousy burned something fierce.
She had been his first wife. The mother of his children. A woman with hopes and likes and dislikes, much like you, and a stranger in King's Landing. You wondered whether she felt the Keep's walls tightening around her at times, as you did. Whether the sense of alienation ever fully went away.
You hated her. And yet you were her, in many ways.
A throat cleared. You looked up from the Maiden-Made-of-Light, and met Neema's gaze. How long had you spent on your knees? Your ankles ached, and from the window you could see the sky had become inky. Deeper in your apartments, you could hear the distant sound of music and merrymaking, cheers as rounds of dice were thrown.
"Oh. Hello."
"It has been a long time since I've seen you pray," she said, kneeling at your side. She bowed her head for a moment, and you imagined her lips moving beneath the mask in silent prayer. "It reminds me of when you were a girl."
"I did say I would."
"Saying and doing are often two very different things."
You hummed. You could feel the heat of her beside you, shoulder to shoulder, and you thought of a time before — before, when your mother would send you to pray after you'd been particularly horrid. You'd huff and puff the whole way, but sometimes, when Neema took pity on you, she'd sit by your side, silent and reverent as she completed her own worship. Back then, you were smaller. Kneeling together, the top of your head would barely reach her shoulders.
"To think," Neema mused, "there was once a time where you could only be dragged here."
A snort-like laugh left you. "It seems I've grown in more than height."
"So you have," she agreed. You felt her eyes upon your cheek, then, and turned your gaze to meet them. "I know there was some difficulty in today. And that Thoma's betrothal was… unanticipated."
"Yes, that goes without saying."
"I imagine you have a lot in that mind of yours," Neema said. "Speak, and I will listen."
She gently nudged her shoulder against yours, and you shook your head.
"I have made peace with Thoma. I was saddened, at first, of course, but there is more to life than I.
"The prince… at first, I didn't know what was worse," you admitted. "That he hadn't thought to inform me of the day, or that he had planned to, and thought better of it. Both ideas infuriate me."
You worried your skirt between your fingers. But there was nothing to fear, not from Neema. She knew you the way a mother knew her child.
"You know, I pitied myself this morning. Told myself that I wouldn't be wanted by his side. And then there was the thought of it, of seeing such sadness upon his face, pining for a woman long passed — I know myself. I know I couldn't handle it." You swallowed. "Even so, I… I wanted him to call on me, to seek comfort in me. And he hasn't, and so he has proven me right."
"Your pride has been wounded."
"'Tis not a matter of pride, but of… of…" You shook your head. You didn't know. Perhaps it was pride — but you knew pride, had walked alongside her your entire life. You'd felt her thorns and needles those weeks after you'd promenaded with Valarr, and had overcome it. This feeling, now, was edged with melancholy. Doubt. "And then I thought — how selfish of me! A woman has passed, and I pity myself. I covet her husband, and her children, and her life. I was disgusted by my own cruelty."
"Cruelty," Neema mused. "Is that what you call it?"
"What would you?"
"Fear, I think."
For a moment you stared at your hands in your lap, bunched up together and clutching each other; then you eyed the flickering flames of Dyanna's candle, the long shadows it cast over the cluttered table. The rain had eased to a gentle trickle, the night humid and muggy, tempered only by a light breeze. It stirred the curtains, and you listened to the whisper of wool against the ground. The music continued; Tyel was at the flute again, but somebody had brought a lute, and together they played a jaunty tune.
Neema groaned as she pushed herself to her feet, rubbing at her hips as she did. "I am not as young as I once was, my lady, and neither are you."
The soft scuff of her slippers against the floor neared the doorway, but—
"I do not know how to be unafraid," you blurted. "Not yet."
(I have not learned, yet, how to be without you.)
There was a pause, and she returned to you. A hand planted itself upon your head. You were seven again, pouting at the alter, refusing to pray out of spite. "It comes with time, and time alone."
(You will learn, my lady.)
Somehow, despite the ambiguity of it, you felt a sense of relief. As if, with those simple words and simple gesture, she'd given you permission: live, and you will learn along the way, and it is neither a shame nor a hindrance.
"Now, do hurry," she said warmly. "It won't be long until the unmasking, and wine to go with it."
You couldn't help the smile that overcame you. "Yes, of course. I shall."
With a final smile of her own, she left you to your devices, and you were alone once more.
For the first time that day, you felt oddly at ease. The tension you'd been holding simply seeped from you; you found yourself slumping, resting your weight upon a single arm. Your eyes fell shut, and you listened to the pleasant sounds of living around you.
It had been a long day. A heavy one. You'd be glad to put it behind you; you'd be glad to see your bed, in fact, but it wouldn't do to miss the celebrations. Yes, once you'd drank and danced yourself to sleep — and fastened your head correctly upon your shoulders — you would go to Maekar, and you would tell him quite plainly how much you appreciated being left in the dark.
You wondered how often Dyanna had to wrangle him into sense, like diverting a charging boar. It seemed a never-ending task, separating the man from the warrior. It wasn't that he was totally unpractised in the ways of sociability, either — only that, more often than not, he simply didn't care to engage in them. Who cared for niceties on the battlefield?
His was a blunt sort of love, fitting a blunt sort of man. You'd never trade it for anything, as unhappy as you presently were with him.
The door creaked behind you.
"Yes, yes," you called. "I'll be there in a moment. Surely you haven't drank all the wine already?"
"…That explains the behaviour of your staff, then," came a familiarly miffed voice.
Your head snapped to the doorway.
There, in his regular ebony-and-red, stood the very man of whom you'd been thinking. Maekar's hands were clasped behind his back, and he regarded you with his usual frown — one not borne of any particular grievance, but simple habit. There was darkness beneath his eyes, though; a certain limpness to his hair, and a pallid sort of colour to his already pale cheeks.
He was standing there, as if it were a day as customary as any.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
The girl stared at him — he could see those eyes of hers, even beneath the mask, even in the candlelit room. He could find them in a crowd, he thought. She often had the habit of widening them — batting her eyelashes and rounding her gaze into something innocent and girlish, but now they were narrowed, like those of a cat. Fixed upon him with a similar sort of intensity.
Clasped in his hands was a letter. It had arrived that morning — miraculously dry, for the weather, baring a seal of emerald green. It had come at breakfast, and the arrival of it had pierced the tension at the table like a hot knife through butter. There was no mistaking the emblem: a golden key and coin. Daella's sharp eyes had followed its path through the room to Maekar's hands.
The courier had ridden and sailed non-stop through the rain, and was sopping with water, completely ragged. Maekar would have felt some modicum of pity for the man if he hadn't been awaiting him the past fortnight.
Of course, he thought, it would come to me today, of all days.
He did not look forward to Dyanna's anniversary. Sun or rain, wind or humidity — he dreaded the day like he dreaded the point of a sword, and the apprehension of it begun long before the day itself.
He disliked remembering her loss; he disliked the sullenness that overcame his children, the sadness that seeped all joy from living. He disliked the constant, unremitting introspection the day forced him into, the kind that would have his mind wandering without his permission. He disliked saying the words aloud — the my wife is dead words — and he disliked, especially, the idea of saying them to you.
Dyanna was no longer his wife. She hadn't been for a long time, and his heart had bloomed anew, softened into something he didn't think possible. But habit was habit was habit, and Maekar was a decidedly old dog. He hadn't said the words to you.
It was a selfish decision. An easier decision. Courting you had been maddening, yes — infuriating, rife with little squabbles and tiffs punctuated by the sharpness of your smile. Every disagreement could be ended by a simple wave of your pretty hand and a murmur of his name — damn him, it was true. But no matter how vexing, nothing yet had cut as deeply as this.
It was easier to not look you in your eyes — narrowed, widened, batting eyelashes or not — and tell you that Dyanna was dead, and the day was approaching, and there was no stopping it. And there would be no stopping it. For as long as he lived, the day would cut, and he didn't love you any less.
You would be angry with him. He anticipated this.
"The winds," the courier had wheezed, holding the letter out, "they were most unfavourable, my lord."
Fuck the winds. He knew you to be as impatient as he was, and his own tolerance was wearing thin. He'd rolled his neck to dislodge some of his tension.
He'd tore the letter from the man's hand and sliced the seal away with a bread knife — pretending quite well to not feel the weight of his children's eyes on him. His eyes traced the lines of Lord Manwoody's hand, and not for the first time, he was glad of the man's presence in Braavos; your father was incredibly vigilant where you were concerned — you, and his coffers. Had Lord Manwoody not returned to Braavos to mediate your betrothal, Maekar feared it would've taken thrice as long as it already did.
He read the words. Agreeable. More to discuss followed, but it mattered not. He'd seen all he needed to see. He held a future in his hands — a future he'd coveted, and wished for, and desired for the better part of a year.
The letter was placed down, and he leaned back in his chair, abandoning the plate he'd been idly picking from. It felt as if a great weight had been taken from him — and yet he couldn't move, couldn't make use of the nervous energy gathering in his legs. He had to remember what day it was — what was expected of him, and what was deserved.
He visited the sept — not the royal sept, but the Sept of Baelor, which he only found himself in once every decade, it seemed. It was where he had gotten married, and now it was where he mourned. Aegon couldn't stop squirming in his seat during prayer, and Rhae barely prayed at all — just stared at the candles and dipped her fingers into the wax when she thought he wasn't looking.
He dined with his father and brothers, then; a quiet affair, mostly, though Rhaegel had insisted on a song to brighten spirits. Maekar hadn't the energy nor heart to stop him. He stared into his wine and thought about the letter in his pocket.
He sent away the septas and maids and put the children to bed; extinguished the candles, read a story (Ten Thousand Ships, an account of Queen Nymeria's battles during the Rhoynish Wars — Aegon's favourite, it seemed) and tucked them in amongst their furs and blankets.
It felt like an apology of sorts; he wondered if they knew where he'd go, now that they were sleeping. If they had felt the warmth of the letter burning a hole in his pocket as they prayed and ate. If it felt as much a betrayal as it had to Aerion.
Unconsciously he took the letter from his doublet held it in his hands as he made his way to your quarters. His thumb traced the folds in the parchment, the wax of the seal. He could see the words in his mind's eye. Agreeable. Finally. He'd sent the first letter just after the tourney — that same night he made his choice clear to his father — and two more had followed since, each more pedantic than the last.
(Annoyance aside, he supposed he could admire your father's solicitude. He often felt the same.)
He held that letter in his hands now, clutched behind his back. Your stare had not abated.
"The Unmasking of Uthero," you said finally. "A celebration from home."
"That explains the masks," he said, on account of not knowing how to broach the obvious. Your frown deepened. "Your lady-servant said you've had them on since yesterday."
"They are to be removed at midnight," you said.
"You went to the markets," he added. He couldn't help the note of disapproval that made itself known. "King's Landing is dangerous."
There was a pause -- a scoff, and you shook your head. "You have no right to indignation, my lord."
Unconsciously, a scowl pulled at his face. My lord. You turned from him, then, lifting a matchstick to a candle. "How fare the children?"
"They... it is a difficult day."
A slow inhale. "Yes. I… thought it best to give you space today. I had no desire to intrude."
"You've never cared much for intrusion before. And I have always welcomed it."
"This is different." Your voice had sharpened. He despised it, he realised, not being able to see your face. Your eyes were most expressive, but there was much to know in the curve of your mouth, the tension of your brow. "You know it to be."
Silence reigned. Neither moved.
Then: "I am displeased, Maekar."
His jaw set. He deserved it, he knew, but it didn't make accepting it any easier. "Yes, I… know."
"Many times I have been angry with you, in fact, and I have held my tongue."
At this, he took pause — shifted in place, and replied with a sharp, disbelieving laugh. Today, he could admit. But others? He was not prepared for others. "Really?"
"Yes."
"Do tell."
Your glare was piercing. "I recall your punishment for my entertaining other men, though it was by your own suggestion—" He winced— "Or when you took Lenila Lannister's favour; or, perhaps, when you became distant and impenetrable over the past few weeks—!"
"Excuse me—" he tried.
"—but no anger I have felt thus far has matched that of today," you said. You had bunched up your skirt in your hands — grabbed the wool between your fingers as if to ground yourself. "To wake up and be informed of the day by my lady servant. To be completely and utterly clueless in the savagery of the court, as if they haven't enough reason to hate me already!"
His mouth snapped shut. A great well of pity rose within him.
He had assumed, admittedly, that you were much like him — open in your dislike of the court and its politics, its two-faced fellows and its cut-throat diplomacy, but willing to ignore it in the end. You often complained to him of ladies' luncheons and snide comments, and he, in turn, made clear his strained relationship with almost everyone; it was one of those inescapable things, the reason why he missed Summerhall more than anything.
He was not Baelor, who excelled in such places despite his own hatred for it; Maekar was not learned in the art of communication, and had never had to be. He had no need for charm or soft words on the battlefield, in the lists.
"I have been in this place for nigh on a year. You have known of my hatred for it, and you still — you still leave me to fend for myself at every turn."
Something like guilt sat in his stomach. He was not accustomed to the feeling. It was greatly uncomfortable — stuck his feet to the floor, and his frown to his face, and his hands tight around the letter.
"I have never given thought to what the court says or thinks. They're cunts," he said. He didn't know whether these words were the right ones — wincing, he continued: "And I — apologise, for that. For all I've angered you."
The discomfort remained, but he moved around it regardless; left the doorway and neared you with, perhaps, less caution than he should. He paused a moment at your side — waited for you to swipe out and push him away, forbid him from your quarters — but there was nothing to fear. You only watched, quiet. Maekar eased into the space beside you, huffing as he dropped. His old bones creaked.
He was face to face now with what he realised was an alter. He had paid little attention to it — his focus had gone straight to you. The table was awash with figurines and statues, bundles of colourful cloth, strings of jewels and beads. He imagined your head bowed in deference and felt inclined to raise it. He couldn't imagine your submission to anyone who was not him; he did not want to imagine it.
(He knew, in reality, that you were more likely to command him than the other way around.)
It was quiet again. Upon his entrance, your staff had quietened down some, but he could still hear the gentle strumming of the lute, the low thrum of chatter. The letter sat in his lap.
He grit his teeth.
"I have no talent with words. Forgive me," Maekar spoke. "I… had every intention of returning to the Stormlands within a moon of my coming here. I have little love for the Keep — if it were not my father's seat, I would be happy to never return."
"And yet, you stayed."
He nodded. "And yet."
Your fingers had released your dress. He watched as they slowly, surely made their way from your lap to his — hesitating over the letter, before moving to take his hands in them. Your skin was soft as satin, free of calluses and roughness. He couldn't imagine his hands were very pleasant to hold — large and unwieldy, callused and brutish. Made to hold a mace, not a lady. You cupped them gently regardless.
"You know that I care for you," he said quietly. "If I had not come across you that night, I would have returned to Summerhall. You have been infuriating, and maddening, and I have been ailed by the very thought of you, and I have stayed here for you."
A laugh erupted from you — and his eyes shot to your face, because the laugh was a warbling thing, thick with tears. Your eyes were glassy. "Infuriating. How romantic!"
He almost snorted. It would be the first time in years someone had called him that. Things were like that with you, he found; the first in years to touch him gently; to temper his vexation; to look at him not as the realm's prickly, impatient prince, but with a fondness he craved like air.
"Saying such things aloud — it has never been where I excel." His voice had taken on a note of pleading, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "You know this."
You hummed, thumb smoothing over a tensed tendon along the back of his hand. Your eyes were downcast. He wanted to rip that infernal mask off and see your face — your cheeks, your nose, your lips, your chin. "I thought, perhaps, that you thought me unimportant, or shallow. Unworthy of knowing."
The idea was almost offensive. Unimportant. He grimaced. Perish the thought. "Don't be a fool."
"Do not make a habit of it," you returned. Your eyes met again — and there they were. Widened and round, the picture of girlish innocence. "Do not close yourself to me again, Maekar. I couldn't bare it."
He swallowed. Traitorously, his hands twitched in yours, closing over your fingers. "I shan't."
"I will hold you to it. Now — what is it you've brought me?"
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
"The winds were unfavourable," Maekar said, peering down at the parchment. The seal — a sparkling, emerald green, emblazoned with the golden key and coin of your family — had been split from the parchment messily, as if he'd opened it with great impatience. "And your father has the fastidiousness of his daughter. The response took longer than anticipated."
You felt distinctly as if you were looking at your very own future — there, in his grasp, scrawled in dark ink in your father's hand. You knew what the letter would say. There would be no reason to deny that which you asked for, and yet fear persisted in that way it usually does: illogically, and foolishly.
"I can be patient," you heard yourself say, "when it suits me. Though I should scorn you, Maekar. You did make me wait terribly long."
A noise left him. "You have scorned me enough, girl."
The hush returned. You gathered your hands in your lap again — mourned the loss of his heat, and the feeling of his skin against you — and watched as his thumb worried the folded edge of the letter. A lump had formed in your throat.
"In truth," you said, before he could speak, "I spent the day in the sept, praying for a woman I did not know, unsure of my standing with you. I lit candles for her. Spoke to your foreign gods for her -- and for me, too."
You could feel his eyes on you. Yours remained resolutely on the letter.
"In those moments, I realised something terrible about myself; a gnawing, persistent desire I carry. I have tried to temper it — Neema says these things take time, but I fear it will never fully leave me. I've been this way since young."
"Are you trying to dissuade me? I shan't be."
You shook your head, a smile tugging at your lips. "I wouldn't allow you to be dissuaded -- you are mine to keep. But you know not of what I speak, Maekar. The thoughts I have."
"Desire," he echoed — and it was back again, you remarked fondly to yourself, that edge of annoyance he carried in his voice, as if wholly unimpressed by your lamentations. "Whatever desires plague you, they plague me thrice over—"
"I thought of devious things," you said quietly. "Graceless, unkind, selfish things, in that place of gods. I cursed them for placing me along your path so late, and I thought of all the ways I could keep you, as if you were a dog to be kept. I wanted you to… to… be tortured by the very thought of me, to ache as I have."
Air shuddered in your lungs. Whatever words you thought to say next died in your throat, and you could not bring yourself to look at him again. Instead you watched him twist the ring upon his thumb, the ruby catching candlelight.
"Do you think me a septon or eunuch?" he demanded. Your head shot up, and his gaze was already fixed on you. You were reminded, quite suddenly, of the proximity between you — shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. He eclipsed you almost completely, the King's Anvil, and he was bowed towards you now, shoulders hunched. If you hadn't had the mask, you might almost be nose to nose. His stare was intense. Desperate. Your heart thudded in your chest. "I am a man."
Your voice came as a whisper. "I know."
"You do not know the ways of men," Maekar said. "I promise you. You do not know the ways I have… have hungered."
Your mouth was dry. "What would you have me do? To… to ease it?" Quiet. Anything louder would shatter the space between you, delicate as spun sugar.
He stared at you for a second. "I—"
A raucous, piercing volley of cheers suddenly erupted — you jolted in place, head snapping to the doorway. There was nobody there, of course. The festivities had not reached you.
When you turned, Maekar hadn't moved. His eyes were still fixed on you, narrowed as if in annoyance. His mouth was screwed up, pursed. With a tilted head, you opened your mouth to ask what he was thinking — but his hands were coming up, and you didn't shrink from them. You watched them disappear from your view, but you could feel the heat of them as they neared your body — and then his fingers were on you, warm and thick, hooked beneath the chin of your mask. Your heart was rabbiting, now, breath stuck in your throat. You couldn't breathe — wouldn't breathe, rather, caught in the anticipation of his touch.
Suddenly your cheeks were being cooled by as he pulled the mask up and over your head, unfalteringly gentle. Strands of hair clung to your forehead and cheeks, damp with sweat, but you felt no embarrassment. His fingers were still splayed across your jaw — just as they had been, back in his tent at the tourney. You'd dreamed of them ever since — but in all those dreams, he had never looked at you like this. It was frightfully vulnerable, even with his jaw clenched as it was, and his eyes glaring as they were — there was something in his that had softened, had bared itself to you. How had you thought yourself second-fiddle? How could you, for one moment, see what he felt as anything less than what it was?
"Your father has given his permission," he said, and his voice was softer than you thought possible. Maekar Targaryen, the Anvil, was whispering to you with such fragility. Holding your face like something precious, his nose nudging against yours. "Marry me."
Oh, gods. You were not being punished. This could not be punishment, divine or otherwise. Your hands shook, and you squeezed them between your thighs — a grin so bright and satisfied pulling at your lips, and you hadn't the strength to dim it. They were the words you'd longed to hear. The affirmation your heart had long desired. To hear them spill from his lips -- to see his face contort in abashment, as if to say the words were a weakness that struck the very heart of him...
"I — I will, of course," you said, embarrassingly breathless. If you just leaned forward, you could… "I've -- only been waiting a year, you foolish man."
His laugh came in a sharp burst. "Yes, and you've been ever so patient."
"Only as much as you have," you said. "Though I shall warn you — I am horrendously jealous, and scornful, and spiteful, and I have tried terribly to shield you from it. If you marry me, I shan't be any better."
A pale eyebrow quirked. "Oh?"
"I may be worse, even," you added. "A wife must covet her husband, after all."
"You'll find no argument with me," he said — and, as if noticing for the first time how close he'd pulled you, released your jaw like it burned him. Maekar cleared his throat, sitting straight once more, though you didn't miss his eyes' traitorous path back to your mouth.
"Come," you said, shaking your head fondly. A giddiness took you over — you were tired no more, springing to your feet with zeal. "There is wine to celebrate, and we simply must inform everyone, of course, and — are you quite alright?"
With a pained groan, Maekar pushed himself to standing. He stretched tall, and you winced as you heard something pop.
"Fuck me," he cursed. "I'm not as young as I once was."
maekar targaryen ii x reader
wc; 11.6k
summary; a day comes and passes. a celebration is had. things change -- for worse, before better.
cw; grief, mourning, angst w/ happy ending, alcohol, marriage
previous part / masterlist
read on ao3!
Peace did not seem to last long where you were concerned.
It started as a small, niggling sort of feeling; a distinct feeling of wrongness that sat stubbornly in your chest.
The children — whom you'd spent almost a fortnight entertaining in secret, across cyvasse boards and naturalist tomes and (terribly poor) embroidery — slowly, surely, began to withdraw. You wondered whether it was somehow a fault of yours, but all you'd truly done was send for sweets and listened as they spoke themselves into a stupor… Admittedly, you still stumbled over certain interactions, acclimating slowly to the motherly role you would soon take; and thus, your table was soon empty, the gardens home only to the tweeting birds, the library as quiet as death.
It wasn't a worry you could bring to Maekar, for obvious reason; as Daeron had said, he was very particular about these things, and you had no desire to get the children in trouble with their father. Not only would it shatter the trust that you'd built with them, but besides that, Maekar had grown to be a problem of his own.
In truth, he'd done nothing of grand offence.
Of course, there was the matter of the missing proposal, which you gave some grace — it was to be, perhaps, the most politically pertinent alliance between Westeros and Essos of a generation, and thus there was much to prepare: correspondence to send across the Narrow Sea, dowries and settlements and resources to partition. It was not the proposal (or lack thereof) which vexed you most — it grated on you incessantly, but this you could forgive — no, it was the distinct feeling of distance which had descended on each and every interaction with him.
Slowly, surely, his mind had closed itself to you. The progress you'd made over many moons — prying his thoughts from him with a gentle hand and open ear and, yes, more than a little insubordination — seemed to be lost, fading with an imperceptible gradualness. There was no physical evasion, and for that you were glad at least: you could find him easily in his solar, or his apartments, or in the training grounds, and he had no qualms with spending time with you — but his mind had carried itself to a place you could not follow, and you were ignorant of how to bring it back. How to bring him back.
But no matter. It was clear there was some problem which you weren't privy to, but nonetheless you were determined to remain positive — when this odd period of retreat passed, you would be waiting. In the meantime, you did all those things a lady should do; read the appropriate books, wore the appropriate dresses, danced the appropriate dances to the appropriate music. You'd even begun hosting some of the courtiers in your apartments, having mixed properly with some at the tourney. There, of course, sprouted new problems.
Syrah was officially betrothed to Lord Yronwood. It was a development worth celebrating; you gifted her a fine spool of Braavosi silk with which to make her wedding dress, and took great pleasure in listening to her gush over her husband-to-be. The fact that Syrah was so quickly engaged, though, had become a point of some conversation in court — namely, in comparison to your own status of scandal and sin. It was no secret that you and Syrah were fond of each other; you imagined there was some spiteful humour in the fact that one of you — the less inflammatory one — was to be married without delay, while the other had nothing to show, apparently, for entertaining royalty.
(Though you allowed a litany of snide comments to roll off your back, you were able to concede that you were near green with envy. You'd waited a year. Never before had you exhibited such patience.)
Then, of course, there was the matter of—
"He wishes to marry me," Thoma said, hands wringing together. "Tyel, I mean."
The news sat between you for a moment.
Thoma had, apparently, struck up a romance with one of your guards.
This came as a great surprise to you — a great surprise, and a fair amount of hurt, no matter how much you pretended otherwise. It seemed you were missing more and more these days. Your sharp eyes and sharper tongue evaded you completely — it was all you could do to realise your mouth was agape, and close it.
Tyel and Thoma. You tried to imagine it. Thoma, who had never once insinuated her desire to marry, or anything more than a passing fancy; who turned her nose up at any who came close, and complained as easily as she breathed. Tyel, with his dark, curling hair, and bright green eyes, and mischievous smile. Thoma had, of course, spent more time with him than you ever would, and had obviously found something desirable; you knew very little about him, apart from his fighting prowess and talent with a flute. Sometimes you'd hear him on sunny days, playing when he was supposed to be guarding.
It was not an… unfavourable match. You were sure they'd be happy. It was only that there was a time where you would be the first to know such things. A time where Thoma trusted you to know. How much longer before you were a stranger to the woman you'd been a girl with? Before she disappeared into the ether to keep his home and have his babies, never to see or speak to you again?
"Only," Thoma said quietly, "he cannot afford to buy out my contract."
"Oh," you said smartly. "I… see."
Would she have told you about it, you wondered, if she had no need of your coin? It was a terrible thought, and you perished it.
"Well, of course it shall be dealt with — that should go without saying," you said. "I… congratulations, Thoma. Truly. Anything you might need, of course, I'll—"
Her mouth lengthened with a smile, a beaming thing, and she surged forward to take you in her arms. You had only just remembered to return the embrace — still shocked, really, at the news — when she pulled away, turning on her heel. "Thank you, my lady. Thank you!"
The door shut behind her. You blinked.
It seemed everything was intent on changing, and you were powerless to stop it. The thought infuriated you as much as it saddened you. You were to be married! You should be rosy with the light of love, glowing with youth, elated to begin a new chapter — instead, you were plagued by courtiers, hounded by your own loneliness, and grappling with your ineptitude.
Yes. Peace was an elusive mistress, it seemed. She did not come to you at breakfast, nor luncheon, nor in the gardens, or in dreams; you sat and waited for her to join you at your dinner table, idly prodding at your meal with a fork.
Maekar. Rhae, Daella, and Aegon. Syrah. The court. Thoma. A weary sigh left you — and as if called to action, a throat cleared.
"My lady," Zelma began, shuffling to stand before you. "If I may…"
"Yes?"
"I — well. I wonder if I might show you something. To raise your spirits."
"Oh?" It was comical in a way. Your spirits were not terribly low, but then you supposed they weren't at all high either. Clearly, your staff could tell. You wondered if it unsettled them, your uncharacteristic silence. The past few weeks had been spent in ignorant elation, after all, anticipating a proposal that hadn't yet come; then, a high-strung sort of annoyance as you realised the fickleness of the world around you. "Yes, of course."
Amused, you watched as she scampered from your solar and disappeared. She returned within a minute, something bundled in her arms — without realising it, you'd held out your hands, and she placed the item gently down.
It was a mask.
Made to cover the entire face, constructed entirely of cloth-of-gold; beaded from top to bottom in a swirl of cascading flowers, with loops of golden embroidery framing it, and tassels hanging from the sides as if to mimic earrings. It was familiar — and you'd never held it before, never seen this particular mask, but it was familiar in that way that certain things are, like the sea or sky.
Your throat suddenly tightened, and you cursed yourself.
In your hands was a piece of home, and it was small, and you knew the warp and weft of it as if it were the surface of your own skin.
The Unmasking of Uthero was a yearly celebration commemorating the revelation of Braavos to the world — a ten day masked soiree of revelry and food and dance. For those ten days, the city was awash with excitement; all petty squabbles and grudges could be set aside to drink and make merry. On the final day, at midnight, the Titan would sound his fearsome roar, and all masks would be removed. It was a unity you hadn't experienced since you'd left home.
Swallowing, you attempted a smile, though a pang of sadness soured your stomach. "You thought to bring masks? I… I didn't even realise what time it was."
"You've been otherwise preoccupied," said Zelma, not unkindly. "I thought, when we left, that it might make us feel more at home — though the first day came and passed, and I thought better of it. These westerners already think us strange."
Your mask last year had been a dark, bloody red, bejewelled with emeralds and sapphires. You wondered if it was still where you left it, in the trunk at the end of your childhood bed, beneath cloaks and dresses you'd long outgrown.
"It used to be my favourite festival." Your sisters had tried to trick you once by wearing identical masks, but you'd always been able to tell them apart, no matter how similar they looked or spoke. How long has it been since you'd received a letter from them? A few moons, no doubt. They were young girls steadily coming into their own, too busy to think of you. And you, in turn — disgracefully — had done the very same. Their eldest sister. "And I did not remember."
You seized your bottom lip between your teeth to keep it from trembling.
"'Tis no fault of your own, my lady," Zelma rushed to say. "Though, er… it is the eighth day, today — we shan't have the full ten, but surely we could celebrate?"
You hesitated. She was right. It would unnerve the court to see you walking around, face shrouded, and so you'd have to sequester yourself away — but it would be nice to partake, even if the celebration would be short-lived and poorly-planned and not at all like it should be.
'Tis only two days, a part of you said. You can afford to disappear for two single, measly days, can you not?
You looked up at Zelma — eyes hopeful, hands clasped before her. She was waiting for your permission, and your guilt only worsened. Admittedly, you tended to forget that your staff had left their homes much like you had — that you weren't the only one yearning for a time and place that had surely changed in your absence.
"I… suppose so," you said finally. "But Zelma, we must stay between our quarters—"
"Oh, you shan't regret it!" she exclaimed. "I'll run to the kitchens and ask them to prepare a feast, my lady, and we'll have dancing—!"
Her excitement was infectious, and she began clearing away your plates with great zeal. You found yourself laughing, blinking away the beginnings of tears. "Was I the only one who didn't prepare?"
"Yes," she admitted. "But you've had more than enough to worry about, my lady. Sit tight! I shall be back, and with sweets and music and company."
Your smile lasted even when she left. You held the mask up, watching it shimmer even in the low, dreary light.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
To say it was the first day that you felt most yourself would be false. You had felt very much yourself in Maekar's champion's tent, hands upon his armour; in his solar, drinking tea and reading aloud; playing cyvasse and listening to his hissed curses when you stole a particularly important piece. Or walking with Syrah through the gardens. Looking after Rhae's birds, and following Daella's deft movements as she embroidered. Watching Aegon's brow furrow as he regarded his pieces upon the cyvasse board.
It wasn't that you had never felt yourself in the Red Keep — rather, it was that you'd left a certain version of yourself in Braavos, and hadn't worn her in many moons. She was even more carefree than you; she danced in circles with her handmaidens until fatigue forced her to stop; woke late the next day, and ate sweets for breakfast, and danced again. Beneath her mask, she smiled and pouted and grimaced and didn't bother to dim them. She danced herself into a tizzy and collapsed into a chair on her balcony, soaking up the sun.
The mask removed most of your periphery. It could be suffocating, at times — the hotness of your breath, and the incessant press of it against your skin, and the obstruction of your vision. But it also seemed to make everything brighter, too; you had a much greater appreciation for that which you could see, and the sun that heated your arms, and the freshness of wind through your hair.
The King held court as he always did, and you did not rush to join. Instead you opened all the windows and doors to your apartments and listened to the sounds of the city from your balcony. The rain had stopped through the night, a passed sadness, and the sky was clear and crystalline once more. You could hear everything: yelling from the harbour, smallfolk calling to each other in the street. Music from somewhere, light and lilting in the gentle breeze, carried in from a little street you'd likely never visit. A world far outside your purview.
You were reminded of Braavos in such a sudden jolt that a sickness twisted your stomach. You wished you could walk from this place like you would back home, traipse through the lanes and over the canals. You'd buy sweets from the first vendor you saw and sit with your handmaidens, eating with mannerless fervour. You'd pull Thoma into a dance with the performers on the street, and watch the young bravos peacock about with their swords with Zelma. For a few hours, you would be completely and utterly free — until you returned home, of course, and faced the tongue lashings of your mother. It was often easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.
You perked up suddenly.
"Zelma," you called. "Where is Neema?"
Zelma snickered, stretching her hands out like a cat. "Tucked away with a bottle of summer wine, I reckon."
"Hm."
"A curious hm if I've ever heard one."
"Yes. Say, if we were to go into town—"
She sat up suddenly. "Was it not by your own decree that we should stay inside?"
"Yes," you said smartly. "Inside my apartments. But if we go out — out there, where not a soul knows us—"
A snort. "Yes, and you can be stolen away for ransom."
"We shall take guards, of course. And masked and cloaked, who will recognise us?"
"I… suppose. Whatever's so important that it must be now?"
You thought of the night prior, blurred and muddled by wine and laughter. Now that you knew the nature of Thoma and Tyel's relationship, you couldn't miss it. Tyel had played his flute, and watched closely as she twirled and danced. He took every one of her requests with no complaint — The Fall of Racallio Ryndoon, which he'd played twice; The Maid Who Bathed in the Rhoyne; A Thousand Brides for the Father of Waters… And they had been playing dice together that morning, huddled together over two cups of tea.
You'd gifted them a necklace of rubies and garnets the size of your fist. It was enough to buy out their contracts, book passage across the sea, even build a house wherever they so desired. You hadn't asked what they planned to do. You supposed it really was none of your business, no matter how much the need to know niggled at you.
You shrugged, then. What could you say, really? Perhaps it was to satisfy a curiosity, or to experience life fully outside the court for the first time in moons — or to feel, for one moment, that you weren't being predated upon by an endless slew of treacherous families. Perhaps you wanted to experience something new, something novel, something that would take your mind off of Maekar and his brood and Thoma leaving and—
"King's Landing must have more to offer," you said eventually. A flock of gulls convened overhead, cawing as they descended towards the harbour, and you followed them until they disappeared from sight. "And when I marry, I will be carted away to Summerhall, only to return here upon matters of great importance. When will I have another chance to be as free here as I am now?"
If I marry, you thought dourly.
Your companion gave a hum of agreement, albeit a hesitant one, and within the hour you were bundled into a wheelhouse. Dressed in your mask and your most unassuming cloak, you painted a timid picture; Thoma and Zelma looked almost identical, chattering excitedly between themselves opposite you. The topic of conversation was, of course, Thoma's betrothal.
You chewed the inside of your cheek, staring out the window. It was a horrid thing, you knew; you should share in her excitement, but all their talks of marriage only turned your mind to Maekar. You wondered whether he missed you any, if he wondered where you were. It had only been two days since you'd last seen him, but your mood still worsened at the fact that he hadn't called on you since.
Sighing, you shook away such thoughts. Instead, you elected to focus on the land around you — this was why you were here, wasn't it? You'd traversed King's Landing twice before, and neither had satisfied.
The first came after almost a moon at sea, and you'd been in dire need of a solid bed to sleep on, conscious only through sheer power of will and nervousness. You remembered it the way one remembers bad dreams: in strange, blurred flashes. You'd entered through the River Gate, its opening like the maw of a great beast; beyond it was the never-ending clamour of King's Landing, beginning with Fishmonger's Square — and oh, you remembered that well. The stench of decaying, rotting fish. The incessant din of yelling and heckling. The streets had been chock-full; for at least an hour, your wheelhouse remained stagnant as Gold Cloaks attempted to clear the way of smallfolk and horses and carts and mules. It all seemed a bizarre apparition, a figment of your imagination.
Then there had been your short trip to the tourney. For the King's name-day a special route had been prepared, cleared of all any and all obstructions; the streets had been lined with pennons of black and red, muck shovelled from the road. A neat and pretty performance.
This time, you made a great effort to take notice of the city. The coachman took the wheelhouse down Shadowblack Lane. It was a quieter passage out of the Keep, twisting and steep, and soon left you at the foot of Aegon's High Hill; from there, the wheelhouse trundled onto a narrow street, pushing its way through little lanes and tight passages, splitting the sea of smallfolk like a hot knife through butter.
Even as your nose wrinkled, offended by the mud and dirt and ever-present stench, you found your excitement slowly mounting. How had you been here nigh on a year, and never thought to explore further than the Keep?
Well, it wasn't as if the thought had never struck you — it had, more than once, but you were easily dissuaded by the smell, and the danger, and a grimace from a certain pockmarked man with opinions that simply must be heard. Then there'd been the tourney, of course, and your curiosity had been momentarily sated — but this was a world away from the tourney grounds, the stalls and crates erected in the field. The streets were less manicured, the buildings tall and teetering; it seemed, in its vastness, a sprawling beast not even the King could hope to contain.
Eventually, as the shadow of the Keep grew more distant, the congestion worsened. The wheelhouse slowed and slowed until it stopped altogether, and there was a sharp knock on the door.
"Apologies, m'lady," said a Gold Cloak, peeking his head in. "The streets prove difficult to clear."
"That's alright," you said. "We can continue on foot from here, can we not?"
"On foot, m'lady?" he echoed.
You blinked. "Well, how close are we to our destination, good sir?"
"Er—" He cast a doubtful look at your handmaidens— "No more than ten minutes, I reckon, but—"
"Ten minutes by wheelhouse," Thoma interjected. "By foot, we'll be almost half an hour — it's dangerous."
"If it please you, m'lady," said the guard, "between your own guard and those of the City Watch, we number five. Two can stay to keep the wheelhouse, three can accompany you."
"Then it is settled." You glanced over at Thoma and Zelma — you could sense their hesitance, even behind their masks. "Oh, come now. We were to peruse the markets anyways. What difference does it make if we walk a little longer?"
"At least we're away from Flea Bottom," Zelma said. "And… not too far from the market, I suppose."
With a victorious grin, you took the Gold Cloak's proffered hand and ducked beneath the doorway — instantly, you're thrown into streams of smallfolk, moved back and forth as if pulled by the tide. Your shoulder was jostled, and you're pressed uncomfortably forward, side jutting into the sharp edge of his couter — but you reached out and seized Thoma's hand in yours, and she Zelma's, and the guards closed ranks around you.
"I don't believe your beloved will be very happy," somebody muttered behind you. You didn't deign to give them a response.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
The markets served their purpose. Of course, you garnered a fair number of stares (masked as you were), but between your guards' formidable stature and the relentless movement between stalls and shopfronts, the smallfolk left you alone. They had better things to do, it seemed, than ogle your strange group; hauling baskets, carts, and sacks, the world bustled past you in a blur of noise and colour.
It was refreshingly loud. You enjoyed the gentle sounds of the Keep, the music played in the ladies' solar, and water trickling from fountains, and the distant clang of sword-fight, but there was great liberty in knowing you could speak as loud as you wanted, and nobody would blink an eye. You wouldn't be heard over the woman crowing an unmissable deal on her Dornish lemons, which you believed were actually yellow-painted apples, or the man announcing the sale of his odds and ends.
Of course, it was dirtier than you were accustomed to. You were used to brick and tile and pavement, and canal-boats; mud and filth had soaked through the hem of your cloak and dress, and you knew it would have to be scrubbed in boiling water to save it. The streets did not smell of gold or roses, but the mask obscured enough to make it bearable, and if you ducked into a shoppe or two, you'd avoid it completely.
It was in one such shoppe that Thoma suddenly confronted you, standing between two bolts of velvet. Zelma was using her time to flirt with the Gold Cloak that had accompanied you — you could see her through the window, grinning and staring like the cat who got the cream.
"Are you very upset with me?"
You glanced over at her, brows furrowed. "Upset?"
She was quiet for a moment.
"I know my… involvement with Tyel came as a surprise... This colour dulls your complexion, my lady. This one will suit better."
She brought you instead to a bolt of fabric the colour of dark, red wine, and you regarded it curiously.
"Yes, it did," you said, sniffing. "In fact, I… was quite upset."
Thoma shot you a look. "No longer?"
"… Perhaps, in a way. I admit, I… I couldn't imagine a time where you might've fallen in love and not told me. It was this that came most as a shock."
"I am sorry," she said quietly. "I only wanted something for myself for a while. My life is yours, my lady — it has always been yours, since I joined your staff. It can wear, at times."
The fabric was as smooth as silk; when you lifted it towards the light, its sheen was a bright, burned orange, almost unnatural in its brilliance. You waved a hand, and the attendant scurried over; at your request, he carried the fabric away to cut a length from it, and you were left alone. You pretended to not be hurt by her words — in truth, there was nothing hurtful in them. She had every right to act as she had. It was you who craved more than most could give — you who expected full, unyielding loyalty, you whose gluttony could be surpassed by none.
"Should you wish to leave," you said, "I shan't stop you."
"I know." Whether it was pity or joy in her voice, you did not know; you imagined a sad sort of smile upon her pretty face, and dug in your cloak for your coin pouch. From this, you obtained a single silver stag.
"I would never force you to stay by my side."
"Yes, my lady. I know."
The stag sat upon the table. You could feel her eyes boring into the side of your face, and sighed.
"I've lived more than ten years by your side," you said quietly. "I have not learned, yet, how to be without you."
You did not imagine the shake in her voice, then; the tremble in her hand as she reached out and clasped it around your wrist. "You will learn, my lady."
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
Upon waking that morning, you had felt that things were coming to a head.
'Twas not a particular sense of doom that sat heavy on your chest; it was something different, a sick sort of anticipation, a foreboding that had you burrowing deeper into your blankets. Your head ached, but it was not the familiar dullness of wine-sickness.
The world had swollen with rainwater. You woke to the sound of it pitter-pattering through your open window, roaring and rushing with such power that you believed, for a moment, you were right beside the sea. Yes — you could see it. Rolling, navy waves crested by foaming white; a sky like blackened charcoal as far as the eye could see.
You opened your eyes and found your quarters dark, as if the sun hadn't bothered to rise. The curtains were drawn open, as you'd left them the night before after drinking yourself to sleep, and through the window you saw your imagination hadn't been too distant: the world was grey. The heavens had split open, and their fruits obscured all of King's Landing — the bright roofs, and the shadow of the Blackwater, and the spires and towers. It was all grey. All blurred. Yesterday, the sun had been scorching.
Yes, you thought, gaze fixed on the ceiling. Something is amiss. Unsettled.
They said the Bloodstone Emperor ushered in the Long Night upon usurping his sister. A terrible darkness fell across the earth, bathing everything in blackness; his betrayal laid waste to entire generations, spreading famine and war and terror across the known world. You looked to your ceiling and wondered if you were being punished for something.
The door to your inner chambers creaked as it opened.
"Good morning," came Neema's familiar husk. A lit match in hand, she rounded the room, setting each sconce afire and casting the room in warmth. Her mask was missing. "Your breakfast has been set out, my lady. Up you come, now."
You sat up — pushed away the lethargy that desperately clung to you, wiping at your eyes. She had extinguished the match, but made no move to gather your garments for the day; instead, she stood at the foot of your bed, looking for all the world as if she had more to say.
Your stomach turned. Something was afoot.
"What is it?" you asked. You thought the worst. Had there been word from your father, displeased with the fourth prince's offer of marriage? Or was it Maekar? He'd discovered your clandestine meetings with his brood, and the disrespect was too much for him to accept— "Why… why are you looking at me like that? Where is your mask?"
Neema shuffled, the action so at odds with her usual confidence that you felt your throat tighten. "I… thought it important you know," she said carefully, "that this day is a sombre one. The anniversary of Lady Dyanna Dane — the day of her passing, that is."
Oh.
Your back was suddenly straight as a blade, the sheets clutched tight between your fingers. The weight of the Keep itself had pinned you to your bed, tossing you abruptly into awareness. You saw yourself, for a moment, as if peering down from the ceiling; sitting in the large expanse of your bed, wide-eyed and undone, hair still pulled back for sleeping. Ignorant that the man she would marry — that she expected to marry — was saddled with such mourning. Sleeping late on a day where she should be showing the courtiers that she, too, was mourning a woman she'd never known.
In the back of your mind, you'd known the day would inevitably come — that it existed — but it had always presented itself as a distant, intangible thing. The death of his wife. It happened, and it had happened before you, and it was brushed over in that way that one brushes over uncomfortable things, like bruised and tender skin.
Maekar hadn't said anything, you thought with a strange and sudden sense of shame. Neither had Rhae, nor Daella, nor Aegon.
It dawned on you, then, that this was the source of their strange behaviour, their withdrawal. You couldn't imagine what they might feel approaching the day they lost their mother, and preparing for a new one all the while — they were young, yes, and did not remember her as well as Daeron or Aerion or even Aemon, but they had known her enough to love her. Why would you expect them to have told you? To speak the words, as if they would not tear the throat from them?
But Maekar? Were you so untrustworthy? Too shallow or callous? Perhaps he thought you wouldn't care — or perhaps, worst of all, the idea simply hadn't struck him: you weren't significant enough to tell such things. Who were you? A young woman not yet betrothed. A foreigner in a foreign land. A conveniently ignorant confidant.
You released the sheets. Your palms were sore, your knuckles aching from the force with which you'd tensed them. You suddenly felt very tired, though you'd slept through the night like a milk-warmed babe.
No. No, don't be a fool. You pinched the bridge of your nose between your fingers, screwing your eyes shut.
Their mother was dead. His wife was dead, and you couldn't be so selfish as to overstate your importance in it all, as much as it pained you. You'd forgotten his reservation in the privilege of his company; it had taken many moons before he'd divulged more than surface-level pleasantries and indignation — memories of his mother, and Dyanna, and his fondness for his brothers, especially Rhaegel. The Blackfyre Rebellion and its bloody battlefield. Scars that marred his skin, pockmarks on his cheeks.
You'd forgotten, in the midst of your knowing him, how difficult it was for him to allow it. It was often — when faced with matters of particular sentimentality — that his tongue and countenance stilled, froze themselves into impenetrable barricades; he would rather swing a sword than speak to vulnerability, and of this you held no illusions.
Still. You thought you allowed him the space for it. You thought…
The shame deepened. You pressed your palms to your eyes, and sighed wearily. You'd expected Syrah would tell you, at least, but then she was all aflutter over Lord Yronwood. It wasn't her fault.
"Breakfast," you mumbled. "Breakfast, and then… we should pray."
"At the alter?" A note of surprise lifted her voice.
"No," you said. "Or, yes. I… I must be in the royal sept, with the rest of them, where they can see me. But later… later, I shall light candles..."
It was ironic in an infuriating sort of way. The courtiers held no love for their Dornish peers, and you can't imagine much was changed when Lady Dane was alive; but she was dead, and so they venerated her while scorning her compatriots all the while. Were she still living, they'd be the same vipers they were now, and nothing would change.
But if you dared to hide away today, to seek privacy and meditation, your reputation — which was already sullied, for obvious reasons — would be completely and utterly beyond repair.
"Modest clothing," you said finally. "Modest, and humble."
Your mask was left upon your nightstand.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
After breaking your fast, you dressed in a gown of dark, green silk. The collar fastened where your shoulders began, and it covered almost every inch of skin except your hands, face, and a sliver of neck. There was no grand ornamentation or jewellery, nothing that could be misconstrued as haughty or boastful. Even your hair was tied back simply.
You had been to the royal sept only thrice before — each time accompanied by Syrah, who was not particularly devout, but took the sept to be yet another meeting place where one could engage in courtly politics. This was, of course, her favourite pastime.
It was not as large as the Great Sept of Baelor, the grand domes and spires of which you could spy from a great distance, but it could quite comfortably seat hundreds in its rows of benches if needed; the ceiling was impossibly tall and pointed, and the walls impregnated by high crystalline windows. Had it been sunny today, they would cast rays of rainbow through the space, illuminating the pale marble in colour — but it was decidedly not, and the interior remained colourless, save for candlelight. It seemed fitting.
It was a pleasant place, familiar in that way that places of worship tended to be. A comforting stillness blanketed the interior, and the air was fragrant with incense and candle-wax. The only sounds to be heard were quiet, whispered prayers from the clusters of courtiers who came and went, and the constant hum of rain. You were glad for it. You were in no mood to talk, though you often felt the press of eyes against your spine.
Remembering what little you knew of the Seven, you lit candles before the Stranger and the Maiden, praying for Dyanna and yourself alike. You took a seat on a bench, and hoped your own gods wouldn't be too offended by your offerings.
In truth, you hadn't planned to stay long; you would light the candles, be seen with your head bowed in supplication, and leave to mull over your thoughts in your quarters. But your mind had been at war with itself since that morning, and the sept offered a certain breed of silence that tempered it.
You had wondered — from the very moment you'd discovered the importance of the day, really — whether you should seek to comfort Maekar. You were no stranger to his usual haunts, and could most likely find him with ease; whether he would appreciate it, though, was another conversation entirely. Maekar's feelings around Dyanna's death were not a topic you commonly stumbled into; he had shared some memories of her, you remembered, but both of you tended to give the reality of your relationship a wide berth, in that way one avoids uncomfortable truths.
(But was it not your right to offer such solace?
Had he need of it, he would have told you, said a distinctly petulant part of you. Instead, he left you to realise the importance of the day from your servants.)
He was most likely spending the day with his children. It wouldn't do to intervene where you weren't wanted. You were already praying for the woman he loved — praying to gods you didn't believe in for a woman who'd had everything you wanted. That terrible, no-good, jealous part of you shuddered at the thought of seeing him bereft over another woman. It was a terrible thought — it made you sick to your stomach. And yet, it was you.
Hunger, greed, spoiled as curdled milk. The worst of you. You wanted in a way that was unsavoury — and quite frankly, you'd been reminded of it far too many times in the past moons. You'd never given it deep thought before, but every time your limits were tested — by Lenila Lannister, by Thoma, by the ghost of a dead woman, or by Maekar himself— it presented itself, maw bared and bloody. Selfish.
You wished you'd been born twenty years earlier, been given the opportunity to meet him before he'd been given to anyone else, before he'd even laid his eyes upon another woman — that you could have stolen him away in his youth and seized his heart as Dyanna had, and claimed the same unfaltering ownership that she had. You wished he had never known any woman as wife, for the very thought of it soured something rotten in your stomach. You wished he only thought of you, that his mind was plagued by it, that it sickened and satiated him in the same breath — you screwed your eyes shut and imagined scrubbing his mind of all traces of her, of her touch, so that he only knew you and your skin and your scent and your voice and—
Your breath came trembling. Your disgust was a palpable thing, curling and churning in your stomach; it was the same sickening twist of shame that had grasped you early that morning, only you couldn't blame your weariness any longer. You were awake, wide-eyed and watchful; terrible in your jealousy, and your selfishness, and your envy. You didn't think it would ever leave you — it was sewn into your very being, entwined with your very sense of self.
In truth, you'd never given much weight to goodness or badness — on account, mostly, of never truly having to. But you remembered the storybooks of your youth, the tales of heroes and princesses, the black and white of it all. You had wanted to be those princesses, once. Your father had told you it'd never happen if you kept being so mean, the terror of a child that you were, and you had ignored him as you often did. Whether you or he was right remained to be seen — your aforementioned meanness had never left you penniless, only lonely.
The blank, knowing visage of the Maiden stared back at you. These gods could hear your thoughts sullying their land, their place of worship, spilling like brackish water across their pristine tile and marble. Perhaps it was they who sought to punish you.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
It was a strange mood that you found yourself in: somehow, despite yourself, you left the sept both lighter and heavier than you were when you first arrived. The rain had not eased — in fact, it seemed to have gotten worse — but it did not carry the same trepidation; you regarded it not as an omen of ill-will, but a simple, dreary day. Water for the crops.
You had missed luncheon and hardly noticed it, and the time for dinner was soon upon you. It had been a long time that you'd sat in the sept, silent, suspended in an odd sort of trance. There was some comfort in confronting that which plagued you, and that which you held great shame for; you sat in the malaise of it, stewed in your shortcomings, and the sky had not shattered upon you. The gods did not strike you down. You were covetous and invidious, and the world had not ended in darkness or flame or ice; apparently, your personal complications were to be the height of your penalty. You almost preferred the sky-shattering.
Upon returning to your quarters, you donned your mask again, hoping, absurdly, to salvage the last day of celebration; you ate a paltry meal, and then resigned yourself to your alter. It was a tiny thing shoved into a mostly-forgotten nook in a corner of your apartments. You never were very devout; the alter was mostly for your staff, who'd added their own pendants and figures.
It was cluttered. Your father and mother worshipped two different gods of the same pantheon, and thus you'd grown up somewhere betwixt the two. There was the Maiden-Made-of-Light, carved from pale, pearlescent stone — your mother's patron, who, upon witnessing the cruelty of man, turned her back upon the world; there was the Lion of Night in dark obsidian, then, favoured by your father. He who came forth to punish man's wickedness during the Long Night. Whether you favoured either more, you did not know.
You sat before that alter and stared. At the statues, the incense, and the offerings — jewels and precious things, from you; food and scraps of pretty fabric from your staff. It was a pity that you'd never been more pious; perhaps it could have made you a more graceful girl. But even with your gracelessness, you lit a candle for Dyanna Dane, and shut your eyes and prayed for her, even though your jealousy burned something fierce.
She had been his first wife. The mother of his children. A woman with hopes and likes and dislikes, much like you, and a stranger in King's Landing. You wondered whether she felt the Keep's walls tightening around her at times, as you did. Whether the sense of alienation ever fully went away.
You hated her. And yet you were her, in many ways.
A throat cleared. You looked up from the Maiden-Made-of-Light, and met Neema's gaze. How long had you spent on your knees? Your ankles ached, and from the window you could see the sky had become inky. Deeper in your apartments, you could hear the distant sound of music and merrymaking, cheers as rounds of dice were thrown.
"Oh. Hello."
"It has been a long time since I've seen you pray," she said, kneeling at your side. She bowed her head for a moment, and you imagined her lips moving beneath the mask in silent prayer. "It reminds me of when you were a girl."
"I did say I would."
"Saying and doing are often two very different things."
You hummed. You could feel the heat of her beside you, shoulder to shoulder, and you thought of a time before — before, when your mother would send you to pray after you'd been particularly horrid. You'd huff and puff the whole way, but sometimes, when Neema took pity on you, she'd sit by your side, silent and reverent as she completed her own worship. Back then, you were smaller. Kneeling together, the top of your head would barely reach her shoulders.
"To think," Neema mused, "there was once a time where you could only be dragged here."
A snort-like laugh left you. "It seems I've grown in more than height."
"So you have," she agreed. You felt her eyes upon your cheek, then, and turned your gaze to meet them. "I know there was some difficulty in today. And that Thoma's betrothal was… unanticipated."
"Yes, that goes without saying."
"I imagine you have a lot in that mind of yours," Neema said. "Speak, and I will listen."
She gently nudged her shoulder against yours, and you shook your head.
"I have made peace with Thoma. I was saddened, at first, of course, but there is more to life than I.
"The prince… at first, I didn't know what was worse," you admitted. "That he hadn't thought to inform me of the day, or that he had planned to, and thought better of it. Both ideas infuriate me."
You worried your skirt between your fingers. But there was nothing to fear, not from Neema. She knew you the way a mother knew her child.
"You know, I pitied myself this morning. Told myself that I wouldn't be wanted by his side. And then there was the thought of it, of seeing such sadness upon his face, pining for a woman long passed — I know myself. I know I couldn't handle it." You swallowed. "Even so, I… I wanted him to call on me, to seek comfort in me. And he hasn't, and so he has proven me right."
"Your pride has been wounded."
"'Tis not a matter of pride, but of… of…" You shook your head. You didn't know. Perhaps it was pride — but you knew pride, had walked alongside her your entire life. You'd felt her thorns and needles those weeks after you'd promenaded with Valarr, and had overcome it. This feeling, now, was edged with melancholy. Doubt. "And then I thought — how selfish of me! A woman has passed, and I pity myself. I covet her husband, and her children, and her life. I was disgusted by my own cruelty."
"Cruelty," Neema mused. "Is that what you call it?"
"What would you?"
"Fear, I think."
For a moment you stared at your hands in your lap, bunched up together and clutching each other; then you eyed the flickering flames of Dyanna's candle, the long shadows it cast over the cluttered table. The rain had eased to a gentle trickle, the night humid and muggy, tempered only by a light breeze. It stirred the curtains, and you listened to the whisper of wool against the ground. The music continued; Tyel was at the flute again, but somebody had brought a lute, and together they played a jaunty tune.
Neema groaned as she pushed herself to her feet, rubbing at her hips as she did. "I am not as young as I once was, my lady, and neither are you."
The soft scuff of her slippers against the floor neared the doorway, but—
"I do not know how to be unafraid," you blurted. "Not yet."
(I have not learned, yet, how to be without you.)
There was a pause, and she returned to you. A hand planted itself upon your head. You were seven again, pouting at the alter, refusing to pray out of spite. "It comes with time, and time alone."
(You will learn, my lady.)
Somehow, despite the ambiguity of it, you felt a sense of relief. As if, with those simple words and simple gesture, she'd given you permission: live, and you will learn along the way, and it is neither a shame nor a hindrance.
"Now, do hurry," she said warmly. "It won't be long until the unmasking, and wine to go with it."
You couldn't help the smile that overcame you. "Yes, of course. I shall."
With a final smile of her own, she left you to your devices, and you were alone once more.
For the first time that day, you felt oddly at ease. The tension you'd been holding simply seeped from you; you found yourself slumping, resting your weight upon a single arm. Your eyes fell shut, and you listened to the pleasant sounds of living around you.
It had been a long day. A heavy one. You'd be glad to put it behind you; you'd be glad to see your bed, in fact, but it wouldn't do to miss the celebrations. Yes, once you'd drank and danced yourself to sleep — and fastened your head correctly upon your shoulders — you would go to Maekar, and you would tell him quite plainly how much you appreciated being left in the dark.
You wondered how often Dyanna had to wrangle him into sense, like diverting a charging boar. It seemed a never-ending task, separating the man from the warrior. It wasn't that he was totally unpractised in the ways of sociability, either — only that, more often than not, he simply didn't care to engage in them. Who cared for niceties on the battlefield?
His was a blunt sort of love, fitting a blunt sort of man. You'd never trade it for anything, as unhappy as you presently were with him.
The door creaked behind you.
"Yes, yes," you called. "I'll be there in a moment. Surely you haven't drank all the wine already?"
"…That explains the behaviour of your staff, then," came a familiarly miffed voice.
Your head snapped to the doorway.
There, in his regular ebony-and-red, stood the very man of whom you'd been thinking. Maekar's hands were clasped behind his back, and he regarded you with his usual frown — one not borne of any particular grievance, but simple habit. There was darkness beneath his eyes, though; a certain limpness to his hair, and a pallid sort of colour to his already pale cheeks.
He was standing there, as if it were a day as customary as any.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
The girl stared at him — he could see those eyes of hers, even beneath the mask, even in the candlelit room. He could find them in a crowd, he thought. She often had the habit of widening them — batting her eyelashes and rounding her gaze into something innocent and girlish, but now they were narrowed, like those of a cat. Fixed upon him with a similar sort of intensity.
Clasped in his hands was a letter. It had arrived that morning — miraculously dry, for the weather, baring a seal of emerald green. It had come at breakfast, and the arrival of it had pierced the tension at the table like a hot knife through butter. There was no mistaking the emblem: a golden key and coin. Daella's sharp eyes had followed its path through the room to Maekar's hands.
The courier had ridden and sailed non-stop through the rain, and was sopping with water, completely ragged. Maekar would have felt some modicum of pity for the man if he hadn't been awaiting him the past fortnight.
Of course, he thought, it would come to me today, of all days.
He did not look forward to Dyanna's anniversary. Sun or rain, wind or humidity — he dreaded the day like he dreaded the point of a sword, and the apprehension of it begun long before the day itself.
He disliked remembering her loss; he disliked the sullenness that overcame his children, the sadness that seeped all joy from living. He disliked the constant, unremitting introspection the day forced him into, the kind that would have his mind wandering without his permission. He disliked saying the words aloud — the my wife is dead words — and he disliked, especially, the idea of saying them to you.
Dyanna was no longer his wife. She hadn't been for a long time, and his heart had bloomed anew, softened into something he didn't think possible. But habit was habit was habit, and Maekar was a decidedly old dog. He hadn't said the words to you.
It was a selfish decision. An easier decision. Courting you had been maddening, yes — infuriating, rife with little squabbles and tiffs punctuated by the sharpness of your smile. Every disagreement could be ended by a simple wave of your pretty hand and a murmur of his name — damn him, it was true. But no matter how vexing, nothing yet had cut as deeply as this.
It was easier to not look you in your eyes — narrowed, widened, batting eyelashes or not — and tell you that Dyanna was dead, and the day was approaching, and there was no stopping it. And there would be no stopping it. For as long as he lived, the day would cut, and he didn't love you any less.
You would be angry with him. He anticipated this.
"The winds," the courier had wheezed, holding the letter out, "they were most unfavourable, my lord."
Fuck the winds. He knew you to be as impatient as he was, and his own tolerance was wearing thin. He'd rolled his neck to dislodge some of his tension.
He'd tore the letter from the man's hand and sliced the seal away with a bread knife — pretending quite well to not feel the weight of his children's eyes on him. His eyes traced the lines of Lord Manwoody's hand, and not for the first time, he was glad of the man's presence in Braavos; your father was incredibly vigilant where you were concerned — you, and his coffers. Had Lord Manwoody not returned to Braavos to mediate your betrothal, Maekar feared it would've taken thrice as long as it already did.
He read the words. Agreeable. More to discuss followed, but it mattered not. He'd seen all he needed to see. He held a future in his hands — a future he'd coveted, and wished for, and desired for the better part of a year.
The letter was placed down, and he leaned back in his chair, abandoning the plate he'd been idly picking from. It felt as if a great weight had been taken from him — and yet he couldn't move, couldn't make use of the nervous energy gathering in his legs. He had to remember what day it was — what was expected of him, and what was deserved.
He visited the sept — not the royal sept, but the Sept of Baelor, which he only found himself in once every decade, it seemed. It was where he had gotten married, and now it was where he mourned. Aegon couldn't stop squirming in his seat during prayer, and Rhae barely prayed at all — just stared at the candles and dipped her fingers into the wax when she thought he wasn't looking.
He dined with his father and brothers, then; a quiet affair, mostly, though Rhaegel had insisted on a song to brighten spirits. Maekar hadn't the energy nor heart to stop him. He stared into his wine and thought about the letter in his pocket.
He sent away the septas and maids and put the children to bed; extinguished the candles, read a story (Ten Thousand Ships, an account of Queen Nymeria's battles during the Rhoynish Wars — Aegon's favourite, it seemed) and tucked them in amongst their furs and blankets.
It felt like an apology of sorts; he wondered if they knew where he'd go, now that they were sleeping. If they had felt the warmth of the letter burning a hole in his pocket as they prayed and ate. If it felt as much a betrayal as it had to Aerion.
Unconsciously he took the letter from his doublet held it in his hands as he made his way to your quarters. His thumb traced the folds in the parchment, the wax of the seal. He could see the words in his mind's eye. Agreeable. Finally. He'd sent the first letter just after the tourney — that same night he made his choice clear to his father — and two more had followed since, each more pedantic than the last.
(Annoyance aside, he supposed he could admire your father's solicitude. He often felt the same.)
He held that letter in his hands now, clutched behind his back. Your stare had not abated.
"The Unmasking of Uthero," you said finally. "A celebration from home."
"That explains the masks," he said, on account of not knowing how to broach the obvious. Your frown deepened. "Your lady-servant said you've had them on since yesterday."
"They are to be removed at midnight," you said.
"You went to the markets," he added. He couldn't help the note of disapproval that made itself known. "King's Landing is dangerous."
There was a pause -- a scoff, and you shook your head. "You have no right to indignation, my lord."
Unconsciously, a scowl pulled at his face. My lord. You turned from him, then, lifting a matchstick to a candle. "How fare the children?"
"They... it is a difficult day."
A slow inhale. "Yes. I… thought it best to give you space today. I had no desire to intrude."
"You've never cared much for intrusion before. And I have always welcomed it."
"This is different." Your voice had sharpened. He despised it, he realised, not being able to see your face. Your eyes were most expressive, but there was much to know in the curve of your mouth, the tension of your brow. "You know it to be."
Silence reigned. Neither moved.
Then: "I am displeased, Maekar."
His jaw set. He deserved it, he knew, but it didn't make accepting it any easier. "Yes, I… know."
"Many times I have been angry with you, in fact, and I have held my tongue."
At this, he took pause — shifted in place, and replied with a sharp, disbelieving laugh. Today, he could admit. But others? He was not prepared for others. "Really?"
"Yes."
"Do tell."
Your glare was piercing. "I recall your punishment for my entertaining other men, though it was by your own suggestion—" He winced— "Or when you took Lenila Lannister's favour; or, perhaps, when you became distant and impenetrable over the past few weeks—!"
"Excuse me—" he tried.
"—but no anger I have felt thus far has matched that of today," you said. You had bunched up your skirt in your hands — grabbed the wool between your fingers as if to ground yourself. "To wake up and be informed of the day by my lady servant. To be completely and utterly clueless in the savagery of the court, as if they haven't enough reason to hate me already!"
His mouth snapped shut. A great well of pity rose within him.
He had assumed, admittedly, that you were much like him — open in your dislike of the court and its politics, its two-faced fellows and its cut-throat diplomacy, but willing to ignore it in the end. You often complained to him of ladies' luncheons and snide comments, and he, in turn, made clear his strained relationship with almost everyone; it was one of those inescapable things, the reason why he missed Summerhall more than anything.
He was not Baelor, who excelled in such places despite his own hatred for it; Maekar was not learned in the art of communication, and had never had to be. He had no need for charm or soft words on the battlefield, in the lists.
"I have been in this place for nigh on a year. You have known of my hatred for it, and you still — you still leave me to fend for myself at every turn."
Something like guilt sat in his stomach. He was not accustomed to the feeling. It was greatly uncomfortable — stuck his feet to the floor, and his frown to his face, and his hands tight around the letter.
"I have never given thought to what the court says or thinks. They're cunts," he said. He didn't know whether these words were the right ones — wincing, he continued: "And I — apologise, for that. For all I've angered you."
The discomfort remained, but he moved around it regardless; left the doorway and neared you with, perhaps, less caution than he should. He paused a moment at your side — waited for you to swipe out and push him away, forbid him from your quarters — but there was nothing to fear. You only watched, quiet. Maekar eased into the space beside you, huffing as he dropped. His old bones creaked.
He was face to face now with what he realised was an alter. He had paid little attention to it — his focus had gone straight to you. The table was awash with figurines and statues, bundles of colourful cloth, strings of jewels and beads. He imagined your head bowed in deference and felt inclined to raise it. He couldn't imagine your submission to anyone who was not him; he did not want to imagine it.
(He knew, in reality, that you were more likely to command him than the other way around.)
It was quiet again. Upon his entrance, your staff had quietened down some, but he could still hear the gentle strumming of the lute, the low thrum of chatter. The letter sat in his lap.
He grit his teeth.
"I have no talent with words. Forgive me," Maekar spoke. "I… had every intention of returning to the Stormlands within a moon of my coming here. I have little love for the Keep — if it were not my father's seat, I would be happy to never return."
"And yet, you stayed."
He nodded. "And yet."
Your fingers had released your dress. He watched as they slowly, surely made their way from your lap to his — hesitating over the letter, before moving to take his hands in them. Your skin was soft as satin, free of calluses and roughness. He couldn't imagine his hands were very pleasant to hold — large and unwieldy, callused and brutish. Made to hold a mace, not a lady. You cupped them gently regardless.
"You know that I care for you," he said quietly. "If I had not come across you that night, I would have returned to Summerhall. You have been infuriating, and maddening, and I have been ailed by the very thought of you, and I have stayed here for you."
A laugh erupted from you — and his eyes shot to your face, because the laugh was a warbling thing, thick with tears. Your eyes were glassy. "Infuriating. How romantic!"
He almost snorted. It would be the first time in years someone had called him that. Things were like that with you, he found; the first in years to touch him gently; to temper his vexation; to look at him not as the realm's prickly, impatient prince, but with a fondness he craved like air.
"Saying such things aloud — it has never been where I excel." His voice had taken on a note of pleading, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "You know this."
You hummed, thumb smoothing over a tensed tendon along the back of his hand. Your eyes were downcast. He wanted to rip that infernal mask off and see your face — your cheeks, your nose, your lips, your chin. "I thought, perhaps, that you thought me unimportant, or shallow. Unworthy of knowing."
The idea was almost offensive. Unimportant. He grimaced. Perish the thought. "Don't be a fool."
"Do not make a habit of it," you returned. Your eyes met again — and there they were. Widened and round, the picture of girlish innocence. "Do not close yourself to me again, Maekar. I couldn't bare it."
He swallowed. Traitorously, his hands twitched in yours, closing over your fingers. "I shan't."
"I will hold you to it. Now — what is it you've brought me?"
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
"The winds were unfavourable," Maekar said, peering down at the parchment. The seal — a sparkling, emerald green, emblazoned with the golden key and coin of your family — had been split from the parchment messily, as if he'd opened it with great impatience. "And your father has the fastidiousness of his daughter. The response took longer than anticipated."
You felt distinctly as if you were looking at your very own future — there, in his grasp, scrawled in dark ink in your father's hand. You knew what the letter would say. There would be no reason to deny that which you asked for, and yet fear persisted in that way it usually does: illogically, and foolishly.
"I can be patient," you heard yourself say, "when it suits me. Though I should scorn you, Maekar. You did make me wait terribly long."
A noise left him. "You have scorned me enough, girl."
The hush returned. You gathered your hands in your lap again — mourned the loss of his heat, and the feeling of his skin against you — and watched as his thumb worried the folded edge of the letter. A lump had formed in your throat.
"In truth," you said, before he could speak, "I spent the day in the sept, praying for a woman I did not know, unsure of my standing with you. I lit candles for her. Spoke to your foreign gods for her -- and for me, too."
You could feel his eyes on you. Yours remained resolutely on the letter.
"In those moments, I realised something terrible about myself; a gnawing, persistent desire I carry. I have tried to temper it — Neema says these things take time, but I fear it will never fully leave me. I've been this way since young."
"Are you trying to dissuade me? I shan't be."
You shook your head, a smile tugging at your lips. "I wouldn't allow you to be dissuaded -- you are mine to keep. But you know not of what I speak, Maekar. The thoughts I have."
"Desire," he echoed — and it was back again, you remarked fondly to yourself, that edge of annoyance he carried in his voice, as if wholly unimpressed by your lamentations. "Whatever desires plague you, they plague me thrice over—"
"I thought of devious things," you said quietly. "Graceless, unkind, selfish things, in that place of gods. I cursed them for placing me along your path so late, and I thought of all the ways I could keep you, as if you were a dog to be kept. I wanted you to… to… be tortured by the very thought of me, to ache as I have."
Air shuddered in your lungs. Whatever words you thought to say next died in your throat, and you could not bring yourself to look at him again. Instead you watched him twist the ring upon his thumb, the ruby catching candlelight.
"Do you think me a septon or eunuch?" he demanded. Your head shot up, and his gaze was already fixed on you. You were reminded, quite suddenly, of the proximity between you — shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. He eclipsed you almost completely, the King's Anvil, and he was bowed towards you now, shoulders hunched. If you hadn't had the mask, you might almost be nose to nose. His stare was intense. Desperate. Your heart thudded in your chest. "I am a man."
Your voice came as a whisper. "I know."
"You do not know the ways of men," Maekar said. "I promise you. You do not know the ways I have… have hungered."
Your mouth was dry. "What would you have me do? To… to ease it?" Quiet. Anything louder would shatter the space between you, delicate as spun sugar.
He stared at you for a second. "I—"
A raucous, piercing volley of cheers suddenly erupted — you jolted in place, head snapping to the doorway. There was nobody there, of course. The festivities had not reached you.
When you turned, Maekar hadn't moved. His eyes were still fixed on you, narrowed as if in annoyance. His mouth was screwed up, pursed. With a tilted head, you opened your mouth to ask what he was thinking — but his hands were coming up, and you didn't shrink from them. You watched them disappear from your view, but you could feel the heat of them as they neared your body — and then his fingers were on you, warm and thick, hooked beneath the chin of your mask. Your heart was rabbiting, now, breath stuck in your throat. You couldn't breathe — wouldn't breathe, rather, caught in the anticipation of his touch.
Suddenly your cheeks were being cooled by as he pulled the mask up and over your head, unfalteringly gentle. Strands of hair clung to your forehead and cheeks, damp with sweat, but you felt no embarrassment. His fingers were still splayed across your jaw — just as they had been, back in his tent at the tourney. You'd dreamed of them ever since — but in all those dreams, he had never looked at you like this. It was frightfully vulnerable, even with his jaw clenched as it was, and his eyes glaring as they were — there was something in his that had softened, had bared itself to you. How had you thought yourself second-fiddle? How could you, for one moment, see what he felt as anything less than what it was?
"Your father has given his permission," he said, and his voice was softer than you thought possible. Maekar Targaryen, the Anvil, was whispering to you with such fragility. Holding your face like something precious, his nose nudging against yours. "Marry me."
Oh, gods. You were not being punished. This could not be punishment, divine or otherwise. Your hands shook, and you squeezed them between your thighs — a grin so bright and satisfied pulling at your lips, and you hadn't the strength to dim it. They were the words you'd longed to hear. The affirmation your heart had long desired. To hear them spill from his lips -- to see his face contort in abashment, as if to say the words were a weakness that struck the very heart of him...
"I — I will, of course," you said, embarrassingly breathless. If you just leaned forward, you could… "I've -- only been waiting a year, you foolish man."
His laugh came in a sharp burst. "Yes, and you've been ever so patient."
"Only as much as you have," you said. "Though I shall warn you — I am horrendously jealous, and scornful, and spiteful, and I have tried terribly to shield you from it. If you marry me, I shan't be any better."
A pale eyebrow quirked. "Oh?"
"I may be worse, even," you added. "A wife must covet her husband, after all."
"You'll find no argument with me," he said — and, as if noticing for the first time how close he'd pulled you, released your jaw like it burned him. Maekar cleared his throat, sitting straight once more, though you didn't miss his eyes' traitorous path back to your mouth.
"Come," you said, shaking your head fondly. A giddiness took you over — you were tired no more, springing to your feet with zeal. "There is wine to celebrate, and we simply must inform everyone, of course, and — are you quite alright?"
With a pained groan, Maekar pushed himself to standing. He stretched tall, and you winced as you heard something pop.
"Fuck me," he cursed. "I'm not as young as I once was."
maekar targaryen ii x reader
wc; 11.6k
summary; a day comes and passes. a celebration is had. things change -- for worse, before better.
cw; grief, mourning, angst w/ happy ending, alcohol, marriage
previous part / masterlist
read on ao3!
Peace did not seem to last long where you were concerned.
It started as a small, niggling sort of feeling; a distinct feeling of wrongness that sat stubbornly in your chest.
The children — whom you'd spent almost a fortnight entertaining in secret, across cyvasse boards and naturalist tomes and (terribly poor) embroidery — slowly, surely, began to withdraw. You wondered whether it was somehow a fault of yours, but all you'd truly done was send for sweets and listened as they spoke themselves into a stupor… Admittedly, you still stumbled over certain interactions, acclimating slowly to the motherly role you would soon take; and thus, your table was soon empty, the gardens home only to the tweeting birds, the library as quiet as death.
It wasn't a worry you could bring to Maekar, for obvious reason; as Daeron had said, he was very particular about these things, and you had no desire to get the children in trouble with their father. Not only would it shatter the trust that you'd built with them, but besides that, Maekar had grown to be a problem of his own.
In truth, he'd done nothing of grand offence.
Of course, there was the matter of the missing proposal, which you gave some grace — it was to be, perhaps, the most politically pertinent alliance between Westeros and Essos of a generation, and thus there was much to prepare: correspondence to send across the Narrow Sea, dowries and settlements and resources to partition. It was not the proposal (or lack thereof) which vexed you most — it grated on you incessantly, but this you could forgive — no, it was the distinct feeling of distance which had descended on each and every interaction with him.
Slowly, surely, his mind had closed itself to you. The progress you'd made over many moons — prying his thoughts from him with a gentle hand and open ear and, yes, more than a little insubordination — seemed to be lost, fading with an imperceptible gradualness. There was no physical evasion, and for that you were glad at least: you could find him easily in his solar, or his apartments, or in the training grounds, and he had no qualms with spending time with you — but his mind had carried itself to a place you could not follow, and you were ignorant of how to bring it back. How to bring him back.
But no matter. It was clear there was some problem which you weren't privy to, but nonetheless you were determined to remain positive — when this odd period of retreat passed, you would be waiting. In the meantime, you did all those things a lady should do; read the appropriate books, wore the appropriate dresses, danced the appropriate dances to the appropriate music. You'd even begun hosting some of the courtiers in your apartments, having mixed properly with some at the tourney. There, of course, sprouted new problems.
Syrah was officially betrothed to Lord Yronwood. It was a development worth celebrating; you gifted her a fine spool of Braavosi silk with which to make her wedding dress, and took great pleasure in listening to her gush over her husband-to-be. The fact that Syrah was so quickly engaged, though, had become a point of some conversation in court — namely, in comparison to your own status of scandal and sin. It was no secret that you and Syrah were fond of each other; you imagined there was some spiteful humour in the fact that one of you — the less inflammatory one — was to be married without delay, while the other had nothing to show, apparently, for entertaining royalty.
(Though you allowed a litany of snide comments to roll off your back, you were able to concede that you were near green with envy. You'd waited a year. Never before had you exhibited such patience.)
Then, of course, there was the matter of—
"He wishes to marry me," Thoma said, hands wringing together. "Tyel, I mean."
The news sat between you for a moment.
Thoma had, apparently, struck up a romance with one of your guards.
This came as a great surprise to you — a great surprise, and a fair amount of hurt, no matter how much you pretended otherwise. It seemed you were missing more and more these days. Your sharp eyes and sharper tongue evaded you completely — it was all you could do to realise your mouth was agape, and close it.
Tyel and Thoma. You tried to imagine it. Thoma, who had never once insinuated her desire to marry, or anything more than a passing fancy; who turned her nose up at any who came close, and complained as easily as she breathed. Tyel, with his dark, curling hair, and bright green eyes, and mischievous smile. Thoma had, of course, spent more time with him than you ever would, and had obviously found something desirable; you knew very little about him, apart from his fighting prowess and talent with a flute. Sometimes you'd hear him on sunny days, playing when he was supposed to be guarding.
It was not an… unfavourable match. You were sure they'd be happy. It was only that there was a time where you would be the first to know such things. A time where Thoma trusted you to know. How much longer before you were a stranger to the woman you'd been a girl with? Before she disappeared into the ether to keep his home and have his babies, never to see or speak to you again?
"Only," Thoma said quietly, "he cannot afford to buy out my contract."
"Oh," you said smartly. "I… see."
Would she have told you about it, you wondered, if she had no need of your coin? It was a terrible thought, and you perished it.
"Well, of course it shall be dealt with — that should go without saying," you said. "I… congratulations, Thoma. Truly. Anything you might need, of course, I'll—"
Her mouth lengthened with a smile, a beaming thing, and she surged forward to take you in her arms. You had only just remembered to return the embrace — still shocked, really, at the news — when she pulled away, turning on her heel. "Thank you, my lady. Thank you!"
The door shut behind her. You blinked.
It seemed everything was intent on changing, and you were powerless to stop it. The thought infuriated you as much as it saddened you. You were to be married! You should be rosy with the light of love, glowing with youth, elated to begin a new chapter — instead, you were plagued by courtiers, hounded by your own loneliness, and grappling with your ineptitude.
Yes. Peace was an elusive mistress, it seemed. She did not come to you at breakfast, nor luncheon, nor in the gardens, or in dreams; you sat and waited for her to join you at your dinner table, idly prodding at your meal with a fork.
Maekar. Rhae, Daella, and Aegon. Syrah. The court. Thoma. A weary sigh left you — and as if called to action, a throat cleared.
"My lady," Zelma began, shuffling to stand before you. "If I may…"
"Yes?"
"I — well. I wonder if I might show you something. To raise your spirits."
"Oh?" It was comical in a way. Your spirits were not terribly low, but then you supposed they weren't at all high either. Clearly, your staff could tell. You wondered if it unsettled them, your uncharacteristic silence. The past few weeks had been spent in ignorant elation, after all, anticipating a proposal that hadn't yet come; then, a high-strung sort of annoyance as you realised the fickleness of the world around you. "Yes, of course."
Amused, you watched as she scampered from your solar and disappeared. She returned within a minute, something bundled in her arms — without realising it, you'd held out your hands, and she placed the item gently down.
It was a mask.
Made to cover the entire face, constructed entirely of cloth-of-gold; beaded from top to bottom in a swirl of cascading flowers, with loops of golden embroidery framing it, and tassels hanging from the sides as if to mimic earrings. It was familiar — and you'd never held it before, never seen this particular mask, but it was familiar in that way that certain things are, like the sea or sky.
Your throat suddenly tightened, and you cursed yourself.
In your hands was a piece of home, and it was small, and you knew the warp and weft of it as if it were the surface of your own skin.
The Unmasking of Uthero was a yearly celebration commemorating the revelation of Braavos to the world — a ten day masked soiree of revelry and food and dance. For those ten days, the city was awash with excitement; all petty squabbles and grudges could be set aside to drink and make merry. On the final day, at midnight, the Titan would sound his fearsome roar, and all masks would be removed. It was a unity you hadn't experienced since you'd left home.
Swallowing, you attempted a smile, though a pang of sadness soured your stomach. "You thought to bring masks? I… I didn't even realise what time it was."
"You've been otherwise preoccupied," said Zelma, not unkindly. "I thought, when we left, that it might make us feel more at home — though the first day came and passed, and I thought better of it. These westerners already think us strange."
Your mask last year had been a dark, bloody red, bejewelled with emeralds and sapphires. You wondered if it was still where you left it, in the trunk at the end of your childhood bed, beneath cloaks and dresses you'd long outgrown.
"It used to be my favourite festival." Your sisters had tried to trick you once by wearing identical masks, but you'd always been able to tell them apart, no matter how similar they looked or spoke. How long has it been since you'd received a letter from them? A few moons, no doubt. They were young girls steadily coming into their own, too busy to think of you. And you, in turn — disgracefully — had done the very same. Their eldest sister. "And I did not remember."
You seized your bottom lip between your teeth to keep it from trembling.
"'Tis no fault of your own, my lady," Zelma rushed to say. "Though, er… it is the eighth day, today — we shan't have the full ten, but surely we could celebrate?"
You hesitated. She was right. It would unnerve the court to see you walking around, face shrouded, and so you'd have to sequester yourself away — but it would be nice to partake, even if the celebration would be short-lived and poorly-planned and not at all like it should be.
'Tis only two days, a part of you said. You can afford to disappear for two single, measly days, can you not?
You looked up at Zelma — eyes hopeful, hands clasped before her. She was waiting for your permission, and your guilt only worsened. Admittedly, you tended to forget that your staff had left their homes much like you had — that you weren't the only one yearning for a time and place that had surely changed in your absence.
"I… suppose so," you said finally. "But Zelma, we must stay between our quarters—"
"Oh, you shan't regret it!" she exclaimed. "I'll run to the kitchens and ask them to prepare a feast, my lady, and we'll have dancing—!"
Her excitement was infectious, and she began clearing away your plates with great zeal. You found yourself laughing, blinking away the beginnings of tears. "Was I the only one who didn't prepare?"
"Yes," she admitted. "But you've had more than enough to worry about, my lady. Sit tight! I shall be back, and with sweets and music and company."
Your smile lasted even when she left. You held the mask up, watching it shimmer even in the low, dreary light.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
To say it was the first day that you felt most yourself would be false. You had felt very much yourself in Maekar's champion's tent, hands upon his armour; in his solar, drinking tea and reading aloud; playing cyvasse and listening to his hissed curses when you stole a particularly important piece. Or walking with Syrah through the gardens. Looking after Rhae's birds, and following Daella's deft movements as she embroidered. Watching Aegon's brow furrow as he regarded his pieces upon the cyvasse board.
It wasn't that you had never felt yourself in the Red Keep — rather, it was that you'd left a certain version of yourself in Braavos, and hadn't worn her in many moons. She was even more carefree than you; she danced in circles with her handmaidens until fatigue forced her to stop; woke late the next day, and ate sweets for breakfast, and danced again. Beneath her mask, she smiled and pouted and grimaced and didn't bother to dim them. She danced herself into a tizzy and collapsed into a chair on her balcony, soaking up the sun.
The mask removed most of your periphery. It could be suffocating, at times — the hotness of your breath, and the incessant press of it against your skin, and the obstruction of your vision. But it also seemed to make everything brighter, too; you had a much greater appreciation for that which you could see, and the sun that heated your arms, and the freshness of wind through your hair.
The King held court as he always did, and you did not rush to join. Instead you opened all the windows and doors to your apartments and listened to the sounds of the city from your balcony. The rain had stopped through the night, a passed sadness, and the sky was clear and crystalline once more. You could hear everything: yelling from the harbour, smallfolk calling to each other in the street. Music from somewhere, light and lilting in the gentle breeze, carried in from a little street you'd likely never visit. A world far outside your purview.
You were reminded of Braavos in such a sudden jolt that a sickness twisted your stomach. You wished you could walk from this place like you would back home, traipse through the lanes and over the canals. You'd buy sweets from the first vendor you saw and sit with your handmaidens, eating with mannerless fervour. You'd pull Thoma into a dance with the performers on the street, and watch the young bravos peacock about with their swords with Zelma. For a few hours, you would be completely and utterly free — until you returned home, of course, and faced the tongue lashings of your mother. It was often easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.
You perked up suddenly.
"Zelma," you called. "Where is Neema?"
Zelma snickered, stretching her hands out like a cat. "Tucked away with a bottle of summer wine, I reckon."
"Hm."
"A curious hm if I've ever heard one."
"Yes. Say, if we were to go into town—"
She sat up suddenly. "Was it not by your own decree that we should stay inside?"
"Yes," you said smartly. "Inside my apartments. But if we go out — out there, where not a soul knows us—"
A snort. "Yes, and you can be stolen away for ransom."
"We shall take guards, of course. And masked and cloaked, who will recognise us?"
"I… suppose. Whatever's so important that it must be now?"
You thought of the night prior, blurred and muddled by wine and laughter. Now that you knew the nature of Thoma and Tyel's relationship, you couldn't miss it. Tyel had played his flute, and watched closely as she twirled and danced. He took every one of her requests with no complaint — The Fall of Racallio Ryndoon, which he'd played twice; The Maid Who Bathed in the Rhoyne; A Thousand Brides for the Father of Waters… And they had been playing dice together that morning, huddled together over two cups of tea.
You'd gifted them a necklace of rubies and garnets the size of your fist. It was enough to buy out their contracts, book passage across the sea, even build a house wherever they so desired. You hadn't asked what they planned to do. You supposed it really was none of your business, no matter how much the need to know niggled at you.
You shrugged, then. What could you say, really? Perhaps it was to satisfy a curiosity, or to experience life fully outside the court for the first time in moons — or to feel, for one moment, that you weren't being predated upon by an endless slew of treacherous families. Perhaps you wanted to experience something new, something novel, something that would take your mind off of Maekar and his brood and Thoma leaving and—
"King's Landing must have more to offer," you said eventually. A flock of gulls convened overhead, cawing as they descended towards the harbour, and you followed them until they disappeared from sight. "And when I marry, I will be carted away to Summerhall, only to return here upon matters of great importance. When will I have another chance to be as free here as I am now?"
If I marry, you thought dourly.
Your companion gave a hum of agreement, albeit a hesitant one, and within the hour you were bundled into a wheelhouse. Dressed in your mask and your most unassuming cloak, you painted a timid picture; Thoma and Zelma looked almost identical, chattering excitedly between themselves opposite you. The topic of conversation was, of course, Thoma's betrothal.
You chewed the inside of your cheek, staring out the window. It was a horrid thing, you knew; you should share in her excitement, but all their talks of marriage only turned your mind to Maekar. You wondered whether he missed you any, if he wondered where you were. It had only been two days since you'd last seen him, but your mood still worsened at the fact that he hadn't called on you since.
Sighing, you shook away such thoughts. Instead, you elected to focus on the land around you — this was why you were here, wasn't it? You'd traversed King's Landing twice before, and neither had satisfied.
The first came after almost a moon at sea, and you'd been in dire need of a solid bed to sleep on, conscious only through sheer power of will and nervousness. You remembered it the way one remembers bad dreams: in strange, blurred flashes. You'd entered through the River Gate, its opening like the maw of a great beast; beyond it was the never-ending clamour of King's Landing, beginning with Fishmonger's Square — and oh, you remembered that well. The stench of decaying, rotting fish. The incessant din of yelling and heckling. The streets had been chock-full; for at least an hour, your wheelhouse remained stagnant as Gold Cloaks attempted to clear the way of smallfolk and horses and carts and mules. It all seemed a bizarre apparition, a figment of your imagination.
Then there had been your short trip to the tourney. For the King's name-day a special route had been prepared, cleared of all any and all obstructions; the streets had been lined with pennons of black and red, muck shovelled from the road. A neat and pretty performance.
This time, you made a great effort to take notice of the city. The coachman took the wheelhouse down Shadowblack Lane. It was a quieter passage out of the Keep, twisting and steep, and soon left you at the foot of Aegon's High Hill; from there, the wheelhouse trundled onto a narrow street, pushing its way through little lanes and tight passages, splitting the sea of smallfolk like a hot knife through butter.
Even as your nose wrinkled, offended by the mud and dirt and ever-present stench, you found your excitement slowly mounting. How had you been here nigh on a year, and never thought to explore further than the Keep?
Well, it wasn't as if the thought had never struck you — it had, more than once, but you were easily dissuaded by the smell, and the danger, and a grimace from a certain pockmarked man with opinions that simply must be heard. Then there'd been the tourney, of course, and your curiosity had been momentarily sated — but this was a world away from the tourney grounds, the stalls and crates erected in the field. The streets were less manicured, the buildings tall and teetering; it seemed, in its vastness, a sprawling beast not even the King could hope to contain.
Eventually, as the shadow of the Keep grew more distant, the congestion worsened. The wheelhouse slowed and slowed until it stopped altogether, and there was a sharp knock on the door.
"Apologies, m'lady," said a Gold Cloak, peeking his head in. "The streets prove difficult to clear."
"That's alright," you said. "We can continue on foot from here, can we not?"
"On foot, m'lady?" he echoed.
You blinked. "Well, how close are we to our destination, good sir?"
"Er—" He cast a doubtful look at your handmaidens— "No more than ten minutes, I reckon, but—"
"Ten minutes by wheelhouse," Thoma interjected. "By foot, we'll be almost half an hour — it's dangerous."
"If it please you, m'lady," said the guard, "between your own guard and those of the City Watch, we number five. Two can stay to keep the wheelhouse, three can accompany you."
"Then it is settled." You glanced over at Thoma and Zelma — you could sense their hesitance, even behind their masks. "Oh, come now. We were to peruse the markets anyways. What difference does it make if we walk a little longer?"
"At least we're away from Flea Bottom," Zelma said. "And… not too far from the market, I suppose."
With a victorious grin, you took the Gold Cloak's proffered hand and ducked beneath the doorway — instantly, you're thrown into streams of smallfolk, moved back and forth as if pulled by the tide. Your shoulder was jostled, and you're pressed uncomfortably forward, side jutting into the sharp edge of his couter — but you reached out and seized Thoma's hand in yours, and she Zelma's, and the guards closed ranks around you.
"I don't believe your beloved will be very happy," somebody muttered behind you. You didn't deign to give them a response.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
The markets served their purpose. Of course, you garnered a fair number of stares (masked as you were), but between your guards' formidable stature and the relentless movement between stalls and shopfronts, the smallfolk left you alone. They had better things to do, it seemed, than ogle your strange group; hauling baskets, carts, and sacks, the world bustled past you in a blur of noise and colour.
It was refreshingly loud. You enjoyed the gentle sounds of the Keep, the music played in the ladies' solar, and water trickling from fountains, and the distant clang of sword-fight, but there was great liberty in knowing you could speak as loud as you wanted, and nobody would blink an eye. You wouldn't be heard over the woman crowing an unmissable deal on her Dornish lemons, which you believed were actually yellow-painted apples, or the man announcing the sale of his odds and ends.
Of course, it was dirtier than you were accustomed to. You were used to brick and tile and pavement, and canal-boats; mud and filth had soaked through the hem of your cloak and dress, and you knew it would have to be scrubbed in boiling water to save it. The streets did not smell of gold or roses, but the mask obscured enough to make it bearable, and if you ducked into a shoppe or two, you'd avoid it completely.
It was in one such shoppe that Thoma suddenly confronted you, standing between two bolts of velvet. Zelma was using her time to flirt with the Gold Cloak that had accompanied you — you could see her through the window, grinning and staring like the cat who got the cream.
"Are you very upset with me?"
You glanced over at her, brows furrowed. "Upset?"
She was quiet for a moment.
"I know my… involvement with Tyel came as a surprise... This colour dulls your complexion, my lady. This one will suit better."
She brought you instead to a bolt of fabric the colour of dark, red wine, and you regarded it curiously.
"Yes, it did," you said, sniffing. "In fact, I… was quite upset."
Thoma shot you a look. "No longer?"
"… Perhaps, in a way. I admit, I… I couldn't imagine a time where you might've fallen in love and not told me. It was this that came most as a shock."
"I am sorry," she said quietly. "I only wanted something for myself for a while. My life is yours, my lady — it has always been yours, since I joined your staff. It can wear, at times."
The fabric was as smooth as silk; when you lifted it towards the light, its sheen was a bright, burned orange, almost unnatural in its brilliance. You waved a hand, and the attendant scurried over; at your request, he carried the fabric away to cut a length from it, and you were left alone. You pretended to not be hurt by her words — in truth, there was nothing hurtful in them. She had every right to act as she had. It was you who craved more than most could give — you who expected full, unyielding loyalty, you whose gluttony could be surpassed by none.
"Should you wish to leave," you said, "I shan't stop you."
"I know." Whether it was pity or joy in her voice, you did not know; you imagined a sad sort of smile upon her pretty face, and dug in your cloak for your coin pouch. From this, you obtained a single silver stag.
"I would never force you to stay by my side."
"Yes, my lady. I know."
The stag sat upon the table. You could feel her eyes boring into the side of your face, and sighed.
"I've lived more than ten years by your side," you said quietly. "I have not learned, yet, how to be without you."
You did not imagine the shake in her voice, then; the tremble in her hand as she reached out and clasped it around your wrist. "You will learn, my lady."
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
Upon waking that morning, you had felt that things were coming to a head.
'Twas not a particular sense of doom that sat heavy on your chest; it was something different, a sick sort of anticipation, a foreboding that had you burrowing deeper into your blankets. Your head ached, but it was not the familiar dullness of wine-sickness.
The world had swollen with rainwater. You woke to the sound of it pitter-pattering through your open window, roaring and rushing with such power that you believed, for a moment, you were right beside the sea. Yes — you could see it. Rolling, navy waves crested by foaming white; a sky like blackened charcoal as far as the eye could see.
You opened your eyes and found your quarters dark, as if the sun hadn't bothered to rise. The curtains were drawn open, as you'd left them the night before after drinking yourself to sleep, and through the window you saw your imagination hadn't been too distant: the world was grey. The heavens had split open, and their fruits obscured all of King's Landing — the bright roofs, and the shadow of the Blackwater, and the spires and towers. It was all grey. All blurred. Yesterday, the sun had been scorching.
Yes, you thought, gaze fixed on the ceiling. Something is amiss. Unsettled.
They said the Bloodstone Emperor ushered in the Long Night upon usurping his sister. A terrible darkness fell across the earth, bathing everything in blackness; his betrayal laid waste to entire generations, spreading famine and war and terror across the known world. You looked to your ceiling and wondered if you were being punished for something.
The door to your inner chambers creaked as it opened.
"Good morning," came Neema's familiar husk. A lit match in hand, she rounded the room, setting each sconce afire and casting the room in warmth. Her mask was missing. "Your breakfast has been set out, my lady. Up you come, now."
You sat up — pushed away the lethargy that desperately clung to you, wiping at your eyes. She had extinguished the match, but made no move to gather your garments for the day; instead, she stood at the foot of your bed, looking for all the world as if she had more to say.
Your stomach turned. Something was afoot.
"What is it?" you asked. You thought the worst. Had there been word from your father, displeased with the fourth prince's offer of marriage? Or was it Maekar? He'd discovered your clandestine meetings with his brood, and the disrespect was too much for him to accept— "Why… why are you looking at me like that? Where is your mask?"
Neema shuffled, the action so at odds with her usual confidence that you felt your throat tighten. "I… thought it important you know," she said carefully, "that this day is a sombre one. The anniversary of Lady Dyanna Dane — the day of her passing, that is."
Oh.
Your back was suddenly straight as a blade, the sheets clutched tight between your fingers. The weight of the Keep itself had pinned you to your bed, tossing you abruptly into awareness. You saw yourself, for a moment, as if peering down from the ceiling; sitting in the large expanse of your bed, wide-eyed and undone, hair still pulled back for sleeping. Ignorant that the man she would marry — that she expected to marry — was saddled with such mourning. Sleeping late on a day where she should be showing the courtiers that she, too, was mourning a woman she'd never known.
In the back of your mind, you'd known the day would inevitably come — that it existed — but it had always presented itself as a distant, intangible thing. The death of his wife. It happened, and it had happened before you, and it was brushed over in that way that one brushes over uncomfortable things, like bruised and tender skin.
Maekar hadn't said anything, you thought with a strange and sudden sense of shame. Neither had Rhae, nor Daella, nor Aegon.
It dawned on you, then, that this was the source of their strange behaviour, their withdrawal. You couldn't imagine what they might feel approaching the day they lost their mother, and preparing for a new one all the while — they were young, yes, and did not remember her as well as Daeron or Aerion or even Aemon, but they had known her enough to love her. Why would you expect them to have told you? To speak the words, as if they would not tear the throat from them?
But Maekar? Were you so untrustworthy? Too shallow or callous? Perhaps he thought you wouldn't care — or perhaps, worst of all, the idea simply hadn't struck him: you weren't significant enough to tell such things. Who were you? A young woman not yet betrothed. A foreigner in a foreign land. A conveniently ignorant confidant.
You released the sheets. Your palms were sore, your knuckles aching from the force with which you'd tensed them. You suddenly felt very tired, though you'd slept through the night like a milk-warmed babe.
No. No, don't be a fool. You pinched the bridge of your nose between your fingers, screwing your eyes shut.
Their mother was dead. His wife was dead, and you couldn't be so selfish as to overstate your importance in it all, as much as it pained you. You'd forgotten his reservation in the privilege of his company; it had taken many moons before he'd divulged more than surface-level pleasantries and indignation — memories of his mother, and Dyanna, and his fondness for his brothers, especially Rhaegel. The Blackfyre Rebellion and its bloody battlefield. Scars that marred his skin, pockmarks on his cheeks.
You'd forgotten, in the midst of your knowing him, how difficult it was for him to allow it. It was often — when faced with matters of particular sentimentality — that his tongue and countenance stilled, froze themselves into impenetrable barricades; he would rather swing a sword than speak to vulnerability, and of this you held no illusions.
Still. You thought you allowed him the space for it. You thought…
The shame deepened. You pressed your palms to your eyes, and sighed wearily. You'd expected Syrah would tell you, at least, but then she was all aflutter over Lord Yronwood. It wasn't her fault.
"Breakfast," you mumbled. "Breakfast, and then… we should pray."
"At the alter?" A note of surprise lifted her voice.
"No," you said. "Or, yes. I… I must be in the royal sept, with the rest of them, where they can see me. But later… later, I shall light candles..."
It was ironic in an infuriating sort of way. The courtiers held no love for their Dornish peers, and you can't imagine much was changed when Lady Dane was alive; but she was dead, and so they venerated her while scorning her compatriots all the while. Were she still living, they'd be the same vipers they were now, and nothing would change.
But if you dared to hide away today, to seek privacy and meditation, your reputation — which was already sullied, for obvious reasons — would be completely and utterly beyond repair.
"Modest clothing," you said finally. "Modest, and humble."
Your mask was left upon your nightstand.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
After breaking your fast, you dressed in a gown of dark, green silk. The collar fastened where your shoulders began, and it covered almost every inch of skin except your hands, face, and a sliver of neck. There was no grand ornamentation or jewellery, nothing that could be misconstrued as haughty or boastful. Even your hair was tied back simply.
You had been to the royal sept only thrice before — each time accompanied by Syrah, who was not particularly devout, but took the sept to be yet another meeting place where one could engage in courtly politics. This was, of course, her favourite pastime.
It was not as large as the Great Sept of Baelor, the grand domes and spires of which you could spy from a great distance, but it could quite comfortably seat hundreds in its rows of benches if needed; the ceiling was impossibly tall and pointed, and the walls impregnated by high crystalline windows. Had it been sunny today, they would cast rays of rainbow through the space, illuminating the pale marble in colour — but it was decidedly not, and the interior remained colourless, save for candlelight. It seemed fitting.
It was a pleasant place, familiar in that way that places of worship tended to be. A comforting stillness blanketed the interior, and the air was fragrant with incense and candle-wax. The only sounds to be heard were quiet, whispered prayers from the clusters of courtiers who came and went, and the constant hum of rain. You were glad for it. You were in no mood to talk, though you often felt the press of eyes against your spine.
Remembering what little you knew of the Seven, you lit candles before the Stranger and the Maiden, praying for Dyanna and yourself alike. You took a seat on a bench, and hoped your own gods wouldn't be too offended by your offerings.
In truth, you hadn't planned to stay long; you would light the candles, be seen with your head bowed in supplication, and leave to mull over your thoughts in your quarters. But your mind had been at war with itself since that morning, and the sept offered a certain breed of silence that tempered it.
You had wondered — from the very moment you'd discovered the importance of the day, really — whether you should seek to comfort Maekar. You were no stranger to his usual haunts, and could most likely find him with ease; whether he would appreciate it, though, was another conversation entirely. Maekar's feelings around Dyanna's death were not a topic you commonly stumbled into; he had shared some memories of her, you remembered, but both of you tended to give the reality of your relationship a wide berth, in that way one avoids uncomfortable truths.
(But was it not your right to offer such solace?
Had he need of it, he would have told you, said a distinctly petulant part of you. Instead, he left you to realise the importance of the day from your servants.)
He was most likely spending the day with his children. It wouldn't do to intervene where you weren't wanted. You were already praying for the woman he loved — praying to gods you didn't believe in for a woman who'd had everything you wanted. That terrible, no-good, jealous part of you shuddered at the thought of seeing him bereft over another woman. It was a terrible thought — it made you sick to your stomach. And yet, it was you.
Hunger, greed, spoiled as curdled milk. The worst of you. You wanted in a way that was unsavoury — and quite frankly, you'd been reminded of it far too many times in the past moons. You'd never given it deep thought before, but every time your limits were tested — by Lenila Lannister, by Thoma, by the ghost of a dead woman, or by Maekar himself— it presented itself, maw bared and bloody. Selfish.
You wished you'd been born twenty years earlier, been given the opportunity to meet him before he'd been given to anyone else, before he'd even laid his eyes upon another woman — that you could have stolen him away in his youth and seized his heart as Dyanna had, and claimed the same unfaltering ownership that she had. You wished he had never known any woman as wife, for the very thought of it soured something rotten in your stomach. You wished he only thought of you, that his mind was plagued by it, that it sickened and satiated him in the same breath — you screwed your eyes shut and imagined scrubbing his mind of all traces of her, of her touch, so that he only knew you and your skin and your scent and your voice and—
Your breath came trembling. Your disgust was a palpable thing, curling and churning in your stomach; it was the same sickening twist of shame that had grasped you early that morning, only you couldn't blame your weariness any longer. You were awake, wide-eyed and watchful; terrible in your jealousy, and your selfishness, and your envy. You didn't think it would ever leave you — it was sewn into your very being, entwined with your very sense of self.
In truth, you'd never given much weight to goodness or badness — on account, mostly, of never truly having to. But you remembered the storybooks of your youth, the tales of heroes and princesses, the black and white of it all. You had wanted to be those princesses, once. Your father had told you it'd never happen if you kept being so mean, the terror of a child that you were, and you had ignored him as you often did. Whether you or he was right remained to be seen — your aforementioned meanness had never left you penniless, only lonely.
The blank, knowing visage of the Maiden stared back at you. These gods could hear your thoughts sullying their land, their place of worship, spilling like brackish water across their pristine tile and marble. Perhaps it was they who sought to punish you.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
It was a strange mood that you found yourself in: somehow, despite yourself, you left the sept both lighter and heavier than you were when you first arrived. The rain had not eased — in fact, it seemed to have gotten worse — but it did not carry the same trepidation; you regarded it not as an omen of ill-will, but a simple, dreary day. Water for the crops.
You had missed luncheon and hardly noticed it, and the time for dinner was soon upon you. It had been a long time that you'd sat in the sept, silent, suspended in an odd sort of trance. There was some comfort in confronting that which plagued you, and that which you held great shame for; you sat in the malaise of it, stewed in your shortcomings, and the sky had not shattered upon you. The gods did not strike you down. You were covetous and invidious, and the world had not ended in darkness or flame or ice; apparently, your personal complications were to be the height of your penalty. You almost preferred the sky-shattering.
Upon returning to your quarters, you donned your mask again, hoping, absurdly, to salvage the last day of celebration; you ate a paltry meal, and then resigned yourself to your alter. It was a tiny thing shoved into a mostly-forgotten nook in a corner of your apartments. You never were very devout; the alter was mostly for your staff, who'd added their own pendants and figures.
It was cluttered. Your father and mother worshipped two different gods of the same pantheon, and thus you'd grown up somewhere betwixt the two. There was the Maiden-Made-of-Light, carved from pale, pearlescent stone — your mother's patron, who, upon witnessing the cruelty of man, turned her back upon the world; there was the Lion of Night in dark obsidian, then, favoured by your father. He who came forth to punish man's wickedness during the Long Night. Whether you favoured either more, you did not know.
You sat before that alter and stared. At the statues, the incense, and the offerings — jewels and precious things, from you; food and scraps of pretty fabric from your staff. It was a pity that you'd never been more pious; perhaps it could have made you a more graceful girl. But even with your gracelessness, you lit a candle for Dyanna Dane, and shut your eyes and prayed for her, even though your jealousy burned something fierce.
She had been his first wife. The mother of his children. A woman with hopes and likes and dislikes, much like you, and a stranger in King's Landing. You wondered whether she felt the Keep's walls tightening around her at times, as you did. Whether the sense of alienation ever fully went away.
You hated her. And yet you were her, in many ways.
A throat cleared. You looked up from the Maiden-Made-of-Light, and met Neema's gaze. How long had you spent on your knees? Your ankles ached, and from the window you could see the sky had become inky. Deeper in your apartments, you could hear the distant sound of music and merrymaking, cheers as rounds of dice were thrown.
"Oh. Hello."
"It has been a long time since I've seen you pray," she said, kneeling at your side. She bowed her head for a moment, and you imagined her lips moving beneath the mask in silent prayer. "It reminds me of when you were a girl."
"I did say I would."
"Saying and doing are often two very different things."
You hummed. You could feel the heat of her beside you, shoulder to shoulder, and you thought of a time before — before, when your mother would send you to pray after you'd been particularly horrid. You'd huff and puff the whole way, but sometimes, when Neema took pity on you, she'd sit by your side, silent and reverent as she completed her own worship. Back then, you were smaller. Kneeling together, the top of your head would barely reach her shoulders.
"To think," Neema mused, "there was once a time where you could only be dragged here."
A snort-like laugh left you. "It seems I've grown in more than height."
"So you have," she agreed. You felt her eyes upon your cheek, then, and turned your gaze to meet them. "I know there was some difficulty in today. And that Thoma's betrothal was… unanticipated."
"Yes, that goes without saying."
"I imagine you have a lot in that mind of yours," Neema said. "Speak, and I will listen."
She gently nudged her shoulder against yours, and you shook your head.
"I have made peace with Thoma. I was saddened, at first, of course, but there is more to life than I.
"The prince… at first, I didn't know what was worse," you admitted. "That he hadn't thought to inform me of the day, or that he had planned to, and thought better of it. Both ideas infuriate me."
You worried your skirt between your fingers. But there was nothing to fear, not from Neema. She knew you the way a mother knew her child.
"You know, I pitied myself this morning. Told myself that I wouldn't be wanted by his side. And then there was the thought of it, of seeing such sadness upon his face, pining for a woman long passed — I know myself. I know I couldn't handle it." You swallowed. "Even so, I… I wanted him to call on me, to seek comfort in me. And he hasn't, and so he has proven me right."
"Your pride has been wounded."
"'Tis not a matter of pride, but of… of…" You shook your head. You didn't know. Perhaps it was pride — but you knew pride, had walked alongside her your entire life. You'd felt her thorns and needles those weeks after you'd promenaded with Valarr, and had overcome it. This feeling, now, was edged with melancholy. Doubt. "And then I thought — how selfish of me! A woman has passed, and I pity myself. I covet her husband, and her children, and her life. I was disgusted by my own cruelty."
"Cruelty," Neema mused. "Is that what you call it?"
"What would you?"
"Fear, I think."
For a moment you stared at your hands in your lap, bunched up together and clutching each other; then you eyed the flickering flames of Dyanna's candle, the long shadows it cast over the cluttered table. The rain had eased to a gentle trickle, the night humid and muggy, tempered only by a light breeze. It stirred the curtains, and you listened to the whisper of wool against the ground. The music continued; Tyel was at the flute again, but somebody had brought a lute, and together they played a jaunty tune.
Neema groaned as she pushed herself to her feet, rubbing at her hips as she did. "I am not as young as I once was, my lady, and neither are you."
The soft scuff of her slippers against the floor neared the doorway, but—
"I do not know how to be unafraid," you blurted. "Not yet."
(I have not learned, yet, how to be without you.)
There was a pause, and she returned to you. A hand planted itself upon your head. You were seven again, pouting at the alter, refusing to pray out of spite. "It comes with time, and time alone."
(You will learn, my lady.)
Somehow, despite the ambiguity of it, you felt a sense of relief. As if, with those simple words and simple gesture, she'd given you permission: live, and you will learn along the way, and it is neither a shame nor a hindrance.
"Now, do hurry," she said warmly. "It won't be long until the unmasking, and wine to go with it."
You couldn't help the smile that overcame you. "Yes, of course. I shall."
With a final smile of her own, she left you to your devices, and you were alone once more.
For the first time that day, you felt oddly at ease. The tension you'd been holding simply seeped from you; you found yourself slumping, resting your weight upon a single arm. Your eyes fell shut, and you listened to the pleasant sounds of living around you.
It had been a long day. A heavy one. You'd be glad to put it behind you; you'd be glad to see your bed, in fact, but it wouldn't do to miss the celebrations. Yes, once you'd drank and danced yourself to sleep — and fastened your head correctly upon your shoulders — you would go to Maekar, and you would tell him quite plainly how much you appreciated being left in the dark.
You wondered how often Dyanna had to wrangle him into sense, like diverting a charging boar. It seemed a never-ending task, separating the man from the warrior. It wasn't that he was totally unpractised in the ways of sociability, either — only that, more often than not, he simply didn't care to engage in them. Who cared for niceties on the battlefield?
His was a blunt sort of love, fitting a blunt sort of man. You'd never trade it for anything, as unhappy as you presently were with him.
The door creaked behind you.
"Yes, yes," you called. "I'll be there in a moment. Surely you haven't drank all the wine already?"
"…That explains the behaviour of your staff, then," came a familiarly miffed voice.
Your head snapped to the doorway.
There, in his regular ebony-and-red, stood the very man of whom you'd been thinking. Maekar's hands were clasped behind his back, and he regarded you with his usual frown — one not borne of any particular grievance, but simple habit. There was darkness beneath his eyes, though; a certain limpness to his hair, and a pallid sort of colour to his already pale cheeks.
He was standing there, as if it were a day as customary as any.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
The girl stared at him — he could see those eyes of hers, even beneath the mask, even in the candlelit room. He could find them in a crowd, he thought. She often had the habit of widening them — batting her eyelashes and rounding her gaze into something innocent and girlish, but now they were narrowed, like those of a cat. Fixed upon him with a similar sort of intensity.
Clasped in his hands was a letter. It had arrived that morning — miraculously dry, for the weather, baring a seal of emerald green. It had come at breakfast, and the arrival of it had pierced the tension at the table like a hot knife through butter. There was no mistaking the emblem: a golden key and coin. Daella's sharp eyes had followed its path through the room to Maekar's hands.
The courier had ridden and sailed non-stop through the rain, and was sopping with water, completely ragged. Maekar would have felt some modicum of pity for the man if he hadn't been awaiting him the past fortnight.
Of course, he thought, it would come to me today, of all days.
He did not look forward to Dyanna's anniversary. Sun or rain, wind or humidity — he dreaded the day like he dreaded the point of a sword, and the apprehension of it begun long before the day itself.
He disliked remembering her loss; he disliked the sullenness that overcame his children, the sadness that seeped all joy from living. He disliked the constant, unremitting introspection the day forced him into, the kind that would have his mind wandering without his permission. He disliked saying the words aloud — the my wife is dead words — and he disliked, especially, the idea of saying them to you.
Dyanna was no longer his wife. She hadn't been for a long time, and his heart had bloomed anew, softened into something he didn't think possible. But habit was habit was habit, and Maekar was a decidedly old dog. He hadn't said the words to you.
It was a selfish decision. An easier decision. Courting you had been maddening, yes — infuriating, rife with little squabbles and tiffs punctuated by the sharpness of your smile. Every disagreement could be ended by a simple wave of your pretty hand and a murmur of his name — damn him, it was true. But no matter how vexing, nothing yet had cut as deeply as this.
It was easier to not look you in your eyes — narrowed, widened, batting eyelashes or not — and tell you that Dyanna was dead, and the day was approaching, and there was no stopping it. And there would be no stopping it. For as long as he lived, the day would cut, and he didn't love you any less.
You would be angry with him. He anticipated this.
"The winds," the courier had wheezed, holding the letter out, "they were most unfavourable, my lord."
Fuck the winds. He knew you to be as impatient as he was, and his own tolerance was wearing thin. He'd rolled his neck to dislodge some of his tension.
He'd tore the letter from the man's hand and sliced the seal away with a bread knife — pretending quite well to not feel the weight of his children's eyes on him. His eyes traced the lines of Lord Manwoody's hand, and not for the first time, he was glad of the man's presence in Braavos; your father was incredibly vigilant where you were concerned — you, and his coffers. Had Lord Manwoody not returned to Braavos to mediate your betrothal, Maekar feared it would've taken thrice as long as it already did.
He read the words. Agreeable. More to discuss followed, but it mattered not. He'd seen all he needed to see. He held a future in his hands — a future he'd coveted, and wished for, and desired for the better part of a year.
The letter was placed down, and he leaned back in his chair, abandoning the plate he'd been idly picking from. It felt as if a great weight had been taken from him — and yet he couldn't move, couldn't make use of the nervous energy gathering in his legs. He had to remember what day it was — what was expected of him, and what was deserved.
He visited the sept — not the royal sept, but the Sept of Baelor, which he only found himself in once every decade, it seemed. It was where he had gotten married, and now it was where he mourned. Aegon couldn't stop squirming in his seat during prayer, and Rhae barely prayed at all — just stared at the candles and dipped her fingers into the wax when she thought he wasn't looking.
He dined with his father and brothers, then; a quiet affair, mostly, though Rhaegel had insisted on a song to brighten spirits. Maekar hadn't the energy nor heart to stop him. He stared into his wine and thought about the letter in his pocket.
He sent away the septas and maids and put the children to bed; extinguished the candles, read a story (Ten Thousand Ships, an account of Queen Nymeria's battles during the Rhoynish Wars — Aegon's favourite, it seemed) and tucked them in amongst their furs and blankets.
It felt like an apology of sorts; he wondered if they knew where he'd go, now that they were sleeping. If they had felt the warmth of the letter burning a hole in his pocket as they prayed and ate. If it felt as much a betrayal as it had to Aerion.
Unconsciously he took the letter from his doublet held it in his hands as he made his way to your quarters. His thumb traced the folds in the parchment, the wax of the seal. He could see the words in his mind's eye. Agreeable. Finally. He'd sent the first letter just after the tourney — that same night he made his choice clear to his father — and two more had followed since, each more pedantic than the last.
(Annoyance aside, he supposed he could admire your father's solicitude. He often felt the same.)
He held that letter in his hands now, clutched behind his back. Your stare had not abated.
"The Unmasking of Uthero," you said finally. "A celebration from home."
"That explains the masks," he said, on account of not knowing how to broach the obvious. Your frown deepened. "Your lady-servant said you've had them on since yesterday."
"They are to be removed at midnight," you said.
"You went to the markets," he added. He couldn't help the note of disapproval that made itself known. "King's Landing is dangerous."
There was a pause -- a scoff, and you shook your head. "You have no right to indignation, my lord."
Unconsciously, a scowl pulled at his face. My lord. You turned from him, then, lifting a matchstick to a candle. "How fare the children?"
"They... it is a difficult day."
A slow inhale. "Yes. I… thought it best to give you space today. I had no desire to intrude."
"You've never cared much for intrusion before. And I have always welcomed it."
"This is different." Your voice had sharpened. He despised it, he realised, not being able to see your face. Your eyes were most expressive, but there was much to know in the curve of your mouth, the tension of your brow. "You know it to be."
Silence reigned. Neither moved.
Then: "I am displeased, Maekar."
His jaw set. He deserved it, he knew, but it didn't make accepting it any easier. "Yes, I… know."
"Many times I have been angry with you, in fact, and I have held my tongue."
At this, he took pause — shifted in place, and replied with a sharp, disbelieving laugh. Today, he could admit. But others? He was not prepared for others. "Really?"
"Yes."
"Do tell."
Your glare was piercing. "I recall your punishment for my entertaining other men, though it was by your own suggestion—" He winced— "Or when you took Lenila Lannister's favour; or, perhaps, when you became distant and impenetrable over the past few weeks—!"
"Excuse me—" he tried.
"—but no anger I have felt thus far has matched that of today," you said. You had bunched up your skirt in your hands — grabbed the wool between your fingers as if to ground yourself. "To wake up and be informed of the day by my lady servant. To be completely and utterly clueless in the savagery of the court, as if they haven't enough reason to hate me already!"
His mouth snapped shut. A great well of pity rose within him.
He had assumed, admittedly, that you were much like him — open in your dislike of the court and its politics, its two-faced fellows and its cut-throat diplomacy, but willing to ignore it in the end. You often complained to him of ladies' luncheons and snide comments, and he, in turn, made clear his strained relationship with almost everyone; it was one of those inescapable things, the reason why he missed Summerhall more than anything.
He was not Baelor, who excelled in such places despite his own hatred for it; Maekar was not learned in the art of communication, and had never had to be. He had no need for charm or soft words on the battlefield, in the lists.
"I have been in this place for nigh on a year. You have known of my hatred for it, and you still — you still leave me to fend for myself at every turn."
Something like guilt sat in his stomach. He was not accustomed to the feeling. It was greatly uncomfortable — stuck his feet to the floor, and his frown to his face, and his hands tight around the letter.
"I have never given thought to what the court says or thinks. They're cunts," he said. He didn't know whether these words were the right ones — wincing, he continued: "And I — apologise, for that. For all I've angered you."
The discomfort remained, but he moved around it regardless; left the doorway and neared you with, perhaps, less caution than he should. He paused a moment at your side — waited for you to swipe out and push him away, forbid him from your quarters — but there was nothing to fear. You only watched, quiet. Maekar eased into the space beside you, huffing as he dropped. His old bones creaked.
He was face to face now with what he realised was an alter. He had paid little attention to it — his focus had gone straight to you. The table was awash with figurines and statues, bundles of colourful cloth, strings of jewels and beads. He imagined your head bowed in deference and felt inclined to raise it. He couldn't imagine your submission to anyone who was not him; he did not want to imagine it.
(He knew, in reality, that you were more likely to command him than the other way around.)
It was quiet again. Upon his entrance, your staff had quietened down some, but he could still hear the gentle strumming of the lute, the low thrum of chatter. The letter sat in his lap.
He grit his teeth.
"I have no talent with words. Forgive me," Maekar spoke. "I… had every intention of returning to the Stormlands within a moon of my coming here. I have little love for the Keep — if it were not my father's seat, I would be happy to never return."
"And yet, you stayed."
He nodded. "And yet."
Your fingers had released your dress. He watched as they slowly, surely made their way from your lap to his — hesitating over the letter, before moving to take his hands in them. Your skin was soft as satin, free of calluses and roughness. He couldn't imagine his hands were very pleasant to hold — large and unwieldy, callused and brutish. Made to hold a mace, not a lady. You cupped them gently regardless.
"You know that I care for you," he said quietly. "If I had not come across you that night, I would have returned to Summerhall. You have been infuriating, and maddening, and I have been ailed by the very thought of you, and I have stayed here for you."
A laugh erupted from you — and his eyes shot to your face, because the laugh was a warbling thing, thick with tears. Your eyes were glassy. "Infuriating. How romantic!"
He almost snorted. It would be the first time in years someone had called him that. Things were like that with you, he found; the first in years to touch him gently; to temper his vexation; to look at him not as the realm's prickly, impatient prince, but with a fondness he craved like air.
"Saying such things aloud — it has never been where I excel." His voice had taken on a note of pleading, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "You know this."
You hummed, thumb smoothing over a tensed tendon along the back of his hand. Your eyes were downcast. He wanted to rip that infernal mask off and see your face — your cheeks, your nose, your lips, your chin. "I thought, perhaps, that you thought me unimportant, or shallow. Unworthy of knowing."
The idea was almost offensive. Unimportant. He grimaced. Perish the thought. "Don't be a fool."
"Do not make a habit of it," you returned. Your eyes met again — and there they were. Widened and round, the picture of girlish innocence. "Do not close yourself to me again, Maekar. I couldn't bare it."
He swallowed. Traitorously, his hands twitched in yours, closing over your fingers. "I shan't."
"I will hold you to it. Now — what is it you've brought me?"
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
"The winds were unfavourable," Maekar said, peering down at the parchment. The seal — a sparkling, emerald green, emblazoned with the golden key and coin of your family — had been split from the parchment messily, as if he'd opened it with great impatience. "And your father has the fastidiousness of his daughter. The response took longer than anticipated."
You felt distinctly as if you were looking at your very own future — there, in his grasp, scrawled in dark ink in your father's hand. You knew what the letter would say. There would be no reason to deny that which you asked for, and yet fear persisted in that way it usually does: illogically, and foolishly.
"I can be patient," you heard yourself say, "when it suits me. Though I should scorn you, Maekar. You did make me wait terribly long."
A noise left him. "You have scorned me enough, girl."
The hush returned. You gathered your hands in your lap again — mourned the loss of his heat, and the feeling of his skin against you — and watched as his thumb worried the folded edge of the letter. A lump had formed in your throat.
"In truth," you said, before he could speak, "I spent the day in the sept, praying for a woman I did not know, unsure of my standing with you. I lit candles for her. Spoke to your foreign gods for her -- and for me, too."
You could feel his eyes on you. Yours remained resolutely on the letter.
"In those moments, I realised something terrible about myself; a gnawing, persistent desire I carry. I have tried to temper it — Neema says these things take time, but I fear it will never fully leave me. I've been this way since young."
"Are you trying to dissuade me? I shan't be."
You shook your head, a smile tugging at your lips. "I wouldn't allow you to be dissuaded -- you are mine to keep. But you know not of what I speak, Maekar. The thoughts I have."
"Desire," he echoed — and it was back again, you remarked fondly to yourself, that edge of annoyance he carried in his voice, as if wholly unimpressed by your lamentations. "Whatever desires plague you, they plague me thrice over—"
"I thought of devious things," you said quietly. "Graceless, unkind, selfish things, in that place of gods. I cursed them for placing me along your path so late, and I thought of all the ways I could keep you, as if you were a dog to be kept. I wanted you to… to… be tortured by the very thought of me, to ache as I have."
Air shuddered in your lungs. Whatever words you thought to say next died in your throat, and you could not bring yourself to look at him again. Instead you watched him twist the ring upon his thumb, the ruby catching candlelight.
"Do you think me a septon or eunuch?" he demanded. Your head shot up, and his gaze was already fixed on you. You were reminded, quite suddenly, of the proximity between you — shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. He eclipsed you almost completely, the King's Anvil, and he was bowed towards you now, shoulders hunched. If you hadn't had the mask, you might almost be nose to nose. His stare was intense. Desperate. Your heart thudded in your chest. "I am a man."
Your voice came as a whisper. "I know."
"You do not know the ways of men," Maekar said. "I promise you. You do not know the ways I have… have hungered."
Your mouth was dry. "What would you have me do? To… to ease it?" Quiet. Anything louder would shatter the space between you, delicate as spun sugar.
He stared at you for a second. "I—"
A raucous, piercing volley of cheers suddenly erupted — you jolted in place, head snapping to the doorway. There was nobody there, of course. The festivities had not reached you.
When you turned, Maekar hadn't moved. His eyes were still fixed on you, narrowed as if in annoyance. His mouth was screwed up, pursed. With a tilted head, you opened your mouth to ask what he was thinking — but his hands were coming up, and you didn't shrink from them. You watched them disappear from your view, but you could feel the heat of them as they neared your body — and then his fingers were on you, warm and thick, hooked beneath the chin of your mask. Your heart was rabbiting, now, breath stuck in your throat. You couldn't breathe — wouldn't breathe, rather, caught in the anticipation of his touch.
Suddenly your cheeks were being cooled by as he pulled the mask up and over your head, unfalteringly gentle. Strands of hair clung to your forehead and cheeks, damp with sweat, but you felt no embarrassment. His fingers were still splayed across your jaw — just as they had been, back in his tent at the tourney. You'd dreamed of them ever since — but in all those dreams, he had never looked at you like this. It was frightfully vulnerable, even with his jaw clenched as it was, and his eyes glaring as they were — there was something in his that had softened, had bared itself to you. How had you thought yourself second-fiddle? How could you, for one moment, see what he felt as anything less than what it was?
"Your father has given his permission," he said, and his voice was softer than you thought possible. Maekar Targaryen, the Anvil, was whispering to you with such fragility. Holding your face like something precious, his nose nudging against yours. "Marry me."
Oh, gods. You were not being punished. This could not be punishment, divine or otherwise. Your hands shook, and you squeezed them between your thighs — a grin so bright and satisfied pulling at your lips, and you hadn't the strength to dim it. They were the words you'd longed to hear. The affirmation your heart had long desired. To hear them spill from his lips -- to see his face contort in abashment, as if to say the words were a weakness that struck the very heart of him...
"I — I will, of course," you said, embarrassingly breathless. If you just leaned forward, you could… "I've -- only been waiting a year, you foolish man."
His laugh came in a sharp burst. "Yes, and you've been ever so patient."
"Only as much as you have," you said. "Though I shall warn you — I am horrendously jealous, and scornful, and spiteful, and I have tried terribly to shield you from it. If you marry me, I shan't be any better."
A pale eyebrow quirked. "Oh?"
"I may be worse, even," you added. "A wife must covet her husband, after all."
"You'll find no argument with me," he said — and, as if noticing for the first time how close he'd pulled you, released your jaw like it burned him. Maekar cleared his throat, sitting straight once more, though you didn't miss his eyes' traitorous path back to your mouth.
"Come," you said, shaking your head fondly. A giddiness took you over — you were tired no more, springing to your feet with zeal. "There is wine to celebrate, and we simply must inform everyone, of course, and — are you quite alright?"
With a pained groan, Maekar pushed himself to standing. He stretched tall, and you winced as you heard something pop.
"Fuck me," he cursed. "I'm not as young as I once was."
𓃴 summary: You continue onward and away. Far, far away.
𓃴 pairing: lyonel baratheon x f!dornish!reader
𓃴 wc: 10.9k
𓃴 notes: sorry for suuuuuuuuch a long wait lol school actually killed me <3 thank you so much to ms @rayveneyed as usual for hearing me yap about this for like idk how many voice messages and everyone else for waiting patiently if ur still here :p
i'm getting back into writing this so sorry if it isn't toooo up to snuff but overall i enjoyed it and i hope y'all do too! btw this is where i start ignoring sliiiiiiiightly ignoring canon xoxo
read on ao3 || previous
SWEETLING
You bow your head.
Ser Duncan rises from where he'd been preparing the bedrolls, and you meet him by the fire, slipping the necklace up and over your head. You glance at Egg, patting at his bedding and smoothing out the innumerable wrinkles, before turning back to the hedge knight. His eyes have grown heavy, but there's an unmistakable alertness of a man who's tasted danger and found it foul.
"Ser. Thank you… for taking him to squire," you say again. "Truly. Take care of him."
"He won't have any fear, so long as he does his job well."
The boy lifts his head. "I will, ser."
You and Duncan share an amused look before you take Duncan's wrist. You can barely wrap your fingers around the width of it, but you don't need a harsh touch to keep him still.
Am I doing the right thing, you wonder wildly. The carved, spiked sun ripples beneath your fingertips, and your pointer finger traces the top of the wood, the hole where the rope is threaded through, and a sharp scratch that has been buffed out in haste, but still too deep to carve off entirely.
You swallow. The fire kisses and warps in the stag ring, too, and you silently ask for Duncan's knife with an outstretched palm. It takes little effort for the rope to snap and you pull the ring off carefully, sliding it onto your thumb, and then carefully unthread the rope.
"You might need new rope," you mumble as you place the pendant down into the center of his palm, "if you wish to wear it. But I would be honoured."
Pushing Duncan's fingers, you clasp his fist tight in between your own fingers. They dig into his skin, but the hedge knight does not flinch. Your eyes bear into his, chest strangely empty—as if you've given half of your heart away—and it makes your voice thin and soft. "You don't have to. Just keep it safe. Please."
"Why are you giving it to me?"
"There will be more necklaces." You glance at Egg, pretending to be asleep. "But that body is the only one you have. And my mother told me it was a good luck charm. You'll need any ounce you can get, won't you, Ser Duncan?"
"I… Thank you, Sweetling. Truly."
You smile, and jerk your hands tight towards yourself, clasping them and twisting the ring upon your thumb to busy yourself before you can entertain the urge to rip pendant out of his grasp. He pinches the pendant up to the light, examining the craftsmanship. His gaze traces the etching, the wood warm and smooth, brow softening, blue eyes tender.
You turn away when he wraps the cord around his neck and begins to tie it again, squeezing your eyes shut. The breath that escapes you is long and slow, but only because you force it to. If you hadn't, you think you'd be lightheaded from the urge to hiccup and swallow down air. Chest tightening, the corners of your world begins to dim.
Your stomach rises and falls shallowly. You're still not sure if you're breathing. Not truly. You need to move. You need to walk. Eyes trickling over the camp, you dart from Duncan, to Egg's form, to the horses by the tree, disrobed of all their equipment and grazing.
The saddle packs have been pushed between the roots, and your eyes catch on blue-grey fabric spilling out the top of one of them. You walk past Duncan, a delicate frown gracing your mouth and bend over, pulling it out. It falls open immediately, a thick cloak stained with the elements, but otherwise…
You test the fabric between your fingers. It was lovely, once.
"May I borrow this?"
"If you'd like, but it belonged to the old man," Ser Duncan says. "It won't smell pleasant."
"It doesn't need to." Flinging it around your shoulders, you fasten it at your throat. It falls a little too short, just above your knees, but when you pull on the hood, it doesn't smell of anything more than rain and grass. Smiling gratefully, you dip your head to Ser Duncan. He bows a little himself before you approach Egg, crouch down.
You place a hand on his skinny shoulder. "Egg. Promise me."
He twists to look at you. "I promise."
"On your mother."
"On yours," he returns, and with a soft twitch of your mouth, you rise to your feet again. Dirt crumbles, and you stare down at yourself, at the mud and grass stains, a big splotch where Aegon had kicked you square in the thigh. You run a finger tenderly, the skin beneath still smarting when you press too hard. "Sorry I kicked you."
"Perhaps it is deserved. I'm no septa, I know," you reply. You clench your fingers tight over the ring, and step towards the path back to Ashford. "I truly hope you find a lord to pledge for you, Ser Duncan."
"Thank you."
With another small curve to your lip, you bow your head. "Good night to you both."
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
The walk back to Ashford is entirely lonely.
You're not sure whether it is the sudden weightlessness on your chest or the newer, heavier one on your thumb that you keep twisting around, but your body cants, off-centered and ambling like a lame dog. The night is extraordinarily dark, darker than any you've ever seen as you train your eyes on the ground and try not to trip.
There's no accompaniment that can distract you now. The silence is harrowing, makes your mind race from one end to the other in search of something you can pinpoint focus on, like an archer peering down the arrow and searching for the moving target. You're not even sure where you should go; whether that is back to the tent or to your own bed or somewhere else entirely.
Maybe you could saddle Summer, ride half-way back to Dorne before anyone notices you're missing.
Not that you would. Leave Tanselle and your father and everyone else behind? You'd rather lose your tongue than that.
Then, what does that leave you? To the Baratheon pavilion, where you are seated to be mocked and laughed, like a court jester painted in motley and adorned in tinkling bells? Or back to the dragon and your father, where he will be sure to interrogate you coming back without Lyam, without your necklace, and many more questions as to why you look so entirely unlike yourself.
Mud all over. Grass stains.
The nearest stall sells polished silver and gold mirrors, shaped long and thin or wide and round, and edged with even more intricate detailing. The elderly woman, a Myrish woman begins her boast about her goods as you approach, angling one of the longer mirrors downward so you can gaze at yourself.
You manage a strained smile as she stands by it, hands wrapped tight around the rim of the mirror and cooing at how beautiful you are, how your reflection is so clear, so perfect, that it's as if there are two of you.
"Thank you, thank you," you say mindlessly as you bend and gather your skirts, presenting out your leg and lifting it high enough that you can see your bruise. It's entirely scandalous, you know, but you find yourself uncaring as you ask the merchant woman to bring a candle closer.
You trace a finger over the tender skin. The smudge is already dark, blurry, and big. It escapes the rectangle made by your pointer finger and your thumb, longer and wider than you had dared to hope. You step back, and let the fabric fall. As you do, your eyes burn.
And what will you do about Aegon?
It feels as if in some few short hours, the night has twisted into some malformed dream, one you can't escape from. You barely manage out an apology before turning around and walking again. Your thigh smarts harder, a pain that blooms and wraps around your thigh until a warm, constant heat rushes downwards.
You hide the pain well enough that no one sends you an oblong glance as you walk towards the troupe's pavilion. It's dark within. You take a glance at the moon, and then focus forward again. Maybe you'll be able to slip in, weave a tiny lie about how you had to leave Lyam because he was otherwise occupied. It'll earn you a smack up the backside of your head for leaving him behind, but as long as he returns safe in the morning, it'll be a bruise well-forgotten by noon.
Biting on your cheek, you tug the cloak tighter around yourself, the hood buffeting the sides of your peripheral in pale blue. Your feet barely glance off the ground as you walk around the back entrance where you can sneak back into bed.
Your fingers barely dip into the folds of the entrance when someone calls your name. You freeze.
"Sweetling? At last! I've nearly torn the Meadow inside out. Gowen only just told me you had left, that cunt…"
You do not have to turn around to know who it is. A war wages, to ignore the call and slip inside and to turn around, but as the man continues to speak, you know you cannot be rude. Rudeness has no place in court, you remind yourself. It's meant for men and battlefields and jousts and times of pain.
"…and that boy you came in with, far departed from his wits, had sobered at the thought of you missing. He wanted to stalk the grounds, but I thought it best if I sat here, camping like some lovelorn boy. That is what you've made of me, you know. Where have you been?"
So you set your jaw. Set your shoulders. Turn and dip into a curtsey, with eyes trained on the floor. The words are dragged out, and it leaves a sore pain deep in your chest. "Ser Lyonel."
"You disappeared on me."
"I needed some air," you reply stiffly. "I've found it."
"And did you take a tumble in the grass while you were at it?" asks the ser, arching an eyebrow at your dress. His gaze tracks over each scuff, each splash and stain, before latching onto the most obvious one. The brown splotch in the shape of Aegon's foot. Worry begins to knit itself into the planes of his face, and a coldness fills you at the sight.
He worries now, a part of your mind whispers, only because you are alone.
He comes closer. You step back.
His gaze shoots to your face, eyebrows twitching just barely. You don't know how you catch it. The light is so dim.
Your heart is punching at your throat.
His voice is gentle. "What's wrong?"
"What's wrong?" Your words come out breathless and sharp, trembling in a way that you hate. "What isn't?"
"My lady."
"No. No, don't. I beg that you stop with your 'my lady's and professions. I'd rather you call me your sweet whore rather than act like you respect me in any way." Anger licks at you, turns each syllable into a scorching knife that tears you up inside. "I warned that your friends would find me unpalatable and I let you delude me into thinking you'd… somehow defend me."
"I did defend you."
"No, you reminded everyone of your power as the Baratheon heir. That to you, we are all pawns on your little board. Still, it did not silence them. It did not frighten them. You cannot defend me." You rub at your cheek, though no tears fall. It feels numb to the touch. "I simply removed myself from an environment that was well on its way to spitting me out."
Lyonel clenches his jaw, the muscle working as he lowers his tone, takes another step forward. This time, you stay rooted, and his hand reaches forward, palm facing the sky in offer. "Sweetling, come back to my tent. I won't have us speak to each other out in airs."
"Do you fear so deeply that someone will see you consorting a whore?"
"You know I don't care," he replies evenly. "I simply do not trust myself. And I wish to give us the option of ripping each other to shreds in private."
"If you do not care about withholding your relations from the eyes of your lords and ladies, what difference does it make if this is our stage?" You let out a breathless laugh. "Every stray glance thrown my way. Every whispered insult. Am I meant to believe that you would gouge out their eyes and rip their tongues clean from their throats for breathing in my direction? You barely pacify your uncles and they speak as if I'm no better than a rat they've caught in the grain! All the while, you sit there and listen to them laugh at their own japes. Do you believe them? Is that it? Does some small part of you truly believe that us bastards are born of treachery?"
"Not all bastards." His hand curls into a trembling fist and he forces it down. You bark out a laugh in his face. "You know I don't. I despise this. Everything about our stations. You cannot comprehend the anger that seizes me so horribly. It is a noose around my throat, growing tighter and tighter—"
"Yet you cannot do anything to defend me. Why bother choking instead of cutting us both free from such a wretched arrangement?" You stare with all the disdain you can muster, and it forms a cold hard lump in your chest. "No matter what, you cannot show favour to a Dornish baseborn whore—"
"Stop—"
"—lest you wish for the same murmurs that surround King Daeron's court to populate your own."
"And I cannot let go of my affections for you either."
"Why not? You're to marry Lady Darry, aren't you?" An indifference affects your tone as an irritated sigh escapes him, and he fits his fingers to his forehead, rubbing at his temples.
"I am not to be married. We are in negotiations."
"But you will. Once your uncle adds the final flourishes, all that's needed is the wax seal of the stag before you get what everyone wants." An heir, the silence spells out around you. A well-bred lady from a well-known house. "And you would deserve it."
"Is that so?" he challenges coolly. "You know me so well as to know what I would 'deserve.'"
"You're hardly a difficult read. What lays in your mind beyond women and wine? You see some pretty, glittering thing in the distance others say you cannot have, and you take it as a challenge to get it as fast as possible, no matter who you trample over in the process."
Lyonel's voice is barely shackled from anger. "Is that how you see yourself?"
"It is what I am. And I do not shine even half as brightly as what your uncles want. I will not line your pockets, nor fill your treasury. Do not waste time on a failed investment." Your eyes narrow. Your breath quickens. You gather the rest of your courage and pull the ring free from your hand. With a thrust of your fist forward, you force the words out. "Now go, mark some other poor woman and pray her flesh will satiate your herd of cannibals."
In this moment, clearer than any other, you understand the waves that smash sailors into the rocks. Ser Lyonel's shoulders square, his chin tilts up, and he stares down his nose at you, dark eyes undecipherable, harsh, and sharp as sleeted rain.
"I am not a man who will flee at the first sign of struggle. Do you think I will not pursue you until the Seven themselves demand me to stop?"
"You need not call down the gods," you reply back acrimoniously. "This is not a battle you shall win."
"Is that what you wish?"
"It is what you, as my lord, and I, as a bastard, demand."
At this, Lyonel lets out a frustrated growl and you turn your face jaggedly away, jaw clenched, eyes pointed into a knot in the ground.
He crosses the small distance before you, and snags your hand, cradles your fist in his own. Before you can drop the ring in his palm, his fingers wrap around your wrist and he bends down, his lips pressing hot into your skin.
You feel every word he inks into you. "You are my lady. I will do as you command."
As he draws away, your fingers fall against the caress of his. The ring drops free and into his palm.
It is the last tether you have. Weightless, you drift into the tent without another word and when you crash into bed, naked, burning, and aching from your legs to your chest, the shape of your pain hardens into an invisible Valyrian steel sword, one your heart wields with a sweeping hand. A warning that if one is to get too close, they will surely bleed.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
LYONEL
"You drink yourself into a stupor, you stumble in as the day breaks, and threaten to miss those intending to share your table. The tourney starts tonight, mind, and you've yet to even speak of Lady Darry. You had promised to break your fast with her." Jonnel rips the blankets off Lyonel's limp body and stands over his cousin. He cracks open an eye and spies the vague shape of his cousin with his arms planted on his hips. "So get up! Wash your face! Look any more presentable than what you look like now, which is to say, very pathetic."
The pillow sticks to his cheek as he lifts his head. "Do you remember when you were only seven years old and skinnier than a four year old girl?"
"Only in comparison to the fat toad people sometimes mistook for you," comes the snide reply. "Did you find her at least?"
Pushing himself up, Lyonel scratches at his jaw and squints against daybreak. "Who?"
"Your paramour. Who else?"
"Call her that again and lose your tongue," he murmurs softly. Groping at his own hand, he feels the ring once again resting on his finger and he lifts it up to his cousin in answer before shoving him away to give himself room to stand. "Run back to your father and rejoice. I'm sure he will be happy to hear of my misery."
Jonnel's hackles fall. If Lyonel is generous, perhaps he hears a subtle note of regret. "It was only time."
"I'm sure." Walking to the basin, he grabs a cloth and begins the slow task of waking himself up. "Pour me some water if you're going to stand there and gape."
A wooden goblet is slipped into Lyonel's outstretched hand and he downs it in a hearty gulp before changing into a clean, dark shirt, and then a golden padded gambeson atop. He sniffs, measuring the length of his beard in a shard of a mirror, and then cinches a leather belt around his waist firmly, sheath knife secure in his belt.
Save for the clink of metal and warm stretch of leather, silence fills the room.
"Lyonel." He grunts in response. It makes Jonnel think twice before he speaks. He settles firmly on, "Try to enjoy the food, at least."
His cousin leaves him to his thoughts, which at that point, he thinks of you. Of your vicious fury and aching sadness, and the trembling of your hand in his own. Your dirty dress, the injury along your skirts. It looked as if someone had kicked you. He should've asked before you had fled. Made sure, at the very least, that you had not been punished for his own mistakes.
You had asked him for a moment alone before the night had been ruined. If he had given it right then and there, would he be here, dressing himself like a suckling and presenting himself for House Darry and their Lady Jeyne?
"Would your men welcome the challenge against mine own?" Lady Darry asks with a polite smile and he blinks, head snapping towards his left where she sits. "Some Ashford and Darry men intend to engage in a tug o' war, but I think we'd welcome the challenge if famed Baratheon men were on the other side of the line."
"I do think it would be a good boost for morale. An incitement for the competitive spirit," Uncle Androw agrees to his right, and Lyonel wonders how long they had been speaking over him. He doesn't feel awake at all. The food is tasteless in his mouth. "Aside from that, Lyonel, when was the last time you had played such a thing? Not since the tourney at Riverrun, I do believe. Where would it be?"
"Oh, we would ford the river, of course. There is some land reserved for activities such as these. My master-at-arms informs me that he's requested that a stretch of it be saved for us. Do you know it?"
He imagines it will take place in the mud of the Meadow. Tents erected for cover, for kegs of ale and merchants peddling their trade, would surround the place, swollen with people fleeing to shade or flocking for food no matter peasant or noble.
Lyonel's ring sits heavy. Even a sliver of your face, smiling and hiding behind a horn of ale, would be enough to assuage his worries. Let him know that you are well.
At last, a flickering smile passes over him, and he dips his head to Lady Jeyne. "You only pose such a challenge because you're well accustomed to defeat, Lady Jeyne."
She huffs. "I hope you enjoy mud pies."
"No one does."
"Yet you sound so confident?"
"I simply suggest that there's reason as to why Baratheon men are famed for being so strong. Especially when we are roused to cause."
Lady Jeyne's lips try to pull into a smile, but she smothers it quickly and picks up her mug of warmed tea delicately, cupping it with her long, jewelled fingers. Her dark brown hair is hoisted and trapped in a net of silver and speckled with garnet, and when she turns her head, Lyonel sees the same gemstones along her throat.
Life has been comfortable to her, and will continue to be as long as she lives, yet she has kept herself well. Perhaps… perhaps…
"Lady Jeyne, may I ask you something?" he says, surprising himself. His uncle looks askance at him. "Do you enjoy sailing?"
"I've never been much for seafare," she admits. "No chance to so far inland."
"Would you like to learn?"
A pause. The slightest twitch of her brow. "I would endeavour to watch, my lord, but I fear the only boat I set foot on will be a barge."
His smile grows large and taut as a fraying rope as he leans forward to stab at a piece of seasoned ham. "No harm there, and of more rational mind than I. It's a frightful thing to face the storm."
"It must be exciting, though," she offers politely, "and perhaps it has trained you to be well-prepared to handle the unexpected."
When Lady Jeyne does smile, it is a measured thing. A tool to pry one of his own sly grins out of him, and he gives in to her for the sake of ending the conversation.
Uncle Androw's gaze settles on Lyonel. The future Lord of Storm's End's fingers tighten around the knife and the serrated edge of it sings against the metal plate as he drags it through the meat, saws until he swears it touches the wood table beneath.
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You do not appear in the fields. You do not haunt the markets. You are a ghost at the puppeteer's tent.
Those he asks do little more than send him an odd look and tell him that you and the troupe leader have been away since the morning and to come back on the morrow; he will have better luck then. As they meld back into the tent to return to their duties, Lyonel spots one boy still lingering and waves him over.
"Ser?"
"Where are they now?" he implores. "Is she so wroth at me that she asks you to lie?"
"We do not lie when we aren't performing, m'lord," the boy named Garnet says, puffing his chest up and crossing his arms. He barely reaches the middle of Lyonel's ribs, hair shining blond as barley, and braided tightly over his shoulder. His eyes glimmer like ponds in spring sunlight. "Truly, she isn't here, I swear it. Oh, if you come back at evenfall, perhaps you might find her."
"I'll be knocking men off horses come evenfall, lad," he says, resting a hand on the boy's head. "I'm to partake in the tourney, remember?"
"Oh, yes."
"Will you come watch me?"
"Will you win?" asks Garnet skeptically.
"I always win."
"That is a knight's confidence for you. No different from a fool's," another voice interrupts. A fat Dornish woman strides up to them, pulling Garnet away and shoving him behind her with a wicked glare. As if a silent lashing had been conveyed in that single moment, the boy slouches away.
He grins. "If I am the fool, then what does that make the sods whose arses I send into the dirt?"
Ice pricks at his jaw when she looses a withering stare in his direction. "You'd do well to stay away from that girl, lordling. She has suffered enough."
"What do you know of it?"
"What do I know? What do I know, indeed! I've known her since she was but a girl, and what I've seen her endure is none of your concern. Go."
Sighing: "I only want to see her."
"Ah, so you want, so you must have? She will not see you, nor can she. Have you not heard? Were you not summoned?" the woman demands, squaring her shoulders and jutting her chin up at him. "The Targaryens have arrived in Ashford."
So he had heard when his squire had come a-running, with an invitation from the princes to feast in Lord Ashford's halls before the tourney. Lyonel snorts. "And for what reason would the dragons seek out a bastard girl and her father?"
The woman stares at him, eyebrows furrowed, and lips parted. The straining sunlight settles into the wrinkles of her face. She had been pretty once, perhaps when she had been young. With dark eyes and darker hair, the woman reminded him of the lions they speak of in Essos, prowling and proud. The woman lets out an incredulous scoff, and glances around, as if not quite sure they're alone. Then, she lowers her voice even more—so much so that Lyonel must dip his head until he hovers by her lips.
"You truly are some fool plucked from a knight's tale. Do you think yourself Florian?" She gives him no pause to answer. "Have you given no thought as to who her mother could be?"
His gaze snaps to her. "You know who it is?"
"I know rumours. None that shall reach your ears." With that, the woman takes Lyonel's arm and yanks him to the exit of the pavilion. "Now leave us! We need no more trouble from the likes of you!"
As he does, he plucks through the mysteries and murmurs of the courts that he had never paid attention to. A mention of a woman who had left quickly back for the castle she grew up in or a rushed engagement and marriage between two nobles, but none come to mind.
No, he had wanted to say to that woman, it hadn't mattered in the moment who sired you or where you came from. Only that you would turn to him, not any other.
It would've only served to make him sound more foolish.
Perhaps you had been right. Lyonel sees something he cannot have so he must have it.
Mud splashes against his ankles, and he glances idly down the road. Someone calls out. Skirting around an incoming wagon, he follows the funnels the wheels carve into the ground back to his tent.
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"How did you find Lady Darry, Lyonel?" Uncle Androw asks as the day burns away, a wick at its end. The sky is a dusky orange, and beginning to speckle itself with stars. The air is aroused with the smell of roasting meat and the prickling excitement of the tourney. Squires run to and fro in some last efforts to polish armour and tend to steeds, but within Lyonel's pavillion stands him and his uncle alone.
"Fine."
"Only fine?"
"What would you like me to say?" he asks as he pulls his hair back, takes hold of the helm. He feels the great weight of it suddenly. The curve of the antlers gives it delicate balance. Lean too much one way or the other, and he will find the ground rushing to meet him quickly. "That I enjoyed her?"
"Preferably." His uncle walks to him, sets a gentle hand on his forearm. "Your father has let you entertain your own selfish wants for long enough. Lady Jeyne is not young, true, but she is wise and experienced in ruling a land. And not unhomely."
"How unfortunate you are not I and unable to marry this comely lady," he replies wryly. "Worry not, uncle. I'm doing as you asked. Say no more of what I want or need." He turns, pulling himself out of his uncle's grasp. "I'm sure Jonnel told you about the ring."
"Your uncle Orrym nearly leapt. I haven't seen him prance since he was a boy."
Letting out a dry laugh, he sets his helm down again. The metal is burnished by the warmth of the candlelight and the sunlight seeping beneath the cotton of his tent. It's a peculiar feeling—a violent purging of sorts that happens to Lyonel as he hears the words leave his family's throat.
A fist tightens inside his chest. "Praise me not. She was far more honourable than I last night."
Androw paces to pour himself a goblet of wine, raising the other one in offering. Lyonel shakes his head and instead walks to his chest, drawing out the rest of his armour. Over the trickling of wine: "Is that how she has persuaded you to see it, boy? She is no better than the whore that birthed her, nor is she able of honour or duty. It was you who had the strength to resist her charms."
"Charms."
"Yes. Do you think any of us trust that sorcerer Bloodraven? That he abides by a man's morality?"
Lyonel scoffs. "You believe a puppeteer bastard from Dorne is of the same ilk."
"Bastards are bastards. Sin is in their blood. Lord Rivers was lucky—" a measured sip— "his mother was too well-loved."
"And if my lady's mother was noble, and well-loved, and highborn, you would say the same as you do now."
"I would, but she is not. There is no woman who has had to leave court in such disgrace since Aegon the Unworthy, and they were mothers to his bastards."
"None that you had heard about."
"None at all," Androw repeats firmly. "Remember that I have been in King's Landing for longer than you've been able to be underfoot. If a scandal came, it passed before I could hear of it, and thus it must've been no great dishonour at all. His Grace does not wish for discontent. His sons ensure that it is so."
A dull thud of the goblet settling on the desk. Lyonel turns his head low, spying his uncle staring at him in the corner of his vision, and then he looks away, pretending to busy himself with straightening out the cloth shirt he must change into for the tourney. He brings your face to memory—of the shape of your eyes, the curve of your mouth when you smiled. When that woman hid her smile from him, it had been nothing like your stifling. The bashfulness was not there. You were not there at all in this other woman, and yet they insist. By the gods, everyone insists to him.
"Lady Jeyne would see you before you descend to the lists," his uncle says. "I believe she intends to give you her favour."
I was meant for my lady's favour, he thinks in consternation. Not this. Yet jerking his head forward again, he does not say so. Instead, he begins to unlace his shirt. "Then I will be sure to see her. Now, join the others and put yourself out of my way, uncle. I intend to unhorse every man in my path whether I sit astride a saddle or not."
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SWEETLING
The day has toiled you.
Your father's hand is gentle on Summer's hackamore, walking along the trail back towards the Meadow. The waning sunlight brushes orange kisses along your feet as you ride with loose hands and a stare out towards the horizon. Ahead, your father's mare Constance roams on a long free rope, picking at grasses and sniffing at wildflowers like a dog.
Exhaustion dogs at your heels. As soon as they had gotten word that the Targaryens would arrive, they had set out, and all day your father and you had rode as far away from the Meadow as possible, fishing, picking wildflowers and herbs, trying your best to ignore the black and red flags flying along the paths, trying your best to pick out the best way to even describe the night before.
Yet the words still elude you.
Do you begin with the fact that Prince Aegon is in the Meadow, undoubtedly searched for by his father? Or that you gave away one of the few things you had left of your mother?
Even worse, that your heart aches for some lordling.
Your father whistles an old sailor's ditty, his lined face weary. His feet drag, and you want to ask him again to mount his horse, but he would refuse you. In the distance, the silk city of the tourney grows larger and larger, the myriad of colours sharpening with every step.
As the night rises, your apprehension does too. Your father has never dug for the root when you've done something wrong. He has always waited until you've sweated more than you can bear before confessing, letting the guilt fester until you break. After all, he has told you, if you are not guilty enough to tell him, then perhaps it is not that great of a crime at all.
Of course, that had been before a five-year old you had worried yourself to nausea over breaking a ceramic ewer and burst into tears.
Perhaps the sentiment carries merit now. The words pummel hard against your breast, but each version of what you wish to say sounds worse than the last.
"We'll be comfortable for a supper or two," your father comments at length. "Fresh river fish with some pig or goose from the market. Perhaps we can scrounge some clay from the Cockleswent and bake it in there."
"Sounds appetizing," you manage stiffly.
"Indeed. And I do believe we will perform Serwyn of the Mirror Shield once again tomorrow night. Your fire burns best when the sun has set, I should think. Tanselle will have done well as Jonquil today, perhaps she will endeavour to be Serwyn. What say you to that, my girl? Ready to be in the mouth of the dragon?"
"Of course, Father. Will we have… special attendance?"
"No. Not that I was made aware of."
"I see."
"Have you heard something?"
"I… Well. what do you know of Prince Maekar's sons? I was only thinking that they'd enjoy the performance and come to watch, and then we would be better to perform something else." Your father does not even so much as look at you. You glance down into your hands playing with the fraying leather of your reins.
"Hm." Summer snorts against your father's palm as he feeds her a slice of an apple. "Prince Aemon was sent to the Citadel. He will not be present, and I do believe the Princes Daeron and Aerion may find other entertainments in the night that are far from our corner of the Meadow and far more appropriate for men their age."
"And Prince Aegon?" you hedge. "Do you think… that he would somehow find himself in our company?"
"Aegon? He's barely a boy. He will not be able to escape his guards, and Prince Maekar will not let his son out, especially late at night. Why?"
"Because last night…" Knuckles tighten around the leather. You swallow and the breeze on your skin makes you feel naked. "Last night, I met Prince Aegon, and he looks just like her, Father. This boy who does not know me at all and he has all of Lady Dyanna's fire and defiance and he squires for a hedge knight here in the Meadow."
Your father stopped in the midst of your speaking, and now he will look you in the eye.
"And I gave the necklace to that same hedge knight for protection. His name is Ser Duncan." You nudge your heels into your horse's sides. Summer walks forward, shaking your father's hand away like a fly. The crunch of gravel alerts you to your father following close behind. You walk at a slow pace, listen to the cicadas and the buzzing of insects flitting all around. Keep your eyes forward, you tell yourself. Only ever forward. "He seems a good man."
"A good man," your father says slowly to your retreating back, "whom you do not know. So by what measure is he good? You leave a prince of the realm in the hands of some knight. You entrench yourself with the heir to House Baratheon. Have you been robbed of your senses as of late?"
"Are you one to doubt my decisions?" you question sharply, drawing Summer sideways to look at your father. His eyes are narrowed, catching the fading sunlight until his eyes burn as orange as fire. The jaw in your muscle tightens, and you turn away. "Besides, I thought you were done with the theatrics of highborn lords."
Strangled: "I am."
"Then who are you to judge me?" you ask again. "He wants another life different than what he was born to. Perhaps I understood that dissatisfaction."
Your father's tone is measured and quiet, but an undercurrent of pain rides alongside it. "Do you believe I wished this for my only daughter? The life of a travelling mummer with no hearth and no home. Are you upset with me for this? I'm sorry, truly… I tried my best, Sweetling. I beg you to understand that."
"I don't care about me, Father. I never wanted this for you." Brittlely, you clench your fists until your nails bite into your palms and feel the blood warm and rushing down your arms and into your hands. "You were a landed knight. You held the princes' counsel and had feasts every night. By all accounts, you should have been in the retinue accompanying the dragons. Accompanying Aegon, perhaps him squiring for you, and not here with your baseborn daughter."
"Natural daughter."
Dimly: "Does it make a difference?"
"It does when what you call yourself judges that what your mother and I did was wrong. And it never will be, when it comes to our children. To you." Your father reaches you, his expression beseeching, but your heart only wrenches off-kilter when his hands find your waist. He pulls you off your horse gently and easily as if you're still a girl, placing you back on your feet—toes first—and engulfing you in a hug that surrounds you tightly in a blanket of warmth. "My little girl, what have they done to you to make you so sad? What happened last night?"
The words fail you. You dig your fingers into your father's shoulders and simply shake your head as a prickling pain begins in your eyes. His hand smooths over your hair and you swallow through the pain collecting in your throat, the telltale signs of the urge to cry growing and growing. "I wish I had not come here," you manage. "I wish I had not been born. I've made everything difficult for you."
"Yet I would not trade anything in the world for this moment. Not riches, nor titles, nor land."
You bury your face into his neck, feeling small again. Muffled against the flat of your father's shoulder: "What of Mother? To have her back for one more day, would you—"
"She is not dead," he insists, fingers splaying across your back before scrunching the fabric of your dress tight in his fist. His voice rumbles deep in your ribs. "She is not dead when you are here."
"He only wants to be a knight."
"I know."
Your eyes slip shut, and for some queer reason, your lashes are wet. "Ser Lyonel is to marry another woman."
And your father says with age old grief and a lifetime of bitterness: "As it always goes."
Drawing you back, he kisses you hard on the brow, and you squeeze your eyes shut against it. Then, he parts from you. You blink, your face hot and Summer nickers, nosing at your hair and eliciting a shaky smile. Your father barely mimics the subtle curve in his own mouth.
"You should see him," he whispers. His thumb traces the curve of your face. "Allow yourself one last glance. It is all I've ever wished. To have one last purposeful look in order to sear her features into my memory. Ah, I do not say you love him. Perhaps it is a wish, more so, but… but he seemed fond of you. Even I could see that."
"Thank you. But to go to the joust? Is that…" A wipe of your hand against your cheek. "… is that wise?"
"No. But clearly we are both bereft of wisdom. I apologize, girl, you must've inherited that from me."
Laughing softly, you turn to Summer and hug her neck to your face. "You are wise, Father."
His rough palm finds your visage again. A tiredness lingers in his eyes and it makes the sinew and muscle constraining your heart weaken. You feel as if the structure that makes up your flimsy body might give in. Your father would catch you if you fall.
He always catches you.
Timidly: "Will you come with me?"
Your father shakes his head. "The Princes will be there. Even for you, that is a wound I cannot force to shut."
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The grounds swell with people. You nearly lose your grasp on Tanselle's hand as she leads you forward, chattering of this and that—of those who would joust tonight and those who wouldn't until tomorrow. You barely listen to half a word. As they pass through the gate, the churning waves of people urge you forth. Above, you see the flags of the five champions dancing in the wind above their raised pavilions. Each pavilion bears at least two—one for a personal sigil, and another for their house, and through the jumbling rows of shoulders, you glimpse each one.
Orange flags for the two brothers of the Ashford girl. Their personal sigils differ in the number of chevrons; to denote their birth order, you surmise. Next to it is a pennon of dark green. The golden rose flaps languidly as if made of delicate silk and higher above streams Leo Longthorn's own emblem, of the Tyrell rose once again and the green background specked with gold petals. The next pavilion erected all flags of the same—of white and red diamonds patched together—and then you see the last.
Long forked stripes of red silk thrash in the wind and above it presents the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Then, alongside it, the same sigil, except bordered in fine red silk—the arms of the Young Prince.
The torches gorge on the winds, the shadows they send onto the dirt trembling as squires, pages and knights thunder onto the field. The crowds erupt into cheers, especially when Lord Tully storms past on his broad steed barded in red and blue, throwing up his arms up to incite an outcry. He does it again and again, his grin broad and rakish.
Tanselle grabs you. "There! Is that not Lord Lyonel?"
A smudge of gold crosses your vision. You turn just as a horse races past, the rider a familiar blur and your head spins from the screams that come in his wake.
Your eyes widen.
You do not feel the soft dirt beneath your feet or the jostling clothed bodies against your sides. You hear the faint call of your name, but you cannot help yourself as you stumble forward. Your eyes hunger for just a whisper of him, so sered from loneliness and starving for comfort that even a glimpse of his body would be better than going another moment depriving yourself.
It surges through your heart, shoots a frantic energy down to your toes as bodies push you to and fro. The air is thick and hot in your lungs, and sweat begins to lather your skin as you suck in lungfuls, claw your way forward. Someone nearly brings you to the ground, but you catch yourself on the fence, throwing yourself forward and pitching over the barrier for just a moment, the wood digging into your ribs. A sharp inhale.
You see him, atop his horse, handsome and tall. The candlelight dances, rippling over his sleek armour so smoothly it glows gold and makes a cascading river of glittering shells out of his cape. His destrier tosses his mane, pawing at the dirt. The braziers lit along the length of the tilt blurs the air muddily yet as you wipe your face with the back of your hand, blink hard to clear the stars from your eyes, you know him.
You didn't know just how much you missed Valarr until he rides before you now, a man grown and more princely than ever.
Lips parting, you let out an unsteady breath and try not to give into the overwhelming tide in your chest as he urges his destrier in front of his pavilion. The underlayer of rich red flashes as his men flutter around him. He wears no helm, not yet, and from this distance, though you cannot see his eyes, you find the feathering trail of white like an artisan would pick out dyes for their tapestries. You know the determined tilt of his head. The barely perceptible rise of his shoulders.
From this distance, you know he is from an entirely different world. Yet still, you cannot help but wonder if he favours still sour cherries and blackberries before summer. If he'd still rather have blood oranges from Dorne than pick oranges from the orchards that bloom in the fields surrounding King's Landing.
But most importantly, you wonder: if he sees you here amongst the smallfolk, will he smile and dip his head in that courtly manner that has been instilled in him since he took his first breath? If he catches a glimpse of your face, will he pause and stare? Wonder where he's seen your face before and then place it with a startling realization? Or will Prince Valarr turn, his eyes fleeting, a lance tip glancing off a sturdy shield, never to turn over again that image of the girl soaked to her skin in the shallow tides of Blackwater Rush in his mind?
Though, why would he ever recall that insignificant moment? Out of all he has seen in the years that they have been separated, there will have been things that have happened that you will never have the luxury to know.
He is the future. His gaze narrowed, his focus on a distant horizon and well armed with a sword in one hand and a pen in the other. He's married, last you heard, and a prince's life is a revolving wheel of faces and people to meet—courtiers and ladies and knights who wish to curry favour with the future Crown Prince, the future King. You wonder if his wife is kind to him, and if she loves him dearly. You know it is quite impossible not to love Valarr, but still…
But still, you remind yourself stonily, what is a bastard girl from his childhood to him? To people of true importance?
Your mouth parts, and you want to call out to him. As if you are not swallowed by the sea of smallfolk.
As if he would turn.
Everything is too loud, boxing you into this cacophony, and your chest begins to burn feverishly. Thrashing back around, you shove people apart. You cannot see and you cannot breathe. The smallfolk grumble and shout at you, but you don't care as they surge into the space you leave in your wake. Tanselle's nails score along your arm, but you simply fling out a hand, yank her towards yourself.
"What's wrong?" she demands as she crashes into you, her arm long and heavy around your shoulders. "Did you see him?"
You continue onward and away.
Far, far away.
You thought you had been ready. You thought you would've been happy. Oh, to see a boy become a man and be proud of him is undoubtedly one of life's treasures.
Instead, your knees give out as the pain inching deeper into your body reaches what it seeks—your heart.
The dirt does not give beneath your hands. You do not know when you fell, but as you draw yourself up to your knees, you glance down at yourself and find your front stained brown. Tanselle runs to fall to her knees beside you and you dig trenches with your fingers into the ground.
"What happened?" Anxiously, Tanselle scoops the hair away from your face. Your eyes squeeze shut and you collapse, pressing your face to the dirt. It is colder than your face. Anything is better than the dragonfire that threatens to consume you. "Sweetling! Get up. Are you sick?"
"Valarr," you manage to heave out, your throat raw from the hard breaths you take. It tastes of wet grass and blood. "I could not let him see me."
"The prince? Sweetling—" A stroke of her hand along your back. "Sweetling, you've been unlike yourself the entire day. Please, please talk to me."
You close your eyes tightly. There are flashes of the sun behind your eyelids; of winding streams and long cobblestone halls. The cheeky smile of a boy running, his fingers entwined with yours. The solemn face of a girl staring back at you in the lake at Summerhall. A long horse ride to Dorne and the shouting and fighting to ward off bandits and outlaws stalking the roads. It was poor travel for a man alone. Even worse to bring a young girl along, but the girl was one who could not be scared. Who would not allow herself to be.
You cannot puke. You might've if you hadn't been so intent on cramping every muscle together in an effort not to fall apart. It takes every last part of you, a strain so painful that sweat beads along your throat and down between your breasts despite how dry and thick and heavy your tongue is.
"I… I cannot. I cannot do anymore this day. Please, I do not wish for any more. One minute I am told I am nothing, the next I am reminded of everything I could have been. Lady Darry, then Valarr, and Tanselle—" the name is ripped from your mouth, raw and bloody— "it was a mistake. Everything I have done these last few days. It was all a mistake."
You draw in a breath, this one colder and stinging. It forces you to sit back, head tilted back to the sky, and you let it sputter out against your tongue.
"A mistake?"
An eerie silence fills the space between you and your cousin, who stares at you as if you've grown a second head. You inhale again slowly through your nose, exhale through your mouth, blink and turn to stare at her emptily.
"Yes," you hear yourself say but you cannot feel your mouth move. "Yes. There is no place for heart in the machinations of the throne."
"What are you talking about?"
Behind you, the boisterous crowd eructs. You come back to yourself, collecting the pieces of you that have strewn across the dirt delicately, and Tanselle pulls away. You settle your hands firmly in your lap. With another final breath, you look onward down the hill. The path to the troupe's pavilion will be clear. The walk will not be long.
You stand. Tanselle scrambles to her feet, too, and you rub your palms free of dirt and grab her hand. You dash the memories of your past against the confines of your skull, and feel an oozing sort of lethargy fill in the space instead.
You truly are just so… incredibly tired.
"Sweetling," she begins cautiously. "Are you sure you're alright?"
"Well," you say, "no. No, I do not think I have been well at all. I'm sorry to bring you here only to bring you back."
"I don't care. I only wish you to be well."
"Soon," you promise. "When we leave this place and we become only Dornish puppeteers again. Only then."
A small smile pulls at the corner of your mouth, but you do not look away from the road ahead of you. You will not.
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VALARR
The night stretches long and high above their heads, bedecked well in a belt of stars. The air is sweet and cool, and with a run of his hand, Valarr's hair sticks up at odd angles from the sweat that began to seep his skin. But it's a cold sort of sweat. An unsatisfying one.
It's expected, of course, that he performs well at the lists. He's never been anything less than good at most things he's tried, but the lances fell soft on his shield tonight. The trembling strength of the arm wielding it had only made his hand itch for a proper challenge. As he approaches his father, his uncle, and his cousin in the shadow of Ashford's castle, accompanied by Ser Donnel, he imagines the thrust of splintering wood against his breastplate. The hard thud that would resonate down his spine if he were to be unhorsed and the ache that would bloom. Would it be such a shame to fall?
It was not as if a Targaryen has never failed. His father defeated Damon Blackfyre years ago.
Well, look where that got them.
In any case, his father and uncle are quick to retire for the night—his father with his habit of waking early, and his uncle with his quest to find his missing sons. Ser Roland and Ser Willem both stand behind them, never at rest.
Prince Baelor kisses his brow. Prince Maekar squeezes him firmly on the shoulder. Aerion lingers, a pale ghost of a man in the arch, and Valarr's eyes drift over to him, his mind elsewhere.
On simmering violet eyes.
On dull training swords singing and hissing as they scraped against one another.
If Dorne had been welcomed, he thinks dully, I know who House Dayne would've sent as their champion. Cedrick wouldn't have hesitated to put me to the dirt, and then I would laugh until he picked me up again. Has he written to me since I left the Red Keep? Where is he now? Why can he not be here, championing Lady Ashford in my stead?
His childhood friend has never been for letters. Only to send word of arrival, or plans or when Valarr himself insisted he write back. Maybe once there was a time when Cedrick still had a boy's nature. Valarr cannot recall it now. He had last seen him just shy of a few moon's turn when he had brought the Lord of Starfall to court, and it had seemed the years had only transfigured him more to stone.
But then again, could he blame him?
"Did you lose your bets tonight, cousin?" The words slip out of his mouth, suddenly tired. Valarr's shoulders, never slouching, always unfaltering, slowly sink into his back. For a moment, a shadow of surprise crosses Aerion's face, before he smiles widely, as if a butcher had taken a knife through his cheeks and split them apart.
"Our fathers tell us gambling is the act of faithless men."
"Yes, well, it seems both of us have never been very devout, have we?" Valarr murmurs.
Aerion's eyes twist into his cheek. When he steps forward, the shift of his hand on his doublet causes his sleeve to clink. "I never lose when you are jousting. I look forward when we cross lances on the morrow and find the exception."
"We will see which the Warrior favours more.
With a scoff: "You will not have your man to guard your heart and honour."
"My man," Valarr agrees quietly, "and your cousin."
Aerion is far enough away from the wall now that his hair catches the moonlight, gleaming like fresh snow. His lips twist in displeasure as he looks Valarr up and down and his nose wrinkles as if the smell of Flea Bottom comes off him in overwhelming waves.
But Valarr has lived with Aerion for the better part of his life, and when he is not amiable, he does not scare him. Taking hold of his cousin's arm—for eyes are everywhere; nowhere do they all close at once—he smiles and turns him towards the castle.
"Come, Aerion. Let us to bed. We both must rise early, and I think we shall not let Ser Donnel watch us bicker like children when he could be resting."
"Do not concern yourself with me, my prince."
"I will concern myself to those who protect me, ser." He trails his hand down and presses against Aerion's coin pouch that had been sewn into his sleeve. His cousin's gaze snaps to him. Valarr only tilts his head. "And you would do well to spend that on something meaningful rather than wenches and wine."
Aerion's voice is a double-edged sword as he snaps back, "I will not take counsel from the likes of you."
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
That night, he dreams of a long wide garden of many-coloured marble and nude children running through the fountains and splashing in the pools. He sits within a pool himself as a pale blond child splashes at him, and he sputters when startling cold water shocks his skin. Every wave sparkles, a net of diamonds set against blue, and the stone floor of the pool is smooth against his feet as he rocks back.
"Onward, Valarr!" someone cries, and he's suddenly aware of the pair of legs draped over his shoulders, the weight of someone on the upper ridge of his back, and fingers tight in his hair. As they continue speaking, he realizes it's a girl and his cheeks begin to flush under the beating sun. "We can't let them gain ground or they'll seize our castle and all our treasures with it!"
With a big gulp of air, the water sloshing at his sides, he lets out a roar and tramples forward. The water barely reaches his chest and he reaffirms his grip on the girl's ankles as she shoves at the equally towheaded boy on the shoulders of his brother. When pale winking sapphires for eyes flash at him, he realizes with a start that it's Daeron.
Daeron as a boy, with his golden hair and rosy cheeks. Valarr wrenches his eyes up and knows that Aerion is the one riding him, head pale from his silver hair and his violet eyes standing out like two pits of black. But he's grinning and screaming like a child does, and his bangs are cut choppy and too short—a poor attempt at imitating his father.
"Daeron, go!" Aerion commands, and a daring smile crosses Valarr's face as he lunges towards his cousin. Above him, there is a grappling, an entangling of fingers and twisting elbows, shifting waists. Valarr's hands shoot up to the girl's thighs and anchor her tight as Daeron attempts a kick through the water, but it is slow and Valarr spots the rippling movement and steps back, knee hinging back like cocking an arrow, and then it shoots forward, foot hooking on Daeron's standing ankle.
"Hold on!" The girl immediately ceases her struggle against Aerion and two hands grab onto the sides of his head as Valarr pulls with all his might backwards. Daeron's eyes widen, and he lets out a scream as he tips backwards. Aerion wheels his arms furiously, trying to counteract the weight but it's pointless and although Daeron's long since let go of him, he falls into the water with a loud splash. A surge of victory floods him like snuck sips of ale warming the blood, and he reaches up to help the girl sink back into the water.
She slides with a splash into his face and he gawks, wiping his face in betrayal. She laughs like they've done this a hundred times before, and maybe they have, in another life.
"We did it!" she cheers, her face still blurry. An finger pokes him in the forehead. "That was a brilliant move. I never thought my horse could have a brain." Blinking hard, he tries to reach for her face, but she slaps him away and laughs again, as bright as bells, as sweet as song. "Not here, Valarr. People can see."
"That wasn't fair!" Aerion whines, wading over to them. A petulant frown sits on his lips. "We would've won if you hadn't played such a foul trick."
"Your steed was unsteady, brother," says Daeron as he brushes wet segments of hair out of his eyes. "It was my fault."
"No, it wasn't." Aerion humphs before his eyes alight with an idea. "We need to be more wily next time. They're both bigger, but that means we can be faster."
"When it comes to Valarr, he is both quick and strong," the girl retorts.
"Yes, but his rider's fat and weak." The youngest boy sticks out his tongue and is answered with a biting splash in the face. "Hey!" He smacks the surface, sending a wave towards her before ducking under the water and swimming out of arm's length like an otter in a stream. "You can't catch me!"
"Aerion!" the girl shrieks, diving after him.
Daeron laughs wildly, whooping after his brother as he ducks in and out of the water for air, judging how quickly his attacker stalks him. For a time, the two cousins observe the cat and mouse game and Valarr sinks to his chin in the pool, the soft lapping of the water ebbing and flowing around him. The sun warms his cheeks pleasantly, and water drips down his cheeks. Water ebbs and flows into his ears, muffling the screams and yet he hears every movement, every ripple that reaches him, even from the other end of the pool.
Daeron calls out some jeer, but he cannot tell if it's for Aerion or the girl before he sinks down to his chin beside Valarr. He tilts his head up so no water sloshes into his mouth. "Do you think you'll marry her?"
"I won't," Valarr hears himself say. His blood is chugs in his ears. "Father would never agree."
"Do you want to?"
Someone calls their names, to rally them to fresh orange juice, and the pool water washes over him as the girl swims past him, tapping him on the shoulder, trailing her hand along his arm. "Come on! Before Aerion drinks it all," she warns. Her hair spreads like a layer of silk along her shoulders as she continues on, and his hand reaches out. His fingers glide through the strands. Almost a ghost.
Valarr wakes not to the stainless sky of Dorne but to the ceiling of his chambers in Ashford. The space beside him is warm with the body of his wife, yet the harsh cold ache of loneliness steals into him. The loneliness of a childhood he will never go back to.
Yet, those memories aren't his. Or at least, he can't recall them. He never played in the Water Gardens like that. He'd been to Dorne to visit his great-aunt, of course, but never…
Perhaps it was simply a dream.
He closes his eyes and tries to bring to memory the features of that girl. The timbre of her voice. The colour of her hair. He knows her. He knows that he does, and for a moment, he indulges in that part of his mind. Of the spot of sun that once brightened the halls of the Red Keep. Of her shining smile that he no longer remembers the curve of. The mischievous wrinkle of her nose.
But it's all blurry. And she had never been there with him in the gardens of Dorne.
He had looked for her. He swore that he would find her.
summary: when you're diagnosed with gestational diabetes, your husband takes it upon himself to help you out.
warnings: discussions of eating habits, pregnancy, suggestive at the end
“Come on, honey. You gotta talk to me sometime.”
You answered your husband with another glare, tightening your crossed arms over your stomach as if the motion alone could shield you from both him and the humiliating reality of the last hour. The seatbelt pressed awkwardly beneath your belly, your lower back throbbed from sitting too long in the clinic chairs, and your swollen fingers still bore the faint sticky feeling from the glucose drink they’d made you choke down earlier that morning. Outside the passenger window, the entrance to the women’s clinic blurred in the cold gray drizzle, nurses and patients drifting in and out beneath umbrellas while you sat in complete silence, simmering.
You stared hard at the entrance anyway, jaw tight.
“Honey,” John tried again, softer this time as he reached across the console for your hand. “Please?”
You gently pulled away before he could lace his fingers with yours. “Let me be mad at you.”
A long sigh left him. The car settled into silence except for the hum of the air conditioning and the faint crinkle of the plastic grocery bag sitting at your feer that was currently holding the all of the snacks you apparently weren’t trusted to eat anymore.
In the backseat, movement abruptly stilled as your toddler stopped halfway through climbing over his car seat. He had a toy dinosaur hanging from one hand and his sippy cup clutched in the other. He’d spent the last forty minutes entertaining himself while he and John waited for your appointment to end, blissfully unaware that his mother had just been informed her body had betrayed her over a cup of orange sugar sludge.
“Mama mad?” he chirped, peeking over the center console with wide eyes.
“Yes,” you answered before you could stop yourself. “Your daddy started it.”
John looked personally wounded. “Oh, that’s not fair.”
Your son immediately dropped his cup to grab a fistful of John’s sweatshirt shoulder, glaring down at him with all the seriousness a three-year-old could summon.
“Sweet treat?” he asked firmly.
A laugh threatened to escape you despite your mood, but John beat you to it, huffing a tired chuckle through his nose. “No more sweet treats, bud.”
The devastation that crossed your son’s face was immediate and profound. “Cake pop?”
“How about another day?” John offered weakly.
The pout deepened. “Mama promised after doctor.”
Your chest squeezed painfully at that. Before the appointment, before your blood sugar numbers had apparently detonated every dietary guideline known to modern medicine, you had promised him a cake pop after the doctor. You’d promised yourself one too. One stupid little reward for surviving another prenatal appointment where strangers measured your body and reminded you of all the terrifying things that could potentially go wrong. Instead, you’d sat on crinkly exam paper while a very kind nurse practitioner explained gestational diabetes with the careful voice people used around patients they expected might cry.
Not borderline. Not “watch your sugars a little more closely.” You had failed, according to John’s extremely unhelpful summary as he read your paperwork.
You still wanted to strangle him for using that word.
“Baby,” you sighed, rubbing one hand over your forehead, “Mama can’t have sweet treats anymore until your baby sister comes.”
Your son blinked at you in confusion, then slowly leaned forward until his little palm rested against the center of your bump. “Can she be born now?”
A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Not unless you want her to come out looking like a salamander.”
“Yuck,” he whispered immediately, recoiling in horror.
John snorted beside you, and you shot him another look sharp enough to cut glass.
The drive home passed under a cloud of miserable silence broken only by periodic negotiations from the backseat.
“One donut?”
“No, buddy.”
“Half donut?”
“No.”
“Tiny donut? Baby donut?”
“No.”
You sat there stewing while rain tapped softly against the windshield and your cravings became progressively more violent out of pure spite. The unfairness of it all gnawed at you. You weren’t someone who lived off junk food. You cooked balanced meals. You ate vegetables. You drank water. You took your prenatals religiously. Your husband was literally a doctor, for God’s sake. Your kitchen looked like the nutritional equivalent of a wellness blog most weeks.
But you liked things, as did John. You indulged in them all together from sugary iced coffees to powdered mini donuts. And most recently, the occasional late-night cosmic brownie while standing barefoot in the kitchen after he put your son to sleep.
Apparently those tiny joys had now become criminal offenses.
By the time you pulled into the driveway, your mood had curdled completely. You climbed carefully out of the car with one hand pressed to your aching lower back while John unbuckled your son, who immediately sprinted toward the front door shouting, “Snack time!”
You nearly burst into tears right there in the driveway.
The second the front door shut behind all of you, John transformed into the version of him that you knew well. His jaw would tighten and his eyes would stop that signature sparkle as he settled into his emergency department attending with a mission look. Unfortunately, he wasn’t focused on a patient now, but rather your pantry.
“John,” you warned as he rolled up the sleeves of his sweatshirt.
“I’m serious,” he replied, already opening cabinet doors. “We need to clean this stuff out.”
“We absolutely do not.” Your voice softened as your mood passed as you realized how ridiculous you felt. “You don’t need to punish yourselves.”
“Honey—”
“No. We can compromise like normal people.”
“We are compromising. I’m leaving the peanut butter crackers.”
You stared at him in disbelief as he began pulling things out one by one. Family-sized bags of chips hit the counter first. Then the large box of cookies. He fished out boxes of the granola bars that were more sugar than anything and leftover snack cakes. He set boxes of cereal on the counter and even the hidden pack of Oreos he pretended never existed but you always felt the crumbs on his side of the bed. He raised his eyebrows as he held up the king sized chocolate bar you tucked behind the rice cooker.
You pointed accusingly, keeping your amusement at bay. “You have no right to mess with my emergency chocolate.”
“You literally married a physician.”
“That doesn’t give you search-and-seizure authority over my snacks.”
Your son wandered into the kitchen just in time to witness the massacre. He froze in place as John tossed a package of mini blueberry muffins into a garbage bag.
“Nooooo,” he whispered.
John crouched slightly, trying to soften the blow. “Buddy, Mama and baby sister need healthier foods right now.”
Your son clutched a box of frosted cookies protectively against his chest. “But they live here.”
You had to turn away because the laugh trying to escape was dangerously close to becoming a sob instead. John gently pried the cookies from tiny hands while your son watched in absolute despair. You watched in growing horror as your husband opened the doors and simply stared for a moment, like a man surveying a battlefield.
“Oh, come on,” you muttered defensively from your spot leaning against the counter. “It’s not that bad.”
John slowly reached for the giant caramel coffee creamer first, technically his purchase but you used more of it that he did. “This has twenty grams of sugar per serving.”
“So?”
“Honey.”
Next came the bottled frappes you kept shoved behind the orange juice for “emergencies,” which really meant mornings after sleepless nights with your toddler climbing into bed sideways like a tiny possessed octopus. Then the whipped cream canister disappeared into the trash too, earning another yelp from your son.
John ignored him, though the corners of his mouth twitched with guilt. He pulled out the roll of cookie dough next, pausing briefly as though even he understood the severity of this particular loss.
You pointed immediately. “Leave that one.”
“Honey.”
“I’m serious,” you said.
John chewed his lip before placing it back in the door. He picked up the box of Go-Gurts and your son finally stepped forward.
“No! Daddy no!” he cried, abandoning the dinosaur in his hands to sprint toward the fridge. “Mine!”
John crouched automatically, catching him before he could launch himself at the yogurt box. “Buddy, these have a lotta sugar.”
“They strawberry!”
“I know.”
“I need strawberry!”
You covered your mouth to hide your laugh because the genuine anguish in his voice was almost too much. John looked dangerously close to caving for half a second before he sighed heavily and tossed the box into the trash too. Your son stared after it in stunned silence. Then, to your confusion, John straightened and reached into his back pocket for his wallet.
You frowned. “What are you doing?”
Without answering, he crossed the kitchen and yanked open the junk drawer. The familiar metallic scrape of scissors sliding against pens and batteries made your stomach tighten immediately.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
“Just for good measure,” he muttered.
Your eyes widened as he pulled out his Dunkin loyalty card, the black one he guarded like a member of the family because it had years of rewards points stacked onto it from post-shift coffees and early morning drive-thru runs together.
“Baby, your points,” you gasped, pushing off the counter as quickly as your pregnant body allowed. “John!”
Your son, sensing fresh tragedy, whipped around immediately. “Daddy no! My Munchkins!”
John held the card over his head before either of you could grab it, looking maddeningly calm despite the outrage building in his kitchen.
“If my wife can’t have sugar,” he said firmly, “then I won’t either.”
“John, be serious. This is going too far.”
“I am serious.”
“You have, like, twelve free drinks on that card!”
“Sacrifices must be made.”
The scissors snapped shut, the card falling to the ground into two pieces. You stared at him in complete disbelief. Your toddler looked like he’d just witnessed an execution, his hands pressed to his cheeks. For one long second, the kitchen went silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the rain tapping softly against the windows.
“No more Munchkins?” Your son gasped, gripping your leg tightly.
You doubled over laughing before you could stop yourself, one hand braced against your belly while tears sprang instantly into your eyes. Hormones and exhaustion hit all at once until you were half laughing, half crying against the counter.
John pointed accusingly at you while your toddler sobbed dramatically against your leg. “This reaction is exactly why the cards had to go.”
You cackled, wiping tears of amusement from your eyes. “Baby.”
“If you’re suffering, I’m suffering,” he shrugged, kissing your cheek gently and pulled you into a hug.
“You're so romantic,” you murmured against his shoulder. “I love you.”
John sighed against the crown of your head. “I love you too.”
Your son looked up at John with watery eyes and asked the question weighing on all your hearts.
“…Can baby sister hurry up?”
+++
John slowly closed the door to your bedroom and set the monitor on his side of the bed. Rain still tapped lazily against the bedroom windows while you sat propped against the headboard in one of John’s old T-shirts, absently rubbing lotion over the tight curve of your stomach.
The mattress dipped a moment later as John finally climbed into bed beside you, exhausted from purging the rest of the kitchen of everything else you’d both been neglecting for months. .
“Finally asleep?” you murmured.
“Barely.” He groaned quietly as he settled onto his back. “He asked me if baby sister was going to apologize for the donuts.”
You snorted softly. John turned his head toward you in the dim light, his hair still slightly damp from his shower, T-shirt hanging loose over gray sweatpants. “I think I traumatized him.”
You reached for his hand. “Thank you, honey.”
A tired smile tugged briefly at his mouth before the room fell quiet again. The rain softened further outside. Somewhere downstairs, the ice maker cracked loudly in the freezer. You shifted deeper beneath the blankets with a small sigh. John rubbed a hand over his face.
After a long moment of silence, he muttered toward the ceiling, “I want a donut so bad right now.”
You groaned. “Me too.” You rolled onto your side to look at him fully. “I would commit crimes for a cinnamon roll right now.”
He dragged both hands down his face dramatically. “You’re evil.”
“You started this war.”
John turned his head slowly on the pillow until his eyes met yours in the dark. You watched the exact moment the thought crossed his mind, just as the same thought crossed yours. His gaze drifted lazily over your face before lowering slightly, lingering at your mouth.
“Well,” he said carefully after a beat, voice quieter now, “technically… not all sweet things are off limits.”
You laughed softly under your breath right before he kissed you.
John shifted closer without another word, one arm sliding carefully around your waist beneath the blankets, slow and familiar and warm. “Doctor’s orders,” he murmured against your temple. “Gotta keep morale up somehow.”
