This is a part two of their relationship and the birth of all six of their children. You don't need to read the first part in order to read this one, though it is appreciated. (2/2)
pairings: Maekar Targaryen x (Dayne) Reader
warnings/content: Maekar is only an asshole to other people; age-gap ( • ᴗ - ); fluff; he loves you a lot okay?
words: 8k
Chapter one
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The servants sworn to you carefully tended the garden ahead. It was a quiet afternoon, the sort that ought to have passed without note.
Nymella had said the words with the brightest smile upon her face. It was, after all, what was expected of such news. The maester had already set it to parchment, that word might be carried by raven to the capital and to the rest of your family so that they may send their blessings and make their own offerings to the Mother for your health. A breeze passed over your cheek, soft as a blessing, while the sun warmed your temples. It was not as hot as it had been in past days. Summerhall, for once, seemed gentle.
And yet you could not be still.
Countless women had stood where you stood now, and still no soft assurances from your mother or your sisters could make the truth sit lighter in your breast. Nothing, in truth, could prepare you for the strange and swelling weight of it, that fierce love, the trembling excitement, the fear that stole in behind them both. Fear and love, bound together for the small life you carried.
Maekar was away overseeing an exchange of knights between House Martell, the ruling house of Dorne, and the royal family. Even so, your heart quickened not with loneliness, but with anticipation. You thought only of how you would tell him. Of what his face might become when he knew.
When the sun dipped low against the mountains, Summerhall was bathed in streams of red and orange, as though the castle itself had been built of firelight. Your mourning doves had begun their lament by then, soft and low beneath the eaves. It was time to retire.
You passed beneath the shade of a lemon tree as you climbed the terracotta steps to the palace. Its fruit hung heavy and golden above your head, sharp with scent where the leaves had been bruised by the wind. Servants bowed as you passed.
He was seated already when you entered, his gaze cast ahead into nothing, as though whatever occupied his mind lay farther off than the walls of Summerhall. Before him the table had been laid simply, though no royal table was ever truly plain: warm white bread wrapped in cloth to keep its heat, a dish of green olives glistening with oil, soft goat cheese dusted with herbs, and roast quail browned crisp at the skin. There were figs split open upon a silver plate, their red flesh jeweled in the candlelight, and a jug of dark wine breathing its spice into the room.
He heard your steps and turned to look at you. He smiled, soft and courteous with a deep breath, like a weight had been lifted.
That smile was for you alone.
Dressed in purple and red silk, you came at last to join your husband for the first time that day, to break bread with him and speak as married couples do.
“-all are green boys,” Maekar said, bringing an olive to his mouth. “Stupid and young. At the sight of an enemy, they would sooner shit themselves than think to attack.”
You toyed with the quail breast, cut open and placed earlier by your husband on your silver plate. You could hardly stomach anything for the past couple of days.
“We have you and your brother to thank for that. Daemon’s rebellion is over. The only things they should be ready to fight are the maidens swooning over their chivalrous advances.” A servant brought wine, but you covered your cup before he could pour it. He bowed as he moved to Maekar.
“I suppose.”
“You know, I’ve been meaning to talk to you all day.”
“Why did you not send for me?” He broke a piece of bread, absentmindedly.
At your silence he left the bread on his plate. Eyes narrowing at you, trying to decipher what sort of things you could be wanting to say.
You took a deep breath as you started, “You should’ve been the first to know. But when Maester Crassen insisted I sent the ravens I couldn’t say no to him. Of course, it was also Nymella-“
“What has happened?” He must’ve been thinking some horrible illness took you. Poor, dear Maekar. His mind was ever quick to assume the worst.
“I am with child.” You had no idea what could’ve taken hold of you, but your voice broke and eyes stung at saying it out loud. It was real and happening.
He looked at you for a very long moment in which you thought he was finding words to say to you. But in the way he kissed you and brought you to his lap, muttering words in a language you could not understand, not yet at least, you knew he was happy.
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Maekar moved through those months with a quiet quickness quite unlike the somber man the smallfolk had come to know. There was something lighter in him now, something almost boyish in the way he turned whenever you entered a room, as though his eyes sought you before his mind had even thought to do so. Pride and love sat so plainly upon his face at such moments that it made your own heart ache to behold him. He wished to double the guard. He wished to send to Oldtown for another maester besides your own. He wished, it seemed, to place the whole of the realm between you and any harm that might still find you. You had refused him what you could, though never without affection, and still his fussing knew no end as your belly grew rounder with each passing moon.
In those months, both his family and your own came and went through Summerhall’s gates, bearing silks and carved cradles, little gowns, fine blankets, congratulations, prayers, and well wishes for both yourself and the life you carried. The castle had never seemed so full. And late into the night, when all had gone quiet, you would whisper to the babe of how fiercely they were loved already. How wanted they were. How cherished.
Maekar would lie beside you with one hand spread over the swell of your stomach, as though even in sleep he must keep some part of himself upon you both. In the darkness he would murmur of names, of ancestors, of hopes too precious perhaps to be spoken beneath the light of day. Sometimes his voice would fall into High Valyrian, soft and low against the dark, and though you understood little of it still, you knew enough to hear the devotion in it.
King Daeron sent his well wishes too. Yet his gift, when it came at last, was worth more than gold.
It arrived with two letters: one in High Valyrian for your husband, and one in the common tongue for you.
And with it came a dragon egg.
For a time it seemed that Summerhall held within its walls something older than kingdoms, older even than memory. Your husband placed the egg within the unborn babe’s cradle with a care almost reverent, there to await its sibling’s birth. And if the gods meant to favor your child as they had favored your husband’s line for centuries past, perhaps flame and life would wake within it.
Your own family set less store by dragon eggs. Their gifts were of a different sort, though no less lovingly given: a sword and shield, crafted of the finest steel, meant for the child’s valor in battle and wisdom in peace. It was a Dayne’s blessing, as true and earnest as any prayer, and you loved them for it.
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The pains began in the deep of night.
At first they were little more than a tightening low in your body, strange enough to wake you, faint enough that you thought perhaps you had dreamed them. But soon another followed, and another after that, each one stronger than the last, until there could be no mistaking what had come for you.
By dawn the chambers of Summerhall were awake.
Women moved in and out in murmuring haste. Basins were brought. Cloths were warmed. The maester was sent for, and Nymella had scarcely left your side. Outside, the castle endured as castles do, unchanged and indifferent beneath the morning sun. But within your rooms all the world had narrowed to pain, breath, waiting.
Maekar had dressed in such haste that the ties at his sleeve had not been fastened properly. His hair, usually kept with such martial neatness, had been left half disordered by restless hands. He said little. There was nothing in his face now of prince or commander, only the hard, drawn look of a man forced to stand before something he could neither master nor strike down and you had never seen him so helpless.
He remained near whenever he was allowed, close enough that you could feel him there even with your eyes shut. Hand tightly wrapped around yours. Sometimes it was at the nape of your neck or braced beneath your shoulder to help bear you through the worst of it.
The hours lengthened until time itself seemed to lose all meaning. Pain came in waves so vast you thought each one must surely be the one to break you, and yet always another followed. There were moments when fear took you whole, when you thought dimly that women had died doing this, that queens and peasant girls alike had bled and labored and been lost to it, and that no crown, no bloodline, no prayer to the Mother had ever made a woman safe from such things.
He looked as though each cry torn from you laid a blade against his own flesh. Once, when the pain had left you trembling and spent, staring at the canopy above to find answers in the pain you were feeling, you felt his mouth against your temple. His hand shook where it held yours.
When at last the final agony came upon you, it seemed to split the world clean through. Then there was a silence so sudden it frightened you.
And after it, a cry.
Small, furious, alive and everything in the room changed at once.
You fell back against the pillows with tears on your face before you had known you were weeping. Someone was laughing. Someone else was thanking the gods. Nymella was crying as she wrapped the babe in cloth. Your son lay on your chest, red-faced and squalling, and for one wild instant you could only stare, unable to understand that this small, wailing thing had been the great and terrible center of your fear for so many months.
Maekar looked as if struck senseless, all the color gone from his face. You would’ve laughed at the expression if it was happening in another circumstance, but you knew, your eyes held the same emotion.
He held his son as though afraid he might vanish in his arms.
He had never loved you lightly. Of that you had always known. But now, with his child before him and your body still trembling from the labor of bringing the soul into the world, his love seemed almost too large to be borne. It was there in the way he could not stop looking at you. In the hand he kept upon the babe, as though no power in heaven or earth would take either of you from him now without a fight.
The castle moved differently after that.
Summerhall had always been a place of warm stone and open air, but now it seemed to breathe around one small life. Servants crossed the halls with smiles they tried and failed to hide. Ravens were sent in careful haste to King’s Landing, to Dragonstone, to Starfall, bearing word that a son had been born between your houses. In the kitchens, honey cakes were made in greater number than the household could ever eat, and wine was poured more freely in the servants’ quarters that evening than on any feast day of recent memory. Men-at-arms who would sooner have faced ten Dornish spears than a woman’s labor spoke of the prince in lowered, reverent voices. Even the maester’s chain seemed to catch more light when he bent over the cradle.
The dragon egg remained where Maekar had placed it, dark and ancient, as though it too, kept vigil.
Baelor and Jena came to Summerhall, when the gardens were as green as can be and the air smelled faintly of milk in the nursery and damp earth after rain. They came not with courtly noise, but with the hush proper to a house where an infant slept. Baelor took his nephew in his arms with that easy steadiness of his, and Jena after him held the child beneath the pale light of the window as though she feared the moment might vanish if she breathed too deeply. She had always been kind, but there was something different in her then, something tendered raw by want and prayer and long waiting.
Later, when the men had gone from the chamber and the sunlight had shifted golden on the floor, she confided in you in a voice so quiet it seemed part of the room itself. She had prayed for a child and received only silence. You comforted her as best you could, and when she departed from Summerhall, carrying none of that pain lessened and yet somehow not so alone beneath it, something between you had altered for good. After that her letters came often, and yours went back just as quickly, until affection had ripened into something nearer sisterhood.
A year passed. Daeron grew sturdy and solemn, all blue eyes of his father and grave wonder, his small hands forever reaching for things just beyond him. Summerhall was as usual gold and green and rose-colored dusk. You told Maekar of your other blessing in the garden. The scent of crushed thyme and sun-warmed stone clung to the air. Maekar had been speaking of some matter of court or training, something half-lost to you already, when you laid your hand low against your belly and brought him to stillness.
For one suspended heartbeat he only looked at you, all the blood gone from his face before it returned twice as fiercely.
“Another?”
“Yes” you laughed.
He picked you up in his strong arms so that kissing you would be easier.
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Some days you would burn to the high heavens, unable to have anyone near you. Your skin felt as if a fire had been stuck beneath it. The maester said it was normal, the Blood of the Dragon is strong. Bearing a Valyrian’s child came with those misfortunes. The second labor came swifter than the first.
You knew what it was almost at once. There was less fear in you then, though not less pain. Summerhall woke again in darkness and candlelight, in hurried feet and lowered voices, in steaming water and linen and prayer. The maester was fetched. Nymella came. And Maekar, as before, remained close as a shadow. He bore it no better for having endured it once. If anything, the knowing made it worse. He had seen before what it cost you. He had heard your cries and stood helpless beneath them. Now every look in his face was drawn tight by dread, every touch careful to the point of reverence. He said little. His hand was forever upon you as though he might hold you to this world by sheer will.
The hours did not drag as cruelly as they had with Daeron. Yet when the worst of it came, it still seemed enough to split you open upon the wheel of the world.
And then, as before, there came that terrible stillness.
You wept before you could stop yourself. The child was laid against you, warm and squalling, all flushed limbs and furious life. You felt as if you could do it all over again, to feel this love, to see your husband in such a state, unmovable by the fact you brought a part of him into this world.
Another son.
He kissed your brow, then the babe’s crown, and closed his eyes a moment as if in gratitude too sharp to be borne.
Aerion was loved no less fiercely than Daeron had been.
Three years passed in the manner years do when children are concerned: quickly, and never quietly.
Jena wrote after, telling you of her own pregnancy and you must’ve cried with joy when you read her words. Both Maekar and you departed Summerhall for King’s Landing with both of your boys when Jena’s time finally came. You never liked the capital much, and neither did Maekar. But you were glad to see all of Maekar’s family. From your good-father Daeron, who pressed a kiss to your temples and called you ‘daughter’ to the Dornish queen Myriah who held you as tight as your own mother in her arms. Rhaegal and Aerys were both overjoyed to see everyone in one place, even though Aerys was happier to leave you all to his books afterwards.
Summerhall, which had once seemed all red stone and sun-warmed terraces and long still afternoons, gave itself over instead to small footsteps and laughter and the unsteady tyranny of growing boys. Daeron ran before he ought to have, climbed where he was forbidden, and regarded the world with a solemn intensity that was somehow more disquieting in one so young. Aerion came after him like bright fire to banked coals, quicker to noise, quicker to temper, quicker too to charm. Where Daeron would fall into thought, Aerion threw himself headlong toward delight.
One was no mirror of the other. Yet you loved them each to the hilt of your soul and so did Maekar.
He was not softened into some laughing fool of a father by it. The world still knew him stern. Men still stepped more carefully when his eyes fell upon them. Yet your sons had only to lift their arms toward him and he would take them up at once, no matter who watched. He taught Daeron how to hold a wooden sword before the boy’s fingers were steady enough for it. He endured Aerion’s sharp little hands in his hair and the indignity of being climbed like a keep under siege. When Daeron couldn’t sleep, it was to him as often as to you that he reached in the night. At day’s end the castle quieted around the small rites that had become dearer to you than feast or tourney or courtly praise. The boys were brought bathed and warm to their chambers, smelling of soap, milk, and summer linen. Daeron, tried, as usual, to refuse sleep as though it were some lesser thing unworthy of him. Aerion did not refuse it at all, he only fought it with the full insulted fury of one who believed himself wronged by every darkening sky.
You loved those hours best.
You would tell each boy a story, and Daeron would already be drowsing by the time Maekar drew the covers higher about him, his father’s large hand absurdly careful against so small a shoulder. Aerion, stubborn and flushed with sleep, would burrow into your neck while you carried him, one hot cheek pressed to your skin, his fist still caught in the fabric of your gown. And when at last he was laid down, he would blink up at you as if betrayed, only for Maekar to rest a hand over his little chest until his breathing steadied.
There were times the sight of your husband bent over the children with that grave, guarded care made your heart clutch hard enough to ache.
The child you were carrying now was easier than Daeron or Aerion, some days they would move against your palm as if on command. To show you they were there.
By then the candles had burned low. The night air had cooled. Beyond the open lattice the dark lay soft over Summerhall, and the doves beneath the eaves had long since quieted. Maekar sat at the edge of the bed unlacing one sleeve with the look of a man still half-thinking of tomorrow’s duties. You watched him a moment before slipping beneath the coverlets.
When he finally laid his body down and drew your back to his chest, one arm settling heavily and familiarly across your waist you spoke.
“Aerion seems adamant about doing everything himself” you smiled at the memory, “-he yelled at Maester Cressen today that he didn’t wish to have his hand held as he tried climbing the steps.”
You chuckled into your pillow and felt your husband’s smile against your hair.
“Aerion is every punishment the gods denied us with the first.” Maekar kissed your head as he laid in a more comfortable position.
“He is your son.”
“Sure enough.”
You held his hand, fingers intertwining, as he caressed the child yet unborn in your belly with his thumb. Here he was only your husband. Here his sternness was thinner, his silences kinder, his want of you plain in every unguarded touch. He held you close until the warmth of him and the long day carried you under.
It was strange later to think how the body knew before the mind did.
Some small, buried part of you had already risen toward the surface when Daeron screamed.
Not fully awake, not yet, but seized all the same by a sharp and nameless dread, as though the sound had reached you before it had truly reached the room. By the time it tore through the corridor outside, you were already pushing yourself upright. So was Maekar. The warmth of the bed was gone at once, split clean through by terror.
“Daeron,” you breathed.
Maekar was moving before the name had left you.
The floor was cold underfoot. The corridor beyond your chamber darker still, torchlight shivering low in its irons as you ran. Another cry came then, strangled and wrong, and it struck something so primitive in you that for one instant you thought your heart had stopped altogether. Maekar reached the boy’s chamber first and flung the door wide hard enough for it to crack against the wall.
Daeron was not merely awake.
He was half-upright in the bed, tangled in his blankets, his little face white with terror, his eyes too wide and fixed upon something no longer there. His whole body shook with it, trembling and sobbing as if struck. He did not seem to know where he was, only that whatever had found him in sleep had not loosened its hold.
Maekar crossed the room in two strides and took him up at once.
Daeron made a broken sound and caught fistfuls of his father’s nightshirt, clinging with a desperation that made your stomach turn. Maekar said nothing, only gathered him hard against his chest, one hand firm at the back of the boy’s head, the other under his small body, holding him with the blind force of a man who would have fought the dream itself had it taken shape before him.
He took Daeron back toward your own chambers while you turned instead down the passage to Aerion’s room, your pulse hammering still. But Aerion slept on, one arm flung above his head, his mouth parted in the loose peace of the very young. His covers had slipped nearly to his knees. You drew it back over him, laid a trembling hand gently above his little heart, and stood a moment longer than necessary just to feel him breathe.
Maekar held his son to his chest as the boy cried. He pulled the coverlet over them both, as you entered and climbed into bed.
“What happened, Daeron?” You rubbed circles on the boy's back as he pushed his face in the crook of his father’s neck for protection.
When he finally calmed down enough, he showed you his face, bathed into the moonlight as he gazed at the balcony doors behind you, curtains blowing in the passing wind.
“A fire.” His voice shook. He dragged a breath into himself as though even that hurt.
“Only a dream, sweet boy.” you said.
“No.” His lids fluttered shut. His eyes, once they found yours again, looked full of sorrow, sorrow beyond his years. “No. No. No-” he began crying once more and your heart broke all over.
Maekar gathered him closer, one arm closing round him so fully that Daeron nearly disappeared into his father’s chest. “Enough,” he said softly, not in rebuke but in mercy.
The boy’s trembling did not stop at once. It went on in small aftershocks through him, each one making your own heart clutch afresh. So the two of you held him between you until at last the worst of it ebbed. His breathing slowed. His hands loosened in the linen of Maekar’s shirt.
He brought his little arm up toward you and you pulled his back to your chest, laying down properly. Maekar held you in the same manner. He rubbed circles with his thumb on his son’s arm.
You must have drifted off, half-waking and half-dreaming, because when Daeron stirred again it took a moment to understand what had roused you.
“Mom..”
His whisper was no louder than the curtains. His little hands, holding the bedding.
Maekar slept still, one arm thrown protectively across the both of you. The boy had half turned towards you, wide awake, his small face pale.
“Yes, my love.” You brushed his hair back, fighting against the wave of sleep threatening to overthrow you.
In a voice rubbed thin by fear and sleep, he asked, “Tell me a story.”
Both boys loved your stories, as a Dayne, you excelled in all manner of fables, myths and legends. If this would pull him under dreamless sleep, you would do anything. And what other story could you tell your son, but the one you knew best. You told him of Starfall.
Of the pale stone seat of your house where the sea broke white beneath the cliffs and the dawn came sharp over the water. Of the old kings who had lived there when the world was younger and stranger. When magic and dragons ruled the earth. Of the night a burning star had fallen from the sky and struck the earth beside the mouth of the Torrentine, bright enough, they said, to turn darkness into day. Of how from that stone your ancestors had forged the blade called Dawn, not Valyrian steel, but older and fairer, pale as milkglass in the sun and deadly as any dragonlord’s sword.
Daeron listened without moving. Gasping at the mention of Dawn, you promised your son you would take him with you when the time was right, just the two of you, to see it with his own eyes.
You told him how the sword passed only to the worthiest of your line, never by simple birthright, but by honor and valor, and how men had crossed half the realm only to look upon it. You told him of the tower from which the sea could be seen for miles, of gulls wheeling silver in the wind, of lemon cakes in the kitchens and old women who swore the star’s light still lingered in the stone when the moon was high. You told it slowly, softly, with one hand smoothing his hair back from his brow whenever it fell.
You told him how whenever he would see a star running across the sky, luck beyond measure would be bestowed upon him from the Gods.
By the time you reached the end, his body had grown heavy against yours.
His breathing had softened. One hand still clutched the sleeve of your shift, but only loosely now, as though even in sleep he needed to be certain you remained. You bent and kissed his temple. The moon had painted the chamber in silver. Beyond you, the curtains moved like water. Behind you, Maekar slept on, worn out by fear and love alike.
You woke to a morning of a far gentler spirit than the night had left you in.
The chamber was full of pale gold. Somewhere below, servants had begun to move through the halls again. For a moment, waking slowly beneath the weight of sun and sleep, you almost forgot what had driven the three of you into one bed.
Then you felt Daeron’s foot against your thigh and remembered at once.
Sometime before dawn he had managed, in sleep, to sprawl across nearly half the bed like a conquering little king. Both arms spread open as if awaiting an embrace, while you and Maekar had been driven together so near the edge that another inch might have seen you both tumble to the floor. You turned your head just enough to look behind you.
Maekar was already awake.
He lay on his back with the expression of a man who had endured an indignity in grim silence for several hours and meant to make it known now that daylight had given him leave. His hair was disordered from sleep, his jaw clenched. His blue eyes looked upon you as if you pushed him yourself towards the cliff that was his place on the bed.
“Well?” you murmured.
“My back is ruined.”
You smiled as you looked once more at your boy. At that, even half asleep, Daeron let a small smirk sneak its way to his face, as though some part of him had heard and approved.
You laughed quietly and reached to smooth the hair from his brow. In the morning light, with his face untroubled and his limbs loose with sleep, it was almost impossible to believe such terror had gripped him only hours before.
For the next few nights he slept with you still.
Not because he woke screaming again. He did not. Whatever cruel thing had found him once did not return, or at least did not come so near the surface that it could drag him out of sleep. Yet each evening, when the candles were lowered and the servants dismissed, he would hover near your bedchamber with too careful a bravery, as though he meant not to ask and hoped instead that love would spare him the humiliation of needing to. And every single time, it did.
So he was brought again beneath the coverlets, and though he tried the first night to lie solemnly and take up no room at all, by morning he had flung himself sideways in sleep and driven his father once more to the very edge of the mattress. On the second night he curled nearer, warm and trusting, his small back to your belly and Maekar’s hand resting over him in the dark. On the third he fell asleep before the story was half done, one fist in the linen near your shoulder, and slept through until dawn with no sign of fear at all.
Maekar complained every morning.
He complained in the same tone he complained about a great many things, even if you both knew full well he would submit to the same discomfort again that night if Daeron so much as looked uncertain at dusk. Whenever darkness came, and Daeron climbed between you, it was Maekar’s arm that drew the child nearer and Maekar’s hand that settled over him before sleep.
By the end of the week even you had ceased to think much of it. One evening, you and Maekar sat together in the fading warmth outside while the boys played in the garden below the terrace. You held your belly as you watched the children.
The sun had gone softer by then, laying amber across the terracotta and gilding the lemon leaves where the wind turned them. Daeron was chasing some private glory with a stick in hand, grave and intent as ever, while Aerion, not to be outdone by anything in creation, had abandoned nobler pursuits in favor of crouching down and picking at the ground with all the concentration of a scholar.
You and your husband had been speaking of something forgettable, letters from King’s Landing, perhaps, or which knight ought to be sent back to court and which ought to remain, when his attention wandered from the subject in that way you had long since learned to recognize. He looked into your eyes and then at your lips as you talked and you felt yourself growing shy even, under his gaze.
He glanced toward the boys once, then back to you.
“He sleeps in his own chambers tonight,”
You kept your gaze upon Daeron, who was solemnly announcing some victory to no one at all, and said, “Does he?”
“He does.”
“So decided,” you murmured.
“Indeed.”
As if summoned by the subject itself, Daeron came trotting up the steps not long after, all bright cheeks and wind-tossed hair, with the abrupt seriousness children often wore when approaching matters close to the heart.
“May I sleep with you tonight?” he asked.
Before you could answer, Maekar said, “Not tonight.”
Daeron stopped short, looking first at his father and then at you with quick disappointment gathering in his face.
“You have slept well these past nights,” Maekar said. “You must learn to sleep alone again.”
It was not cruelly spoken. It was reasonable, and because it was reasonable it struck the boy all the harder.
You reached for him before the silence could bruise. “I will come and tell you a story,” you said. “And I shall stay until you are asleep.”
At once some of the disappointment eased from him. “Truly?”
“Truly.”
He considered that with the solemn care he gave all bargains of importance, then nodded.
That was when Maekar’s gaze shifted past him.
“Aerion!”
The sound of it cracked across the terrace with enough force that both you and Daeron startled where you sat.
Below, Aerion froze in the act itself, one grubby hand half-raised, his mouth already suspiciously open for something.
“Do not eat it.” Maekar called, already rising to pull Aerion away from his newfound delicacy.
Aerion blinked up at him, offended by the interruption and wholly unrepentant.
Daeron, recovering first, twisted toward you with all the outraged superiority of an elder sibling. “He was eating dirt.”
“Yes,” you said, already, laughter spilling from you before you could stop it. “I saw.”
Maekar muttered something low and despairing under his breath that only half deserved to be called a curse. Aerion regarded his father with the solemn, dirty face of one interrupted in important work.
When he reached him, he rubbed his face clean with his hands, then his little fingers.
“No dirt.” Maekar said.
Aerion frowned. “Why?”
“Because” your husband continued as if speaking to one much more intelligent than a boy of three “you are a prince of the realm and not a goat.”
Daeron laughed.
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Then came Aemon. Quieter than his brothers, seeming to watch the world before he had properly entered it. You and your boys settled into your own kind of rhythm. When time would allow, you would watch Maekar teach Daeron and Aerion how to fish while you held Aemon to your breast. All boys received dragon eggs, none hatched, but you or Maekar didn’t care much for that supposed disappointment you should be feeling. You were happy that they were healthy and all yours, each one of them. The nights were short and the days longer, one of the longest summers in living memory existed all around you and life seemed to be perfect in every way.
When your husband would return to your bedchambers and take you in his arms, running his hands all over your body and kissing you like you would disappear. His need for you grew with each pregnancy it seemed.
You smiled whenever he would tell you he wanted a girl from you, and then you’d be left alone.
“You promise?” You murmured against his lips between kisses.
“No.” He brought you on top of him.
⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹
Daella and Rhae followed after, soft-cheeked and lovely, with Maekar undone by them both almost at once in the secret, helpless way stern men were undone by daughters.
The children grew before you knew it. Daeron lengthened into a solemn boy who looked too hard at things and seemed, at times, to know more than any child should. Aerion burned hot through every hour of the day, all fierce temper and impossible fancies, as though some part of him had been born expecting wings. Aemon learned silence before speech had properly left him, happiest with old things, old words, old pages. Daella moved sweetly through the halls like candlelight. Rhae was all sun and mischief and little bare feet over warm stone. Summerhall had once belonged to princes. It belonged now to children.
By the time you carried the last of them, nearly eight years had passed since Daeron had first been laid against your breast.
And this time the gods were not kind.
The pregnancy with your sixth child sat ill upon you from the first. It did not bloom in you as the others had, with fear and tenderness twined together, but with a slow cruelty that seemed bent on wearing you down bone by bone. Food turned your stomach. Even water lay wrong in you some days. The heat of Summerhall, which you had once loved, became an enemy. The stairs exhausted you. The weight of the child dragged low and hard, as though he meant to pull you with him toward the earth before his hour had even come. Some mornings you woke already tired. Some nights sleep would not have you at all. The women said such things happened, that a last child could be stubborn, that a mother who had borne five babes had a body grown weary of miracles. You smiled when they said it. You thanked them. You said little else.
He watched you with the rigid quiet of a man holding himself back from violence simply because there was nothing living before him he could strike for what was being done to you. He sent for the maester twice as often as was needed. He had your cushions changed, your meals altered, your chambers aired or shut according to the hour. He looked at every servant as though negligence might kill you. At night, when the children had gone to bed and the castle had softened around the last candlelight, he lay awake beside you more often than he slept.
⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹
Lord Rolland Penrose rode in with his wife, Lady Ellyn, and a modest train, all courtesy and stormland silk and the smell of horses still clinging to their cloaks. The lord and lady of Houses Selmy and Swann were there as well, and the supper table that night was fuller than it had been in weeks.
Candles burned long and golden across silver and polished wood. The windows stood open to the evening air. Beyond them the dark of the gardens sent up the scent of orange blossom, crushed thyme, and the warm stone still holding the day’s heat. Servants moved quietly with platters of roasted chicken, pork, and beef, with white bread and olives glistening in oil. The talk had gone from easy things to old court tales and births and marriages, as it so often did when noble ladies had been given enough wine to grow careless.
Lady Ellyn Penrose spoke first of one woman’s labor, then another’s, then, with the heedless confidence of those who mistook chatter for grace, turned to old history: “It must have been the most dreadful thing,” she said, setting down her cup. “Princess Rhaenyra’s little girl. The one born dead and twisted, half dragon, they said. I have thought of it often. How monstrous for the mother. How absolutely terrible.”
The table quieted.
Every eye seemed to turn, if not openly, then near enough. Leaning back against the ebony chair, unable these days to find any posture wholly free of discomfort, you lowered your eyes for a moment and gave the sort of polite acknowledgment expected of you. The words you wished to offer the young woman were of a far less courtly kind.
Lord Rolland Penrose looked at his wife with all the resignation of a man who had seen disaster and knew it by name.
“My lady,” he said carefully, “perhaps-”
“I only mean,” Lady Ellyn went on, smiling toward you with a brightness so misplaced it turned cruel, “what fear such tales must put into women. Particularly when they are carrying again. Though of course, you must not let such stories trouble you.” Her glance flicked, foolishly, to your belly and back to your face. “You shall be well enough, I am sure. After all, you have had five already.”
She gave a little laugh then, as if she might mend the thing by pretending it had been light.
You found nothing light in it.
Maekar only looked at Lady Ellyn Penrose, his fists clenched on either side of his plate, and there was so much naked fury in the stillness of him that even her husband seemed to blanch beneath it. Some hidden, mean, frightened part of you had already been whispering the very same words to you in the dark for weeks.
You lowered your eyes only long enough to spare the woman the full force of your face, then lifted them again with all the composure you could gather.
“Yes, my lady,” you said. “Your concern is noted.”
But after that the talk never truly recovered. It dragged itself onward until the proper hour for parting arrived and everyone fled it with relief thinly veiled as courtesy.
You rose with your husband’s help, one hand braced at your back, and thought only of sending for Nymella and the sleeping draught she had begun to keep near for such nights. Lord Rolland Penrose at last found the shame to catch Maekar aside. You both had only just reached the steps, your arm linked through your husband’s for support.
“My lord, my lady, you must pardon my wife. She meant no harm-“
“Your Grace,” Maekar said, before you could soften the moment.
Rolland Penrose swallowed. “Your Graces. Please. Pardon her manner.”
You might have done so, had Maekar not spoken first.
“Do you think my wife wishes to hear of dead children at my table?”
“No, Your Grace. No, of course not.”
“Good.” Maekar’s voice was iron. “Then go and teach your wife some restraint, or fuck off. The both of you.”
⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹
You stared at the flames as if you might find some answers in them. It rained again during the dinner, so the weather was brought to a comfortable chill that was well welcomed by everyone else but you.
Maekar looked at you. Then bent down to remove your slippers, carefully laced by Nymella a few hours earlier.
“Nothing will happen to you,” he said. “Just the words of a stupid girl, take no heed to them.” He held your foot gently as he removed the slipper and moved to the other leg.
You brushed your hands through his hair. Silver like the moon you loved staring at since you were but a girl.
“If anything should happen,” you said softly, “you know I will not leave you. Not truly. I will always be with you. Always.”
He snapped his eyes to you, and you felt your throat become tight. Something flashed in his face then, rage, fear, refusal, all of them too near each other to be separated cleanly.
“No.” he said.
“Maekar-“ you tried to smile.
“Nothing will happen to you.” His voice sharpened, then lowered again, as though he would not let even the walls overhear such treason. “Not under my roof. Not while I still draw breath. Do you hear me, woman?”
He moved to continue the work he started on your leg “You cannot leave me alone with Aerion.”
You laughed at that, and he smiled too. He could be funny if he wished to be.
“If what Lady Penrose said should ever come true,” you whispered, and still you did not tell him of the bad feeling that had shadowed you these last weeks, of the private dread that came and went like weather through your bones, “you should not be alone.”
You knew he was aware of what that meant. You had hoped you didn’t have to spell it out for him.
The fire let out a crack between you and Maekar moved your shoes to the side of the rug as he said, almost absentmindedly, because saying it while looking at you would give power to the fear: “I’ll never love again.”
The child sat too low and too heavy in you now, and even the short walk from hearth to bed had begun to feel like something to be endured rather than done. Even if this pregnancy seemed to drag you to the brink of madness, you loved your son or daughter fiercely. What great person they would become, to have taken such a great toll on you. They had to make their presence known in some way. Maekar drew you gently from the fire and guided you back to the mattress with both hands, one firm at your waist, the other beneath your arm. There was nothing delicate in him, nothing practiced in tenderness for its own sake, yet in moments such as these his care became almost reverent. He lowered you slowly against the pillows, as though he mistrusted even the bed to receive you gently enough.
The room lay in firelight and shadow. Beyond the half-open balcony doors, night had settled soft and black over Summerhall. The curtains stirred with the breeze. Somewhere far below, water whispered in the gardens. The stone of the chamber still held the day’s warmth, and the familiar things about you- the carved bedposts, the chair by the hearth, the little table near the window, the silver comb left where it had been set down that morning- seemed touched by something sharper than memory. Here your children had been safe. Here you had been wife before all else, and mother, and beloved. Here, beneath this roof, life had gone on in its own small kingdom of firelight and bread and linen and sleeping miracles made true by you and your husband . Here, of all places, the world had seemed most held.
One arm went about you at once, drawing you back against his chest with the unthinking possessiveness of long habit. His hand found yours where it rested over the hard, aching curve of your belly, and stayed there.
Summerhall slept on around you, untroubled and whole, holding its peace for one night more.
Because all girl names had already been tried and picked apart countless times, because one had already been chosen and kept close, you thought, for all the heaviness this child bore within you, for all those dreamless nights you prayed and all the food you brought back whence it came, that perhaps he would be a boy.
And if so, his name shall be Aegon.
⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹
author's note: thank you thank you for reading. If you are one of the people who had lovingly send all those messages for part 2 this is for you, ily, please forgive me it took so long, a lot of personal issues had climbed on top of each other in the past weeks- but it is here now! I have left little details that hint at each child’s actual future, I hope everyone got that, also some little things that tie to the first part. Thank you for reading again, if you are kind enough to leave me a message, that would mean the world to me. Have an amazing day babes and Happy Easter
my wonderful taglist who had been so patient for part 2:
@sweetxime
@risefallrise
@gul--aaab
@just-some-random-blogger (ur reblogs almost make me smile)
Starlight tickled my fancyyyy. Love the way you wrote Maekar without softening or compromise until just the right moment. What a delicious combination of words.
Omg. “Starlight”. ARE YOU KIDDING ME??? This was so wonderful. I am giddy. Literally kicking my feet. A fantastic characterization of our grumpy lil guy. Everything I’ve been looking for in Maekar fic. Instant favorite that I will be returning to indefinitely. THANK YOU!!!!!!!
I love that grumpy man 😍😍😍 thank you for ur love ❤️
I 100% agree with you on starlight, thought I was wack and out of touch for wanting to have more first and only wife fics because it feels more real and natural! Love your writing btw
personally, even though i have also read couple great fics about maekar and reader/oc who are his second wife, i prefer the fact that in stralight the reader is his first wife maybe because i as well love the idea of her being his first and only love. so i absolutely LOVED what you are doing with your story.
your maekar fic starlight is soooo good i think i’ve read it like 20 times since you first dropped it 😭 i was wondering if u would write a similar story of multiple parts about the beginning of a complicated marriage with him but as his second wife, living in dyanna’s shadow….being younger than him, being his second wife he only married at king daeron’s command etc….the rest basically the same as your fic…you write smut and angst so good, whatever you write for maekar next i’m excited for ! love <3
Thank u so much!! 😘😘 I’ve personally seen/read so many second wife reader fics (great fics btw, i don’t have anything against them at all) that I don’t really see people being interested in my story If i do write that. Dyanna is kind of the literal love of Maekar’s life (he never remarries afterwards) that I wouldn’t particularly like writing the reader in her shadow like that, even if I’ve enjoyed all the second wife fics I’ve read, its just not my particular favorite kind of romance.
I personally prefer being first and the love of his life because im weird and I want to be his soulmate and best friend 😔 I do plan on writing a part 2 of Starlight with the reader and Maekar and the birth of their kids so im excited to continue their story
starlight is sooooo good - the way you write maekar is so hot 🥵 and you really nailed the shift from antipathy to a more tender dynamic ! thank you for blessing the tags and i hope you keep writing for our favorite targaryen dilfs
Thank u so much love! I will keep writing for them, Maekar is next 😘😘
Breakspear broke my heart and repaired it again. I loved it so much. Reading about the connection between valarr and baelor got me thinking about the fact that we never got to see them interact on the show, we never got to see their father-son moments and im glad that you gave us that. It was beautifully written and your every single imagine deserves a part 2 (not me being greedy)
Thank you so much love! That’s very kind of you to say!
I also wish we could’ve gotten a scene of those two together, but I understand they had to cut some things to make space for Dunk- it is his story after all.
The Trial of Seven comes to an end. Now you must face the reality of honor and duty. (one-shot)
pairnings: Baelor Targaryen x (Targaryen) Reader
warnings/content: targcest, blood, violence, mention of wounds and a lot of crying, death (baelor pls don’t die ure too sexy)
words: 8.5k
•• ━━━━━••••━━━━━ ••
For a moment, there was only silence. Stunned, disbelieving silence.
Then the horns sounded, long, brassy bellows that seemed to split the air itself. The crowd erupted. Screaming, cheering, a roar of sound that crashed over you in waves. Some cried out in joy, justice had been served, the hedge knight vindicated.
But you heard none of it.
Your eyes were locked on the field below, scanning desperately through the chaos of armored men and mud and blood. The trial had been brutal. Vicious. You'd watched with your heart in your throat as men fell, as swords clashed, as that terrible mace, Maekar's mace, swung through the air again and again.
Your thoughts were only for one as you rose from your seat next to Aegon like an arrow from a bow and ran down to the tourney grounds. The Lord of Ashford called out your name in courtesy but you pushed past him.
The ground was slippery and filled with blood and water. The fog of the morning was slowly lifting, the air tasted of iron and sulfur and death. Your feet made a squelching sound as men and women parted for a Princess of the Blood. The hem of your obsidian dress grew heavy with the carnage beneath your feet, but you only had one thing and one name on your mind:
Baelor.
You rounded the corner and saw Dunk, the Knight whose honor your husband defended slouched against the wall. His left eye was sewed shut in a ball, his other eye that remained open widened at the sound of your voice and he rose with a grimace to kneel before you:
“My Lady-” His gaze was locked to the muddy ground. Sword pushed into it as he braced. “I am your man.”
Something cold slithered around your spine and took hold of it.
“Where is my husband?” You asked. Egg ran down as well, coming to a stand next to the Hedge Knight.
“I-I don’t know, my Lady.” The boy, Raymund you recalled, was his name, said.
You heard your name being called behind you.
You all turned to look towards the voice.
“What did I tell you?” He pushed his own sword to the ground and had a sway in his steps, like a man on a ship, rather than a Prince. His voice was distant and oddly warm.
You ran to him, hands flying to his shoulders, inspecting for wounds everywhere on his armor. Nothing. He was untouched by any lance or spear, or his brother’s war mace. Thank the Gods.
“My love-” You fought to find your breath. A stone settled in your belly, cold and heavy “please tell me you’re alright.”
You looked into his mismatched eyes, fingers touching the cold obsidian iron of his helmet.
Baelor nodded and swallowed hard.
“I am.” He sounded far away, like he was speaking from the bottom of a well.
He looked over your head at the knight pressing a hand over his belly.
“I will send my Maester to you…”He swallowed once more, words almost escaping him. “after he is done tending to my brother.”
“You honor me” he gasped in pain “your Grace.”
“I need good men, Ser Duncan.” Baelor put his arm around your shoulder and you caught his midriff in your arms. He was heavy- too heavy. He could barely stand.
“Baelor..” This was unlike him. This wasn’t right. “What happened? What’s wrong? Talk to me.” Your voice pitched up. This was not your husband.
The smith and the young boy placed ser Duncan back on the wooden bench as he all but screamed in pain in a manner that had the hairs on your arms raise.
He lifted his hand up towards his face like it belonged to someone else. “I have such a peculiar feeling in my hands.” He showed you his hand. His fingers were moving in an almost mechanical manner. You took your husband’s hand in your own at once, fingers brushing the cold steel. “They feel like wood.” There was nothing wrong with his hands, nor his fingers.
“Baelor-there’s…there’s nothing wrong with your hand. Baelor.” You couldn’t bear this. He closed his eyes in pain and you could feel tears building up in your eyes at the sight of him. Your husband moved mountains. Something was wrong.
A feeling pooled in your belly and desperation took hold of your heart as it started beating like a drum. Something was deeply and horrifyingly wrong.
“Aegon! Run to your father! Bring Maester Yormwell here! Now!” The boy gasped as he ran at once, his little legs moving before his mind could process the words coming out of your mouth.
Baelor's head slumped against your own, his own legs giving out as he took hold of you and held you close like a pillar. You couldn’t keep him up. He was larger and heavier than you- your legs buckled as much as you wanted them to stand and hold him upright.
“Your Grace!” Ser Duncan called out, but all you could hear was the sound ringing in your ears.
The smith ran to you, putting a strong arm of Baelor’s over his shoulder and holding him up as you called out his name.
“Baelor!” You could barely recognize the sound of your own voice, thin and desperate to understand what was happening.
This was a dream, a terrible nightmare. You felt as if you were another person watching it unfold from the doors behind, not you. Your legs moved at once with the smith’s you placed your husband down on the bench.
“Baelor! Answer me!” You kneeled before him. Trying to hold his head upright with your hands. He grimaced in pain even if his eyes softened when he looked into yours. Both of your hands shook like a leaf in the wind as you grabbed hold of his helm and carefully lifted it.
Your dress was soaked with mud and blood and rain. His eyes were half lidded and trying to stay open. You grabbed his head, fingers brushing his beard and holding him so you could force him to look at you.
Your fingers inspected him for wounds. The sides of his head, behind his ears. Nothing. Your fingers moved between his graying hair.
You rose a little on your legs as you reached around the back.
Your fingers sank into something slick and wet. Warm.
Blood.
The world started to tilt. You had no idea if someone was speaking.
You brought your hand in front of you again. The stench of sulfur almost bent you in two.
“Good Gods…” Someone said.
The blood coated your fingers, velvet and thick like oil. You stood. Looking at your hand and towards the people calling out your name.
Maester Yormwell arrived, Egg closely behind gasping for air like a horse. You still had your hand gently cradling the side of your husband's head as he pressed his forehead to your belly. Where your sons have been.
You looked down once more: his hair was soaked through, darker than it should be, black with blood.
It ran down his neck in streams of red.
•• ━━━━━••••━━━━━ ••
You couldn't breathe. The air wouldn't come. You paced outside the chamber doors, your steps jerky, uneven, your whole body shaking so hard your teeth chattered. Gasps and sobs came in waves, ripping out of you, and you couldn't stop them. Couldn't control anything.
You pressed your hand to your heart as it hammered beneath your ribs, like it was trying to break free. The blood had long since dried on your hands, sticking to them like it was part of you now.
Your son was down the corridor, pacing and running his hands through his hair like he might find an answer to what was happening. He was too young for this.
You didn’t care who saw you anymore. You weren’t the future Queen of the Seven Kingdom, you were a wife and a mother and your very heart was fighting behind those doors.
You prayed, once in the common tongue then tenfold in High Valyrian. Some Gods, any Gods, would hear your prayers. They should, they must. You prayed that they might take yours and leave him be. You prayed until the words were burned in your mind, coming as easy to you as breathing. Again and again and again.
You imagined him coming out those doors, smiling, eyes wrinkling and a joke on his tongue at your worries ‘See, I am alright. I was merely jesting my love. A cruel jest. But you will indulge me nonetheless, nay?’ You would be furious. You would curse at him and hit his chest and then kiss him until you couldn't breathe anymore and feel him laugh.
You cursed Aerion and his father to the Hells and back so many times you lost count. If only he had reigned in the scourge. If only he wouldn’t have indulged him. If only he could be half the father your husband was.
Maester Yormwell looked scared. No. That was your imagination. Everyone was scared.
Maester Yormwell told his brother to “Prepare for anything” as Maekar, limping himself, carried him to the chamber and helped them remove his armor. No. That was just your imagination. You imagined it.
Men die, but your husband is the Blood of the Dragon. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t leave you all alone.
It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. Maekar could barely look at you as he left before you could spit between his eyes and you were sure in that moment you could’ve killed your own brother with your bare hands.
Gods forgive you.
You knew he didn’t mean it.
You hiccuped once more as you wiped your tears.
This wasn’t real. None of it was.
Baelor who was your life and love and the air you breathed. You had to be strong, for Valarr, if not for you.
He would live forever, you told yourself, as he married you in your Valyrian custom. You told yourself he was greater than any man before, and he was. He couldn’t die. Not like this. He would die of old age, surrounded by children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. The greatest King the Realm had ever seen. Greater than Jaeherys. Greater than his father. Greater than Aegon the Dragon himself. He was supposed to bring peace, order and prosperity to this Realm that has seen too much war and scorn.
Honor was his doom. It couldn’t be true. It shouldn’t be true.
The door opened.
Your heart stopped breathing. You couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but stare at Yormwell's somber face as he stepped out.
"Your Grace," he said quietly. "You may see him…If you wish." If you wished, if you wished to look upon your husband one last time. No, this couldn’t be.
Your legs moved. You didn't tell them to. They just carried you forward, through the door, into the dim chamber beyond.
The smell hit you first. Blood and herbs and something sharp, wine or vinegar, you couldn’t tell. The air was thick with it, cloying.
Baelor lay on the bed. So still. Too still. A corpse.
You walked to his bedside. Your husband had his eyes closed in a dreamless sleep. His chest barely moved with his breathing and his skin was almost grey. Your knees almost buckled at the sight of him, but you willed them to stand.
“We have done our best, Your Grace.” Maester Yormwell said behind you, his words were an echo “The rest is in the Gods’ hands.”
A chair was brought next to the bed and you sat down. You took hold of his hand, his fingers were cold. So cold. You wrapped yours around his in a grip to warm them, rubbing your heat and life into them in a futile attempt. You called out his name in a whisper and you almost cried once more.
“Baelor…” Your voice was hoarse from crying. The door closed softly. You were alone with him. With this thing that looked like your husband but couldn't be, because your husband was warm and alive. This thing was cold and still and silent.
His head was bandaged, a wrap that stretched across his forehead to the back of his head imbedded with the Maester’s medicine.
You pressed your head to his chest, trying to listen for a glimpse at his life.
His heart, who once beat in a steady rhythm, now only pressed against his ribs like an echo. Like a struggle. You counted them. One. Two. Three. The spaces between them were too long, long enough to make you panic, long enough to make you wonder if the next one would come at all. You'd heard the stories. Women who lost their husbands, who wept over their bodies through the night. You'd pitied them, distantly, the way you pity someone whose suffering you can't possibly imagine.
Now you understood.
How deep did it go? All the way to the bone? Deeper?
You'd seen his blood on your hands. So much blood. Too much blood for a man to lose and live. But he was Baelor Breakspear. He was a Targaryen. He was closer to a God than to a man. He was the Blood of the Dragon. His blood was different, wasn't it? Stronger. Purer.
You looked at your palm, at the red stains latched onto your skin. His blood looked the same as any man's. Red and mortal and human. Your husband was human. He could die. He could die right here, right now, while you held his hand and counted his heartbeats and prayed to Gods who wouldn't answer.
Between pressing your head to his chest whenever you thought he stopped breathing and looking at his face for a glimmer of hope- you lost track of time.
Valarr came first, with soft steps and tears that broke your heart in two even more than it already was. He sat next to you in silence, holding his own hand over his father’s praying and swearing this will never be forgotten. You had hoped to reason with your boy, be the guide in his fury and yet your own blinded you in this moment. You could barely force yourself to comfort him. Say anything that will ease his suffering.
“He will wake, Valarr” you couldn’t believe yourself, but if he could grasp at the hope you offered you could stand vigilant over your husband with an easier heart. “I know it to be true. I know it.”
He would look at you with bloodshot eyes and nod. You didn’t know if he believed you. You didn’t wish to ask.
He left in the afternoon, when you ordered him to do so. Valarr offered to bring you food and water, but you had no stomach for it. You washed your husband’s blood off your hands in a basin of cold water as you cried.
Returning to his side and sitting down once more, you heard the oak door groan.
These were not your boy’s footsteps. These were the footsteps of a man.
Heavy and sure as they walked behind you. You heard the sound of something being placed. Food and water with honey, your stomach grumbled in want and you felt your heart climb into your throat.
Maekar laid a heavy hand on your shoulder. For what? For comfort.
To the hells with his comfort. You had no need of it. You wretched your shoulder forward like he was a leper.
The wood groaned as he laid it on the back of your chair.
You knew. You knew this was cruel and unjust of you. You knew that in this whole godsdammed house of Ashford, you alone, could offer Maekar the blessed hand of forgiveness. Of comfort. Of the knowledge he didn’t mean to do so. He didn’t mean to kill his brother. You knew he would switch places with him in a heartbeat. And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. To say anything.
You stood like that for what seemed to be another hour. Your eyes blurring and switching between your husband and the candle that burned slowly next to his bedside. Maekar left and yet you didn’t remember when. You couldn’t even focus on his footsteps.
The maesters came as the moon rose. You heard them before you saw them, the shuffle of feet, the clink of glass vials, the rustle of clean linen.
"Your Grace," Yormwell said softly. "We need to change his bandages. If you would…”
"I'm staying."
A pause. Then: "As you wish."
They worked around you. You felt them moving, adjusting, their hands careful as they began to unwrap the bandages from Baelor's head. Your hand still wrapped around his.
You could smell it once more, the wound that brought your mighty husband down. That rotted smell, stronger now without the bandages to contain it. Your stomach turned. You swallowed hard, bile rising in your throat.
"The wound is..." Yormwell's voice trailed off.
"What?" You couldn't help it. "What is it?"
His face was grim. "There is no corruption yet, Your Grace. No infection. That is... good." Yet.
"But?" You heard it in his voice, the unspoken word.
"But the swelling has not gone down. If it does not..." He didn't finish. Didn't need to. If the swelling didn't go down, the pressure would build. It would push against Baelor's brain, crushing it slowly from within. He would die, and there would be nothing anyone could do to stop it. And you knew this.
"How long?" Your voice was steady. Too steady. Like it belonged to someone else.
"We must wait, Your Grace.”
You watched as they wrapped fresh bandages around his head, winding them carefully, gently. The white linen was stark against his gray skin. They worked in silence, their movements practiced, efficient. The soft rustle of fabric, the quiet clink of metal instruments being set aside, the whisper of their robes against stone. Each sound felt magnified in the oppressive quiet of the chamber.
When they finished, Yormwell bowed. "We will return in a few hours, Your Grace. To check on him. Maester Bran will stay outside the chamber, if anything happens, please call for him.”
You knew that by this time, ravens had been sent to your father and mother. Black wings carrying black news across the realm. The funeral proceedings would be underway soon, arrangements being made, wood being gathered for the pyre. Your joints loosened at the thought, like you might sink to the floor and never rise again at the thought of the great wooden bed awaiting the end of your husband’s life. To burn his body and return his ashes to the sky your kind belonged to. The sky your family longed for. You felt a fresh rush of tears to your eyes.
This is the end. That’s all there is to it.
Your shoulders shook with sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deep in your chest. The masters came and went like ghosts. You barely registered their presence as they changed the candles that had burned down to stubs, as they unwrapped and rewrapped Baelor's bandages with gentle, practiced hands. The wound beneath, you couldn't look at it anymore. Couldn't bear to see that stitched angry red line, that split in his skull that should have killed him already.
You laid your head on the bed beside him, your hand still clutching his cold fingers. The linen beneath your cheek was rough, smelling faintly of lavender and something medicinal. Baelor's hand was like ice in yours, the knuckles prominent, the veins visible through pale skin. You rubbed your thumb across them, trying to warm him, trying to will life back into his body through sheer force of touch.
The candles burned. The hours bled together into one long stretch of darkness.
•• ━━━━━••••━━━━━ ••
You woke as the rain splattered once more against the stone walls outside. Thunder rumbled in the distance, low and mournful. As if the realm itself was crying for its fallen Prince.
You lifted your head with a groan, your neck screaming in protest. You'd fallen asleep at an awkward angle, your spine twisted, your arm numb from where it had been trapped beneath you. Your hand was still enclosed around Baelor's, your fingers stiff and cramped from holding on for so long.
The room swam as you sat up. Dizzy. When had you last eaten? You couldn't remember. Your stomach was a hollow, nauseous pit. Your mouth tasted of copper and bile. Your dress, still the same filthy dress from the tourney, clung to your skin, stiff with dried blood and sweat.
You looked around the room, trying to grasp at your reality. A new day had begun.
Valarr came sometime in the early morning. When you turned to look at him, your heart broke all over again. He looked like he aged years in his grief. The boyishness had been stripped from his face, leaving behind something harder. Something sadder. His eyes were red-rimmed and hollow, his clothes rumpled like he'd slept in them. Or hadn't slept at all.
"Mother." he said quietly. You both sat next to the bed, then you rose once more to give him privacy with his father.
Your knees nearly buckled. When had you become so weak?
Standing in the corridor with your back against the cold stone wall and listening to the muffled sound of your son's voice through the door. You couldn't make out words, but the tone was clear. He was saying goodbye. Baelor should have taught him everything there was about life. About ruling, about justice, about being a good man in a world that rewarded cruelty. Should have had years and years to mold him into the king he'd need to be. Should have walked beside him through all the trials that lay ahead.
Now there was only emptiness where his place had been in your life.
When Valarr emerged, his face was blotchy and wet. But he held himself straight, shoulders back, chin up. Walking with a gait that tried to mimic that of a man. That of his father. That of the future king. You wanted to tell him he didn't have to be strong yet. That he could still be a boy for a little while longer. But the words wouldn't come.
He paused beside you, and for a moment you thought he might break. Might collapse into your arms and sob like the child he still was. But he hugged you and squeezed you tightly to him. You knew he couldn’t sit and watch his father die, he was just a boy, awaiting the cursed news you all knew would come soon. He left down the corridor and his footsteps echoed long after he'd disappeared from sight.
The hours blended into nothing in the day. Someone else arrived.
He moved into the chamber like a man walking to the gallows, his footsteps heavy and slow. He sat in the chair Valarr had occupied, and you felt rather than saw his presence beside you. Your brother. Your husband's brother. Soon to be the brother of a dead man. A man he’d killed.
You didn't look at him, but you saw him in your peripheral vision. His grand figure, broad shoulders slumped, head bowed. He was strong. Had always been strong. The hard one. The cold one. The one who never broke.
But he was breaking now.
“I don’t blame you.” you tried to wet your throat, voice meek and small “Neither does he.”
You could see him turn his head, feel the weight of his gaze on your profile. “It wasn’t your fault.” It was a command, more like, spoken to the air around you and the faceless Gods and patrons of justice watching over men.
He took a sharp intake of breath suddenly, gasping, and it seemed to straighten you involuntarily. You turned to look at him just as his shoulders began to shake.
You'd never seen him cry. Never seen any man cry like this, great, heaving sobs that shook his whole frame. His face crumpled, mouth twisting, eyes squeezing shut as tears streamed down his cheeks. He pressed his hands to his face, trying to hide it, trying to hold it in, but it was too much. Too big. The grief and guilt and horror of it all came pouring out in waves.
You felt your own tears return, hot and stinging. You reached a hand over his shoulder and pulled him to you. He came willingly, burrowing his face in the crook of your neck. His beard scratched against your skin. His breath was hot and wet, his tears soaking into your dress. His fingers gripped you hard and you thought in this moment it wasn’t hard enough.
You needed this, you realized. Needed to share this unbearable weight with someone whose pain was greater. Someone whose person might just as well be dying too.
This wasn't his fault. It wasn't anyone's fault. It was just a cruel, senseless tragedy.
When you finally parted, Maekar tried to regain his composure. He wiped roughly at his face with the heels of his hands, sniffling, his breath still hitching. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen, shot through with red veins. His hair was unkempt, sticking up in all directions like he'd been tearing at it. It made him look younger somehow.
You looked once more at your husband. At his gray face, at the shallow rise and fall of his chest. At the bandages wrapped around his head like a crown of white.
"Why can't you open your eyes, Baelor?" The words escaped you on a breath, and you found yourself smiling despite everything. A sad, broken smile. "Your brother can cry and you will never believe me when I tell you."
Maekar rubbed his hand over his eyes, sniffling, and let out a sound that was almost a laugh. Almost. The ghost of amusement in the face of unbearable sorrow.
You sat like that for a while. Not speaking. Just existing together in your shared grief. The rain continued outside, a steady drumbeat against stone.
He offered to bring you food but you denied it.
The hours were passing. And Baelor wasn’t waking. The time that you had to ‘wait’ was soon coming to an end. Sooner than later, it will all be over. You couldn’t bring yourself to hope for anything anymore.
You crawled into bed with him after the Maester changed his bandages once more. Laying your heart to his chest and counting his heartbeats. He was cold, even with the soft linen bedding and the shadowcat fur you brought on top of him, he was so cold. You knew he couldn’t hear your voice anymore, but you thought to talk one final time to him nonetheless.
“Do you remember that day, in the Red Keep,” you whispered. Your voice was hoarse, cracked. You smiled fondly at the memory, even as tears slipped down your cheeks. “we were all sitting around the dinner table and Rhaegal was telling us this story” closing your eyes and trying to remember the details of it, you continued “about this donkey and his knight who only had one eye…Oh Gods, I can scarcely remember if I’ve ever laughed like that.”
It was summer. High summer, when the days stretched long and golden and the nights were warm enough to sleep with the grand balcony windows wide open. You were young…Gods, you were so young, newly married, barely a year into your life with Baelor.
The great hall of the Red Keep was awash in evening light. The sun was setting, painting everything in shades of amber and rose and deep crimson. Long beams of light slanted through the tall windows, catching dust motes that danced like tiny golden insects. The light fell across the table in geometric patterns, illuminating platters of food that steamed and glistened. Roasted boar, the skin crackling and dark. Lemon cakes dusted with sugar. Fresh bread still warm from the ovens, the crust golden-brown and cracking when you tore into it. Honeyed figs. Roasted vegetables glistening with oil. And wine, sweet Dornish red that stained your lips and made everything funnier than it should have been. And Baelor. Your Baelor, sitting beside you. You could feel the warmth of him, the solid presence of his body next to yours. His hand had found yours under the table, his fingers laced through yours, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on your palm.
The details of the story were hazy now, lost to time, but the feeling wasn't. The pure, uncomplicated joy of it. The way Rhaegal acted out the knight's confusion, making his voice high and reedy. The way he mimicked the donkey's bray as the table erupted in laughter. Your sun-kissed mother was clutching your father's arm, her shoulders shaking. Your father had his head thrown back, his laugh booming through the hall. Your brothers were pounding the table, making the dishes rattle and jump.
You remembered thinking, in that perfect moment, that this was happiness. Pure, uncomplicated, simple happiness. Your family together. Good food. Good wine. Good stories. Laughter that made your cheeks ache.
You remembered the weight of Baelor's hand in yours. The warmth of his body beside you. The sound of his laugh, rich and deep.
You remembered feeling safe. Loved. Like nothing bad could ever touch you here.
“Do you remember, Baelor?” The sharp contrast to your own, cruel and unjust reality stirred in you. The joy you'd felt then was now eclipsed by shadow. By this cold, sterile room. By the smell of blood and medicine. By the gray pallor of your husband's skin and the terrible silence where his voice should be.
"Do you remember Maekar's face?" You tried to laugh, but it came out as a sob. "Red as a tomato? How he had tears streaming down his face? How he couldn't breathe he was laughing so hard?"
Your response was stillness. Complete, absolute stillness.
No quip back. No warm chuckle. No squeeze of your hand. Nothing from the body beneath your head. Just the faint, irregular thump of his heart and the shallow whisper of his breath. His heart beat once. Faintly. So faintly you almost missed it.
This would be the last time you heard it.
Your hand moved to his chest, spreading your fingers wide, trying to cover as much of him as possible.
"You have to wake." Your voice broke. "You have to. The realm needs you. Your sons need you." A sob tore out of you. "I need you."
Your tears fell freely now, dropping onto his chest, soaking into the linen of his nightshirt. You remembered how scared you'd been when you brought Matarys into the world. How the labor had gone on for hours and hours, how you'd thought you might die. How Baelor had held your hand through all of it, his face pale with fear, whispering encouragement even as he looked terrified. How afraid he'd been that he would lose you that day.
You remembered how sad you'd been to leave Matarys with his grandparents in King's Landing while you traveled to this tourney. This stupid, cursed tourney. If you'd just stayed home. If you'd refused to come. If you'd been sick that day or if it had rained or if any one of a thousand small things had been different. But they weren't. And now Baelor was dying and there was nothing you could do to stop it.
You brought his other hand over his belly, so you could hold it. Maybe if he felt you now, here, close to him. Maybe you could pass your strength to him. Maybe your warmth could seep into his cold body and bring him back. It was a foolish hope and you didn’t dare repeat it again. You couldn’t give yourself that lie anymore. This was it. You had to be strong. Like he would want you to be.
You closed your eyes, willing yourself to sleep once more alongside him like you'd done for years. He wouldn't die alone in this bed. Cold and alone with only maesters for company. You would be here. You would hold him as he slipped away.
I love you, you thought. I love you I love you I love you.
Sleep came fitfully, plagued by nightmares. You dreamed of that day at the tourney, of Baelor standing before you covered in blood. Of the terrible crack of metal on bone. Of your hands dripping red. Of the gash in his head, gaping open. Of his eyes going distant and unfocused.
You jerked awake, gasping, your heart pounding. Forced yourself to think of better things. Blessed things. Commanded your mind to remember the good times.
You dreamed or maybe remembered, you weren't sure anymore, of holding Baelor before bed in your chambers in the Red Keep. The two of you curled together under the furs, your head on his chest, his arms around you. How you'd joke about the pompous lords at court, making up ridiculous names and stories for them.
"Lord Buckwell keeps saying he’s very careful regarding his enemies and how they lay in the dark. I wonder if that’s why he’s always looking in two different directions." you'd whisper, and Baelor would snort with laughter.
"Don't be cruel," he'd say, but he'd be grinning.
He would rub his beard against your forehead. The scratch of it, the warmth, the familiar scent of him.
You'd tell him about your day and he'd listen with such focus, such genuine interest, like every mundane detail mattered. His thumb would brush against your hand every so often, a gentle reminder that he was there, that he was listening, that he cared.
When it was just the two of you, there was nothing that could press upon your happiness. No politics, no court intrigue, no weight of crowns and kingdoms. Just a man and his wife, talking in the dark, holding each other.
You'd squeeze his hand before sleep took you. Once like a code between you. I love you.
And he'd squeeze back. Twice. I love you too.
You could almost feel him even now, stirring under your hand. Almost real. Almost true. The phantom sensation of his thumb moving, of him squeezing your hand in response-
You opened your eyes at once.
This was your dream. This had to be. Your exhausted mind playing tricks, creating what you wanted to see because you couldn't bear the reality-
His thumb rose.
It lifted slightly, brushing against your hand, then settled back down.
You couldn't breathe. Your lungs had stopped working. Your heart had stopped beating. The whole world had stopped, frozen in this single impossible moment.
You blinked once to make sure this was real. Then twice more for good measure. Squeezing your eyes shut and opening them again.
His thumb moved again. Deliberately. Slowly. Brushing across your fingers in that old familiar gesture. I'm here. I'm with you.
A sound escaped you, something between a gasp and a sob.
You raised your head from his chest, your whole body trembling.
Your husband had the same gray color he'd worn for days like a death shroud. His face was still gaunt, still hollowed out by pain and starvation. But his eyes- they were open. Not fully. Just half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion. But open. Those eyes you loved, clouded and distant but they were there. Present. Aware and alive. Looking at you.
The corner of his mouth rose. Just slightly. Like he'd forgotten how to smile, like the muscles didn't quite remember how it worked. But he was trying.
You watched his throat work as he swallowed. Once. Twice. His lips parted. He said your name His voice was rough as gravel, barely audible, cracked from disuse, but his. Unmistakably his.
You raised yourself on your elbow, “Baelor. Gods.” you laughed. A sound that tore through you like you were mad. “Baelor!”
Tears streamed down your face, not tears of grief but of relief so overwhelming it was painful. You pressed your lips to his, before rising from the bed and going for the water with honey at his bedside. You helped him drink and watched as he tried to keep his eyes open. His chest was rising and falling with every breath he took, stronger now, the air surrounding you filling his lungs and bringing life back to him once more. You cried and your hands shook, but you forced them to be steady as you brought the chalice to his lips. You said his name like it was a chant.
He was alive.
•• ━━━━━••••━━━━━ ••
You opened the door in such a hurry the young maester jerked awake like you were a dragon come to devour him.
"Your Grace-" His young eyes widened in disbelief at your expression: wild-eyed, laughing, crying. He must have been caught in a dream, because he blinked at you stupidly, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
"Go forth to Prince Maekar's chambers and wake him at once." You grabbed hold of his arm, pulling him to his feet. Your voice was breathless, trembling with joy. "His brother has awakened."
The maester's mouth fell open. "Your Grace-"
"Go! Now! Run!"
He stumbled down the corridor at a sprint, his robes flying behind him, the chains around his neck rattling with his sprints in a way that would make Baelor laugh at your retelling of this moment.
You ran to your son's chambers, your feet barely touching the stone floor. You were laughing now, actually laughing, the sound echoing off the walls like bells, like birdsong, like music. Guards stared at you as you passed, confusion and hope warring on their faces.
You burst into Valarr's room without knocking. He shot upright in bed, reaching instinctively for the sword at his bedside, his eyes wild with alarm.
"Mother? What-"
"He's awake." The words tumbled out of you. "Your father. He's awake. He's alive."
Valarr stared at you. His face went through a dozen emotions in the space of a heartbeat: confusion, disbelief, desperate hope, joy. Then he was out of bed, not bothering with shoes or a proper shirt, just running past you in his nightclothes, his feet slapping against stone as he raced toward his father's chamber with you, hearts soaring.
•• ━━━━━••••━━━━━ ••
Valarr stood frozen in the doorway, his chest heaving from running, his face pale with hope and fear. Baelor had looked at him with such love, such pride, that Valarr had broken. He'd bent over his father, grinning even as tears poured down his face, his hands hovering over Baelor like he was afraid to touch him, afraid he might disappear.
"I'm not going anywhere." Baelor told his son.
Valarr had wept tears of joy then, his head resting on his father's shoulder, his whole body shaking with sobs.
Maekar had arrived after still in his nightshirt, his hair wild, his face slack with shock. He'd stood in the doorway of Baelor's chamber like a man seeing a ghost, frozen and unable to move, unable to believe. Then Baelor had smiled at him, that familiar warm smile, and said in his rough, weak voice: "Brother. Come here."
Maekar had crossed the room in three strides and collapsed at the bedside, taking Baelor's hand in both of his. No words came, he couldn't speak, could only stare at his brother with tears streaming down his face.
"You're stronger than you know." Baelor had whispered, his thumb brushing across Maekar's knuckles.
Baelor held Maekar's hand with one hand and stroked Valarr's hair with the other, murmuring soft reassurances while his own eyes glistened with unshed tears.
•• ━━━━━••••━━━━━ ••
The days that followed were a blur of tears and laughter and overwhelming relief. The recovery was slow. Painful. Nothing like the miraculous awakening that had preceded it.
Baelor slept for most of the first week, his body desperately trying to heal itself. When he was awake, he was groggy, confused, often asking the same questions over and over. "What day is it?" "How long have I been here?" "Where's Valarr?" You'd answer patiently each time, watching as the fog gradually lifted from his eyes.
The headaches came in waves. Some days were bearable, he could sit up, eat a little, speak in full sentences. Other days the pain was so severe he couldn't bear light or sound, could only lie in darkness with cold compresses on his head, his face tight with agony. On those days, Maester Yormwell dosed him with milk of the poppy, and you'd hold his hand as the drug pulled him under, watching his face finally relax into something like peace.
His balance was wrong. The first time he tried to stand- insisted on standing, despite everyone's protests, his legs had given out immediately. You and Valarr had caught him, eased him back to bed while he cursed in frustration. But he tried again the next day. And the day after that. Stubborn, determined, refusing to be defeated by his own body.
"I have to walk again. I have to stand." He'd growl to himself. Lips tight in frustration towards his own body.
"You're recovering," you'd remind him gently. "There's no shame in that."
He fought for every small victory, standing for a minute, then five, then ten. Walking across the room without support. Eating solid food without vomiting. Each achievement was hard-won and celebrated.
Maekar came every day. Sometimes he'd just sit quietly while Baelor slept, keeping vigil as if to make up for the three days he'd thought his brother was dying. Other times they'd talk in low voices, about what, you didn't know. You'd leave them their privacy, understanding they needed to work through what had happened in their own way.
Valarr practically moved into the chamber, sleeping in a chair by the bed, insisting on helping with everything. Baelor would wake to find his son watching him with fierce protectiveness, as if he could guard his father from death and crippledness itself through sheer determination.
The maesters marveled at his recovery. "Unprecedented," Yormwell said more than once, shaking his head in wonder. "By all rights, Your Grace should be dead. Or brain-damaged beyond recognition. The fact that you're speaking, walking, remembering... it's nothing short of miraculous."
"No excitement, Your Grace," Maester Yormwell had said firmly on the seventh day, when Baelor had tried to insist he was well enough to resume his duties. "None whatsoever. Your brain has suffered a grievous injury. Any undue strain, physical exertion, stress, or..." he paused delicately, his old face coloring slightly, "...marital relations... could cause the wound to worsen. Bleeding in the brain, seizures, even death."
Baelor had gone very still at that. "How long?"
"At least a month, Your Grace. Perhaps two. Until the wound is fully healed and the risk has passed."
You'd seen the frustration flash across Baelor's face, quickly masked. But he'd nodded. "I understand."
He was still weak, very weak.
Sometimes, in the night, you'd wake to find him touching his scar. His fingers tracing the line of it in the darkness.
"Does it hurt?" you'd ask.
"Not really." He'd pull his hand away. "Just... strange. Knowing how close it was."
You'd take his hand then, hold it tight. "But you're here. That's all that matters." He squeezed your hand.
"Yes." He'd turn to look at you, and even in the darkness you could see the warmth in his eyes. "I'm here."
By the end of the first month, Baelor could walk the corridors without assistance, though he still tired easily. His appetite had returned with a vengeance, he joked that he was making up for the days he'd been unable to eat. The color had returned to his face, the gray pallor replaced by something closer to his natural warmth.
The headaches persisted, but they were manageable now. He learned his limits, knew when to rest, when to push through, when to ask for help. It was hard for him, admitting weakness, but he was learning.
Valarr had stayed by his side through all of it, and the bond between father and son had deepened into something unbreakable. You'd watch them together, both of them laughing when they stumbled into each other. Your heart would swell with love and gratitude.
Maekar had changed too. The guilt would never fully leave him, you could see it in his eyes sometimes when he looked at his brother's scar. But he and Baelor had talked, really talked, and something had been mended between them. They were closer now than they'd ever been. Brothers in a way that transcended blood, bound together by shared trauma and forgiveness.
You couldn't let Baelor out of your sight for long. Even now, even knowing he was healing, you'd wake in the night in a panic, reaching for him to make sure he was still breathing. He'd wake too, feeling your hand on his chest, and he'd pull you close without a word. He understood. He had his own nightmares about that darkness he'd been lost in.
•• ━━━━━••••━━━━━ ••
The realm soon learned that Prince Baelor had survived his injury. Ravens flew to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms carrying the news. What should have been a funeral became a celebration. What should have been mourning became joy.
Some called it a miracle. Others called it the strength of dragon blood. The smallfolk whispered that the Gods themselves had intervened, that Baelor was too good, too necessary for the realm to lose.
The gardens of the Red Keep were alive with late summer. The air was thick with the scent of roses and jasmine, honeysuckle climbing the red stone walls in cascading waves of white and gold. Bees hummed lazily among the flowers. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear the sound of the sea, the eternal whisper of waves against the cliffs below.
You found Baelor sitting on a stone bench beneath the heart tree, his face tilted up to catch the afternoon sun. He'd regained most of his strength now, the gray pallor long gone from his skin. His hair had grown back around the scar, you could barely see it now unless you knew to look for it. He was dressed simply today, no armor or formal court attire. Just a loose linen tunic the color of cream, unlaced at the throat, and dark breeches. His feet were bare, you noticed with amusement, his boots discarded on the grass beside the bench.
He looked relaxed. At peace. More like himself than he had in months.
You approached quietly, your silk slippers making no sound on the garden path. Your gown was light grey that moved like water, the sleeves long and flowing, the neckline modest but elegant. The fabric was cool against your skin in the heat of the day. Your hair was loose, falling down your back in waves, held back from your face with a simple silver circlet.
Baelor's eyes remained closed as you arrived to stand by him, a smile spread across his face.
"I was wondering when you'd find me." he said.
"I always find you." You settled onto the bench beside him, close enough that your shoulders touched. The stone was warm from the sun, the heat seeping through your dress. "You're not supposed to be out here alone. Maester Yormwell said-"
"Maester Yormwell says a great many things." Baelor's tone was light and teasing, that soft voice of his made your heart flutter. "Most of which I've been ignoring for weeks now."
You turned to look at him properly. The sun caught in his hair. His beard was neatly trimmed with more grey in it than before, his eyes clear and focused. The haunted look that had lingered in them for so long was finally gone.
"How are you feeling?" you asked.
"Truly?" He considered the question, his hand finding yours and bringing it on his lap. His fingers laced through yours, warm and solid. "Better. Good, even." He squeezed your hand. "I'm alive. I'm here. I'm with you. What more could I ask the Gods for?"
"You could ask to never be hit with a mace again."
He laughed, deep and rich, a sound you'd thought you'd never hear again. "That too, yes. I'll add it to my prayers."
You sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the play of light through the leaves above, listening to the distant sounds of the castle, servants calling to each other, the cry of gulls wheeling overhead.
Then Baelor spoke, his voice carefully casual. "Maester Yormwell came to see me yesterday."
"Oh?" You could hear something in his voice, amusement and… anticipation? "And what did our good maester have to say?"
"He gave me a very thorough examination." Baelor's tone was innocent. Too innocent. "Declared me fully healed. Said I could resume all my normal activities without restriction."
You turned to look at him. His expression was perfectly solemn. "That's wonderful news."
"Indeed." He nodded seriously. "Though I confess, there was one thing he mentioned that confused me somewhat."
"What's that?"
"He used this word... excitement." Baelor's brow furrowed as if genuinely puzzled. "He said I was now permitted excitement again. That there was no more risk from... what did he call it? Undue strain?"
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. "I see."
"Then he said something very strange about marital relations being safe to resume." Baelor looked at you with wide, guileless eyes. "I didn't want to admit to the poor man that I had no idea what he was talking about. Truly.”
You nodded, replicating his feign naivety. “I see.”
He shook his head gravely. "I didn’t wish to ask him what he meant by that, It would have been embarrassing of me. He seemed to think it was quite important however."
"I'm sure he did."
"In fact, I'm beginning to worry. The injury may have affected my memory more than we thought. There seem to be a great many things I've forgotten. So many."
“Mhm.” You agreed with him.
“You know, I’ve looked at our Matarys as I put him to bed and wondered how he came to be in this world- Valarr too.” He pressed his shoulder to yours as you smiled at him. His eyes, impossibly soft, looking into yours to see the woman he had countless times.
His voice was a whisper that coiled in your belly with excitement “Mayhaps you can remind me?”
•• ━━━━━••••━━━━━ ••
authors note: sorry George and Ira, this is MY ending and it is, unfortunately for you both, canon. THANK U for reading, this was a long one. If you can write to me any words that you liked my story, it would make my whole day. take care <3
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