Reading your post fic author's note, wanted to ask if you plan on writing for Lyonel Baratheon too?👉🏻👈🏻
Hiii babe, im good hru??
Im getting ready to present my thesis soon and I am very busy with that, besides the stormbound, in the night fics, I truly have no idea what I could write about regarding my husband Lyonel Baratheon, if u have any ideas, send them my way!!!!
Queen Rhaenyra’s daughter learns the shape of a gilded cage. Her guard is a formidable man, stoic, unmoved, and far too easy to want. History is always doomed to repeat itself. (one-shot)
pairings: Ser Luthor Largent x (Targaryen) Reader
contents/warnings: yearning, princess x knight, age-gap ( • ᴗ - ) ✧, smut, loss of virginity (it gets saucy up in here),slow burn, everyone is of age and consenting, duty vs desire
words: 8k
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The Red Keep was aflame with petitioners. High and low, all came with requests, needs and expectations.
Your mother was incredibly busy balancing herself on a fragile peace. King’s Landing was won, but at what cost? Your brothers were killed, setting an emptiness in each of your souls.
On the very next day after King’s Landing opened its gates to your family, you took up half of your mother’s duties. She said you could help her, in the very brief moments you encountered her, you could help her. She never mentioned you speaking with the Queen’s voice, yet you thought it was expected of you.
You were her eldest after Jacaerys, fathered by Daemon Targaryen and rider of Vermithor. Wasn’t it to be understood that you were her heir? You rode the second most formidable dragon, its rider was the Old King before you. Surely, that would count for something in her eyes.
Yet, when she heard of you telling the maesters they could write to Dorne, asking for their soldiers and friendship in return for whatever terms they ask for. She chastised you. In front of that blubbering oaf Ulf and Addam. Ulf barely contained his laugh as your mother raised her voice at you and your father only looked at you with an expression you couldn’t possibly understand. She told you that you should behave. From now on, she doesn't need your help anymore. You fancied yourself a Visenya, but she’ll rather make a Helaena out of you.
Why couldn’t she see? Dorne could greatly aid you. Pushing against the Hightowers from Oldtown, you could attack them from both sides. She didn’t even wish to hear of your argument.
You wanted to ask whether she will proclaim you heir, now you’ll rather not say anything.
Vermithor was restless in the dragonpit tonight.
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You broke your fast the next morning on bacon, boiled eggs and warm honeycakes with your favorite berries inside of them.
Your maids brushed your hair and dressed you in your favorite scarlet dress, carefully beaded on your waist with two dragons. You read, listened to your ladies-in-waiting singing, then sat gazing upon the horizon like some great dragon of old. This was maddening, you were a woman grown, yet your mother confined you into your bedchamber like some spoiled child. You could hear the voices of the court outside, always asking, always questioning. You wondered what the septon might say to your mother crowning herself queen after he already crowned Aegon-
A knock on the door interrupted your thoughts. Your father’s voice came from behind it. You allowed him to enter.
He wasn’t alone.
“Good morrow.” He came to press a kiss on your cheek. “How has this day treated you?”
You didn’t need to answer as he already saw the displeasure in your eyes.
“Better to not answer, aye? I’ve brought you someone- A princess needs a guard.”
You didn’t even look to see the Gold Cloak standing behind him near the door.
“I have no wish for it. My Ladies are company enough, kepa.”
Your father had that disappointed look in his eyes again. He didn’t wish to argue with you once more. Sometimes you wondered if you reminded him too much of himself and your mother.
“Order from your Queen, tala. I do not wish to make a fuss of this. Your ladies won’t help you with anything if some rogue guard wants to kill himself a dragon.”
You turned your back with a thud on the ornate chair.
“Tell the Queen her thoughts are appreciated.”
He squeezed your shoulder before shutting the door behind you. You could feel the man’s presence in the room, interrupting any womanly peace you found amidst your ladies.
You turned your head to the side to address him.
“What is your name, Ser?”
“Luthor, Your Grace.” His voice was strong and deep. You couldn’t care enough to turn around and look the Golden Cloak in the eyes as you addressed him.
“You can exit now, Ser Luthor. A guard should sit outside the door, not inside.” You couldn’t fault the man, Gold Cloaks were merely the guards of the city, not protectors of Princesses.
“Yes. Your Grace.” He left.
You dismissed the other two women, as your favorite lady, Meredith, came to your side. She was of age to you, and followed you from Dragonstone to King’s Landing, even if she was born of a lesser house, you regarded her as your best friend.
She joined you in silence as you gazed upon the sea.
“What are you thinking of?” She asked you. Somewhere in the room, the wood from the fire crackled and sent sparks in the air.
“Nothing.” You shrugged. What if you were the one who went with Jace? He would know what to do. What to tell you so you could relax. Nothing could bring him back now.
You had to stop thinking about what was, “Addam looks quite handsome, don’t you think?” She blushed profusely, trying to mask it with a laugh.
“You’ve turned to matchmaking now?” Her copper hair shone in the sun, and her blue eyes turned bashful as she tried to shrug off your comment.
“Yes… I think I shall take up singing after. I think becoming a traveling bard would suit me.”
“Stop it.” He held your hand on the table “It’s not all bad…your mother will come to her senses and all will be well. I heard talk of a tourney-“
“She’s thinking of tourneys? Now? What else have you heard?”
“Nothing, just rumors. She has yet to appoint a Queensguard you see.”
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Sleep found you hard, tossing and turning and unable to stop thinking about your mother. About your future. There were still alliances to be forged. She could marry you to someone who could actually help you and you wouldn’t mind it, you would do anything to see the realm at peace and your family on the throne. Even if in your heart you wished to find happiness with someone of your own choosing.
You took the heavy covers off of you as you stood from the bed.
Your nightshift brushed the floor with each step while you padded over to the heavy wooden door. You slowly opened it and looked outside, the night embraced the Red Keep with its columns and their torches blazing and crackling into the night air. You wished to wander the halls a bit, discover it and-
“Your Grace.“
“Seven Gods!” Your heart jumped to your throat.
“Apologies, Your Grace, I didn’t wish to frighten you.”
You completely forgot about the other column your father has anointed with your protection. You finally looked at him properly in the darkness of the great hall. The torches allowed for enough light that you could finally see his features. Black eyes and a heavy beard, with almost perfect curls on his head.
“It’s alright.” You tried to retain your composure “I must apologize, ser Lothar. I didn’t see you there.”
“Ser Luthor, Your Grace.” You saw how quickly he remembered that correcting a member of the royal family was not something anyone like him should ever do.
“Ser Luthor, yes. Sorry.” Here you were, in an awkward circle of apologetics with this man.
“Her Grace, the Queen, has forbidden you leaving the room. I am afraid I can’t let you leave.”
“I didn’t wish to leave… I merely wanted,” What did you want?
His eyes masked a hint of amusement, with the smallest smirk upon his face. Your heart dropped into a pit in your stomach. And suddenly you felt as if you were a child again.
“Oh, nevermind.” You shut the door and returned to your gilded cage.
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The next day brought the same stale quality. Your dragon tapestries only made you long for Vermithor and the sky he could offer you. He was as restless as you, and as restrained.
Your ladies brushed your hair and braided it into the custom of your house after you were dressed.
You told them to bring the guard inside as you dismissed them. He stood almost as broad as the door as he took off his helmet and bowed his head, the sun filtered behind his stature. His gold cloak hung about his shoulders, his gaze set as to not make eye contact, as that would be unbecoming of him.
This Luthor was a formidable man. You couldn’t help but remark at how much he looked like a soldier.
Your hands ached for something, and while your mother locked you in your chambers, she didn’t say you couldn’t have fun. You wanted to know more about this guard of yours.
“Your Grace.”
“I presume you know how to fight.”
He nodded, almost skeptical as to why you’d ask such a question “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Good.” You pushed the chair behind you and stood to gaze up at him. “Can you teach me?”
“I’m afraid not, Your Grace.” His answer came quickly and definitively.
Your smile dropped in an instant. You knew it was a wager, but hidden behind the door and with no one to ask or too busy to care about you now, it seemed like one you dared to make.
“You disobey me?” It was easier to look at him when his eyes weren’t upon you. “Look at me.”
His eyes went to your face and all courage left you.
“Your Grace, I was ordered to guard you.”
“And?”
“Not strike you.”
“You shan’t strike me.” You wanted to bring yourself more arguments in your favor. But all manner of thoughts escaped your mind as you looked at him.
“That is not a gamble I am willing to take.”
Desperation dug her claws into you. You wanted to scream and plead. Run out the door before he could catch you.
Maybe you could.
You were in the middle of the room, with him towering over you even if he was quite far.
In the back of your mind you knew it was for your own good, but this was cruel and unjust. Your mother couldn’t possibly handle you gone as well and you understood her in that regard. But couldn’t she see your desperation, doesn’t she think of you? How could she chain you up like this? You're not some dog.
You looked at the door, five steps. Slightly to the right of him and out. That’s all. You made a step to the right, and he noticed at once what you wanted to do.
“Don’t-“
You made a break for it. The floor heavy under your feet. One, two, three- a hand went to your shoulder, then he went before the door and you. You couldn’t possibly go or push past him.
Your father already knew, somehow, maybe, that you would want to escape. He knew what he was doing while appointing a man the size of a tree as your guard.
“Please…I don’t want to be here anymore“
“I apologize- I cannot let you leave.”
You felt a rush of tears to your eyes as you turned away from him.
“Leave me then. Go.”
You refused supper, deciding to chew on your current situation and state. You didn’t want to see anyone.
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When dawn broke, you refused everyone, deciding to dress yourself and brush your hair under the soft sun escaping through your windows. You settled with a book on the table overlooking the sea. It was a book about the customs of the Free Cities, even if you read it twice already, it seemed as interesting as the first time. You have wanted to visit them desperately since you were small.
Maybe when you wouldn’t be imprisoned.
Someone else entered, without announcement. You knew who it was at once.
“You think I want you to run and fly off to Gods know where- to press my claim and fight my war?”
You and your mother had been locked into another argument. It started softly at first, with her wanting to know why you got the idea to write to Dorne and you insisting that your plans were better than hers. If only she would take heed of them. Dorne couldn’t be conquered, they needed terms and acceptance and while granting them that, you could sweep the Hightower forces off their feet.
“And you wonder why I must bar you inside this room!?”
“If it was Jacaerys, you would let him sit on your small council and speak with the Queen’s voice!”
You wanted to be strong, not to have your voice break and tears threatening to fall.
“You are not Jacaerys!” That was the final phrase uttered in the room. A stillness fell upon you both. Rhaenyra softened after what she said and after the look on your face.
“You are my life…I cannot lose you too. Please, obey me. As your Queen and as your mother, obey me.”
You decided you didn’t wish to see anyone that day afterwards, deciding to shed your tears in your chamber, alone. He probably heard everything your mother said, sitting outside the room in his armor.
Someone knocked. You told them the princess is not requiring any visitors. They knocked again and you begrudgingly allowed them to enter.
It was the voice of your guard.
“Your Grace, pardon my interruption.” Interruption from tears and despair, you thought. With your back to him and a pillow closely tucked in your arms.
“What is it?” You lifted your head at once.
He was standing in the middle of the room. Two wooden swords at his side. He dismissed his armor and cloak for a simple black woolen tunic and trousers. He still looked as big as a carriage without the armor.
You tried to make sense of what you were seeing, then your heart soared and you quickly wiped your tears and tried to fix your braid. You came to stand in front of him. He looked at your face. If he noticed the redness about your eyes, he gave no sign of it. You wanted to wear pants as well, so you quickly sent him away as you changed then beckoned him back inside. The shirt was too long on you, and your pants had to be tied at the waist so as to not slip down.
Now that would be a sight.
You looked into a mirror and decided you looked as if you were a squire stealing his knight’s clothes. It would have to do.
His hands dwarfed the hilt of the practice sword, calloused across the palms and marked by old white scars. You found yourself wondering where the scars upon his hands had come from. Battle? The City Watch? Training? Before you realized it, your thoughts had wandered so far from your quarrel with your mother that the ache in your chest had quieted.
“Your footing is wrong.”
“You would be dead before you knew it.”
“That is not humanly capable of happening.”
Seeing your father and brothers practice, you truly thought it was as easy as it looked.
You saw an opening as he dodged your blow, and your sword went almost to his chest. At once he raised his and threw yours across the floor.
The practice weapon began to spin around the chamber until it landed in the corner. And struck the wall.
“Fetch it.”
“Again?”
“Yes. Again.”
Ser Luthor had a practice of throwing your sword with his own to the edge of the room whenever he caught you gaining too much confidence and making you get it. In truth, this was the most fun you’ve had in months.
No, years.
You laughed whenever he would retaliate and strike you, as his blow would come so hard and when it made contact with your skin it landed as softly as summer’s kiss. It almost tickled you. He seemed to enjoy it too, a smile breaking upon his face whenever you laughed and scurried away.
After a few hours, you started to get the gist of the easy movements he made you do. And could thoroughly enjoy the lessons. Whenever he would throw your sword across the floor you would ask:
“Again?” And sigh dramatically.
“Again.” He would answer, solemn as ever, with the slightest of smiles and his chest rising to catch his breath.
You realized after a few hours, as the sun was beginning to set across Blackwater Bay, bathing the royal chamber in orange and red, that each opening in his stance existed because he allowed you to believe it was there. He was formidable indeed.
Either that, or you were just incredibly bad at sword fighting.
He sat himself down next to you, the day’s exertion finally showing upon him. Damp curls clung to his brow, and the sleeves of his tunic were darkened with sweat at the forearms. The scent of worn leather lingered between you, softened by the jasmine climbing beyond the balcony doors.
You poured both of you water from the ewer on the small table next to the balcony.
You drank the first cup, then drank another.
“Thank you.” You looked at him as you rubbed your hands, already forming callouses from how tightly you gripped the sword.
“The honor is mine, Your Grace. Can’t say I ever taught a princess to fight before.”
“Now you can.” You asked the question before he could leave you once more.
“Will you be back tomorrow?”
He looked at you and nodded.
“As my Princess wishes.”
“Is this something…you want as well?” The thought of becoming a burden on him somehow made you miserable inside.
“It is my honor to be your guardian, Your Grace.” He folded his hands upon his lap.
However, you already had a guardian. Mightier than a mountain. His armor was stronger than Valyrian Steel and his fire burned brighter than the sun. With wings like a hurricane and bellows like thunder.
He longed for you each day.
“I already have a guardian, Ser Luthor.” He looked at you quizzically.
“He sits a few feet below the ground in the Dragonpit.” You smiled as you remembered your dragon. Vermithor was your pride and glory.
He smiled softly and the corner of his eyes wrinkled.
“I have heard the smallfolk petition Her Grace to keep their sheep from the dragons.”
You scoffed, yet it was light hearted.
“Vermithor would sooner swallow an aurochs whole.”
“Well we do have something in common.”
“And what is that?”
“I prefer beef as well.”
You laughed and he smiled. He looked the tiniest bit surprised at his joke, like he was completely serious about his statement and didn’t intend for it to be funny.
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Routine set in the next day. When all your handmaids were sent away and gossip turned into wooden swords.
Again and again he disarmed you. And you tried once more, every lesson tucked away into your mind to somehow make him be the one to get his sword. You never could disarm him however.
You would sit facing the door to the balcony once more and questions fluttered into your mind. Each more curious than the last. What was his story?
“Where did you get that?” He had a long scar stretching from his thumb to somewhere up his arm.
“Flea Bottom.” His answers always came short and to the point.
“Did you hear anything interesting from Her Grace?”
“No, my Princess. Just talk of soldiers and logistics.”
“Do you have someone?”
It came faster than you could stop it. And you immediately regretted it, wishing somehow to catch the words before they left your mouth.
He seemed almost surprised, for the briefest second. He re-adjusted himself on the chair. Black hair catching the setting sun.
“No. Your Grace.”
Immediately embarrassed, you tried to grasp at what dignity you had left.
“I merely wondered.”
“I understand, Your Grace. No harm done.” You wanted to bury your head in shame in the ground. What madness had possessed you? He was neither your friend nor one of your ladies. He was your sworn guard, a man grown, weathered by years you had not yet lived.
You dismissed him soon after and lingered in your bath until the water had gone cool.
Gods… what had possessed you?
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The following day, you resolved not to ask another question.
No more curiosity, only lessons. He was the commander of the City Watch, not some young boy you could fancy. Besides, he wouldn’t even think about being with you like that. It would be unbecoming of one of such low birth.
Rumor had reached your chambers that Daeron had arrived within the Red Keep, and the news lifted your spirits enough that you thought you might finally give Ser Luthor a proper challenge.
Instead, you fought worse than before.
You missed openings you would have seen yesterday. Your footing faltered. Your grip slipped. More than once, you found your attention lingering upon the broadness of his shoulders or the certainty with which he carried himself, all while taking great care not to meet his dark eyes.
Your sword clattered across the floor once again.
“Fetch it.”
You obeyed in silence and as you bent to retrieve it, a miserable thought settled over you.
This was never what he wanted.
It was probably your father who urged him to busy your time. So you wouldn’t think to escape again. He was Captain of the City Watch. A commander of men. A soldier whose days belonged on the streets of King’s Landing, not shut away in a princess’s chambers humoring her childish whims. He had never asked about Vermithor, nor your books, nor why your eyes had been red the day he first entered your chambers with the swords.
You rested the practice sword against the table instead of returning to him.
“Is something amiss, Your Grace?” He tried to lean down and catch your eyes.
“I am sorry. It seems I am not myself today. You can leave. I’m sorry to keep you from your duties, Ser Luthor.”
“Pardon me, Your Grace?” His voice echoed through the grand room, even if he never raised his tone.
“You can go back to guarding the door.” You didn’t want to have tears prick at your eyes, but it seems that lately all you’ve encountered were disappointments.
“This was all a childish folly.” You turned your gaze towards him, “I am truly sorry to keep you from your true duties.”
“Pardon me, Your Grace, but you are my duty. Your father commanded as such.”
“Yes, but that is not what you want and I don’t wish to impose that on you.” You muttered, already wishing you could forget all about this and him. About what you felt when you looked into his eyes.
“With respect, Your Grace.” He paused before continuing: “It was me who asked King Daemon for the wooden swords.”
“What?”
“I believed it would do Your Grace good.”
You remained in silence, staring at him dumbfounded. He did this for you. He was the one who asked your father for this. Yet, he didn’t say that. He made a motion with his head for the sword on the table and you picked it up immediately.
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As Meredith joined you for supper, you found yourself speaking of Ser Luthor more often than you intended.
“Aye,” she said around a mouthful of lamb. “He is a handsome man. In a rather rugged sort of way.”
You frowned into your cup. Sweetened wine already turning sour at how quickly she could read you.
“That is not what I said.”
“No,” Meredith replied. “But it is what you meant.”
You toyed with the chased silver handle of your goblet.
“I merely told you he teaches well.”
She fixed you with a hard look, even if you knew it was light hearted.
“You speak of him as though you’ve known him half your life.”
“I do not.”
“You’ve spoken of nothing else since I sat down.”
Heat rose to your cheeks and took hold of your ears.
“I will not be lectured, Meredith.”
“I am not lecturing you.” Her voice softened. “I am warning you.”
She set down her knife.
“The court feeds upon gossip. A princess spending hours alone with the Captain of the City Watch…” She shook her head. “It will not matter whether anything happened. They will say it did.”
“Nothing shall happen.”
“You should hope Her Grace never hears of these lessons.”
“My mother is busy.”
Your mother herself had once favored a certain Gold Cloak. If the Queen came demanding answers, you already knew what you would tell her.
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“I heard Vermithor grew restless in the Dragon Pit.”
Ser Luthor had already set aside the practice swords, though his sleeves remained rolled to his forearms. The afternoon’s training had left loose curls clinging to his brow, and the fading sun caught the edges of them with copper light. He was handsome. So handsome in fact you almost forgot what he said after he said it.
“He’ll be fine.” You toyed with the Valyrian bracelet on your wrist. An old gift from your father.
“Would you like to meet him someday?”
He looked at you and smiled softly. Your belly was restless under his gaze. Did he think you were beautiful?
Why are you asking such things?
“-I would much rather prefer to not be burned to bone.” You didn’t catch the first part of what he said, only that his mouth was moving and he seemed larger than life next to you, legs stretched out in front of him.
“He won’t burn you. Not while I am there. He can saddle two, you know?” You wanted to show him something that you were good at. Truly good at.
He chuckled and looked away for a moment before saying: “It would be my honor, Your Grace. One day.”
“Yes, one day.”
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The next day brought another lesson. Another foot to be corrected from his place and movements to be shown. The balcony allowed for a cool breeze to drift through. Sea gulls called out for each other somewhere in the distance.
After you were done, with your arms sore and legs heavy, Ser Luthor remarked from his seat next to you:
“You are getting better, Your Grace.”
“Yes, I only had to pick the sword a hundred times, not a hundred and fifty times.”
“A good swordsman is trained upon years of practice. Do not be so harsh upon yourself.”
“Tell me, Ser Luthor. What have you heard from the corridors of the Red Keep?”
He gave a deep breath and you could see him deciding if he should tell you this.
“What is it?”
“Not much, Her Grace asks frequently about your youngest brothers, many think it’s because she wants to call them back from Pentos.”
“Does she?”
She wants to make little Aegon her heir. You were sure of that. A woman has been named heir and look at the ruin it brought.
Still, you felt an indescribable sadness and…disappointment.
You changed the subject before he could try to make it better.
“Have you ever visited the Free Cities, Ser?”
“No, Your Grace. Have you?”
“No. But I have lost myself countless times in books about their customs and ways. I dearly want to visit Myr and Pentos, as well as Lys and Braavos. To see the great titan standing tall.”
You found yourself imagining him and you on a dock yard in Pentos, both scorched from the sun and smiling.
What has gotten into you?
“Would you ever wish to go?”
“The thought has never crossed my mind, Your Grace.”
“After all this is over. Would you like to come with me?”
He shook his head and tried to break the news as softly as he could. He hesitated a bit before saying:
“With all due respect, Your Grace… my place is with my men.”
Of course it was. You decided to put on a brave face and mask your disappointment.
“Then, I shall leave once this is over. Get on the Bronze Fury and fly hard and away.” You imagined the great white walls of Lys standing tall, its people gaping at the size of Vermithor and its Magister toasting you in his grand hall of white marble as a daughter of the ancient freehold.
“Maybe I’ll travel to Volantis and see Valyria’s last daughter. Then I’ll go south to Sothoryos and see the great apes rumored to walk the land. Maybe I can glimpse Valyria and the Smoking Sea and look upon Asshai by the Shadow from afar-“
You stopped your daydreaming.
Ser Luthor looked at you with an expression you couldn’t quite name. His eyes soft and the ghost of a smile on his lips towards your dreams of escaping to grand Esoos.
“Then…Your Grace shall be dearly missed.”
“I wouldn’t be so quick to think that.” You looked at your hands, not bearing to look upon him and see his eyes.
“At most, I’ll aid my mother in her claim and marry a Lord. Then I’ll be back in a bedchamber, sprouting his children and taking care of his household.”
You felt your eyes sting, that would be your future, not fighting, not jousting nor seeking glory upon a battlefield. Soon you’ll be another daughter of a ruler in the annals of history, no one important enough to remember.
“Duty rarely asks what makes us happy.” He tilted his head to catch your eyes.
“I want to decide my own happiness.”
“Would traveling the world bring you happiness, Your Grace?”
Yes.
If you were with me.
We could cross the Narrow Sea together and never look back. You could teach me sword fighting properly instead of sending my blade skittering across the yard. We could wander the painted streets of Lys and lose ourselves amongst the markets of Pentos, dine beneath magisters’ gilded ceilings and watch the Titan of Braavos rise above the sea. I would take you upon Vermithor’s back and we could watch the whole world be swallowed in his bronze wings. Grand castles would look like nothing but children’s toys.
I could kiss you where no one knew our names, nor cared enough to learn them. I could marry you where no one cared that you were not born a lord. I could have your children, with hair as black as your own. Maybe some could have a silver streak from me to remind the world of the might of their mother’s homeland, long scattered to ash by The Ruin. We could be free.
“I think so.” You answered him.
He nodded slowly, his gaze lingering upon the floor before finding yours once more.
“Then I hope Your Grace finds the life she dreams of.”
He looked sad, though you could only be imagining it.
“What do you dream of, Ser Luthor?”
He pondered a bit on your question before answering.
“Peace.”
“Everyone wants that, tell me true.” You ardently wished to hear more from him. What were his hopes and dreams?
“Your Grace, I must admit I’ve never thought about it.”
“How come?”
“When I was a boy in Flea Bottom, I dreamt of warm bread and boots without holes in their soles. When I was older, I hoped to earn a place amongst the Gold Cloaks. Later, I hoped to command good men.”
He looked at his hands for a moment before lifting his eyes to yours.
“I have lived a life far greater than any I ever imagined for myself.”
He wasn’t dreaming of you, nor about what you could offer him. That was a foolish, childish thought.
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You didn’t see him the next day. There was no knock on the door from him, nor any wooden swords for practice. You paced the room and wondered why.
Surely he will come, surely.
He hadn’t.
You asked your ladies if they have heard word of him and Meredith told you he was dismissed from your guard. Your heart sank in your chest.
You didn’t have to ask who did it.
You left the room the following morning, with a fire under your skin. The guard your mother had placed in Luthor’s stead didn’t argue when you, quite loudly, told him to be quiet.
You didn’t know Maegor’s Holdfast well enough but you knew that the grand doors in front of the long corridor you rounded the corner on could only lead to the chamber meetings being held.
You tamed the Bronze Fury at two-and-ten, the second most formidable dragon in the known world. You were a Princess of the Blood, not some child hiding beneath her mother’s skirts.
You pushed the grand doors at once.
They were all locked in a debate, but every eye turned towards you at once. Your father called out your name, happy he could see you.
The Sea Snake and the Lady Mysaria bowed as you came closer. Your gaze was locked only unto one person.
“Why did you remove him?”
Your mother looked dumbfounded, eyes searching your face, “Who?”
“Ser Luthor. You removed him from service.”
She just watched you.
“Answer me.”
“I haven’t removed him.” She looked at Daemon and back again at you.
“Ser Luthor asked for the dismissal of his duties to you and I granted his wish.”
You paced the floor once more in your chambers, the tapestries on the wall showing great conquests only sought to further your despair. Your kind were conquerors and here you were, reduced to a sobbing mess. He didn’t want to see you, he had no wish to see you again. Was it something you said? Something you did?
In truth, you thought he warmed up to you as you did to him.
The day turned into night slowly so you lit up your chamber’s candles and fireplace for warmth and light.
It had been hours since you sent for him, with each dragging harder than the last.
There was a knock on the door and by the sound of it, you knew who it was.
You straightened your back, rubbed your eyes clean of tears, and bid him to enter. He wasn’t dressed as you knew him to do. He was in full armor, with the golden cloak atop his shoulders. He was probably ready to join his men on the city streets. You stopped him from that.
He bowed before you, “Your Grace.”
“Ser Luthor.”
He didn’t say anything else, awaiting your instructions as if nothing had happened between you nor any conversations had been talked. You came at once next to him. Close enough you could smell leather, steel, and the faint musk of him beneath it.
His eyes were locked unto the floor, those dark eyes you loved.
You loved him and you didn’t care if it was a flight of fancy. You wanted to love him and he didn’t want you. The least he could do was offer you answers, you deserved that much.
“Why did you ask to leave?”
His eyes were locked on the floor.
“Why? If you disapprove of me so, you could be a man and tell me.”
His eyes returned to your face and they were empty of any warmth.
You whispered, tears threatening to fall again: “Why did you leave?”
He finally mustered up the words to say: “I am trying to remember my place, Your Grace.”
His voice was that of the commander you remembered him as from the beginning.
“And what is that place? Taking hands off criminals? I thought you were happy here…with me.”
“I was happy, Your Grace.” He swallowed hard before his next words. “But I began to wish for things that were never mine to wish for.”
He looked over your face and he looked mournful. Some part of you knew what he meant, yet you asked anyway,
“Like what?” You whispered. It seemed that all anger had left you, leaving only a gaping pit in your stomach under his gaze.
His eyes settled over your lips.
You don’t remember if it was him that leaned down or you raised yourself up, but his lips were on yours and he tasted sweet. His beard slightly scraped against your skin, rough enough to make your skin tingle. One gloved hand came to rest uncertainly at your waist, almost trembling, before thinking better of it and falling away almost at once.
His breastplate was hard and cold compared to his tender kisses. Your lips parted and met again, each quiet sound of him and you traveling to your belly and lower still.
You brought your arms uncertainly to rest around his neck as he leaned down, to kiss you better.
When he finally drew back, it was only enough to rest his forehead against yours.
You could feel his breath upon your lips. The fire sent sparks into the air somewhere behind him. The sea to the left of you both crashed against the cliffs below, sending its song to your bedchamber.
“I am sorry,” he whispered, with his eyes closed.
You did not know whether he sought forgiveness from you, your mother in her bedchamber, or the gods above. And you didn’t care. You kissed him again, emboldened by the fire in your belly and the man in front of you.
He moved ahead and you stepped back before your back was brought to the wall, the cold stone hard against your dress and body. Luthor was everywhere and close enough you could taste him with every kiss, yet he wasn’t close enough.
Your hands traveled to his soft curls that you wished to run your hands into time and time again.
You had to be quiet, the guard was sitting outside your door. He couldn’t stay long.
This couldn’t be all. You decided at once.
His kisses turned desperate, mayhaps he came upon the same realization. His lips moved to your cheek, then your neck as his beard tickled you. You had to stop yourself before you let out a sound.
So this was what the books you read talked about during all those nights spent in the dark, with only a small candle to let you see the words on the page. You almost felt ready to write of it yourself, if only words could ever come close to the feeling of him.
His hands remained braced against the wall on either side of you as he pressed open mouthed kisses on your neck. He groaned as you let out a whisper of a moan and your legs felt like giving out under you. Luthor didn’t press himself against you, nor allow his hands to roam as freely as you thought he wished to. Your hands never left his hair and when he finally broke apart, they moved to the sides of his face.
His skin was warm, with a delightful redness across his cheeks.
“I…” He debated kissing you again, as his eyes returned to your lips, “I must go. I apologize, this shouldn’t have happened.”
“Will you come back tomorrow-”
“Yes.”
He answered before you could continue and your heart felt full. You were already thinking of how you could get rid of the guard outside your bedchamber as he took a step back, eyes never leaving your face.
His hands covered his crotch immediately and your ears and face felt on fire even more so than before.
“I…Good night, Your Grace.” He departed and the great door to your bedchamber swung under his heavy arm.
You heard his footsteps disappear down the hall.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘˖*᯽*˖⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The next day you told your ladies to not bother you tomorrow or later that evening, they helped you wash and get ready for bed with knowing smiles you had no wish to question. You dismissed your guard as well, forever.
The day stretched on with the expectation of who will come to you later in the evening.
He would be here, with you.
The chamber was quiet, save for the fire cracking softly in the hearth and the sea singing somewhere below the cliffs. Moonlight spilled pale upon the floor.
You sat gazing into the fire, then you moved to the balcony. Somewhere below, the Gold Cloaks under his command were moving.
You blew out the candles, leaving only the fireplace for warmth.
There was a knock on the door and you bid him to enter. He looked almost nervous and uncertain, a clear change from the man who kissed you yesterday.
Luthor had no armor on, just the simple clothes he usually wore beneath it.
“Do you wish me to leave, Your Grace?” You were both whispering as you talked.
“No. Where did you get that idea?“
He merely looked at you, deciding if this was wise. It wasn’t, but you didn’t care.
The light from the fireplace bathed the room in the softest of lights, you could see him, and that was the most important for you.
He looked put together, more so than usual.
You moved to pour wine for you both, and he was close enough you could smell the soap and cold air still clinging to his skin. His fingers touched yours as you passed him the goblet.
“I must ask, is this something you wish for as well? And don’t come telling me about honor and respect.” He smiled before he took a deep breath.
“I do not wish to offend Your Grace, but I have wished and thought of it often. More often than a man in my place should.”
Luthor didn’t drink, only looked at you as you blushed. You wanted to kiss him again, and it seemed like he read your mind in that regard. He looked so impossibly handsome and as his lips collided with yours the wine was all but forgotten.
With your pulse in your ears you started walking backwards toward the bed. This time, he had enough courage to grab your waist with his strong hands while your hands rested on his face.
He bent down and lifted your nightshift high enough so he could rest comfortably between your legs. You could feel him there, hard and wanting, and your face burned at the knowledge that his longing had a body too.
He braced himself near your head as he trailed kisses down your neck. He was entirely too dressed for this. So you softly tried to get his tunic off, he lifted himself above you on his knees and quickly discarded it somewhere before returning to your neck and lips with hot kisses.
“When…when was the first time you’ve thought about us this way?” Hearing him say it would bring another type of pleasure. Luthor’s beard almost tickled you whenever he pressed his lips to your neck.
He broke apart only to speak before returning to your skin.
“When you thought-” He kissed you again near the middle of your neck, “-that I didn’t want to teach you.” He whispered against your skin.
Luthor continued before you could ask, “I had to imagine your hand instead of mine that night.”
He pushed his hips forward into yours as you moaned at the feeling of him.
“Then again the following night, and the night after.” His kisses traveled to your ear and you’ve never heard anything better, “I couldn’t wait to leave so I could imagine you like this.”
He looked into your eyes, curls wild and with the same redness your own face harbored.
You pressed another quick kiss to his lips before he lifted your dress entirely, you would be lying if you didn’t turn a bit shy under his gaze. His lips traveled lower, between your breasts and lower.
The air touched your bare skin and made you shiver. His hands moved to your knees, rough and warm, his thumbs smoothing small circles there as if to calm you.
You gasped as his lips touched you between your legs. This was infinitely better than anything in the world, you decided at once. His tongue moved again and again, steady as any lesson he had ever given you.
Whenever he made a sound of pleasure it only served to push against his face. Your fingers flew to his hair as you tried to find something to hold on to. You felt a coil wrapping tightly in your stomach and you wished to pull away, close your legs, even if it felt good. It felt better than good.
You squeezed your eyes tightly shut as he groaned and continued, his hair was soft in your hands. As you finally came undone, he stopped.
You stared at the canopy ahead trying to catch your breath. Hopefully the sounds leaving your mouth were not loud, though you couldn’t count on it. He rose up to kiss you again and his lips and beard tasted of you.
While you were trying to catch your breath, he removed his shirt and pants entirely, leaving him in the clothes he was born in. Your eyes traveled down his chest, all muscle and scars to the hair leading down between his legs.
The feeling of his skin on yours made you dizzy. He pushed a hand down between your bodies and you immediately braced.
It felt queer, a mixture of pain and discomfort coupled with the remaining pleasure you felt mere minutes earlier.
He groaned whenever he would give a thrust of his hips, yet he couldn’t enter you.
“Breathe.” He whispered against your face, as tears threatened to fall, “It’ll hurt just a moment.”
It did hurt, sharp and strange, enough that your nails dug into his sides when you both gasped. He stopped at once, breathing hard against your cheek, though you could feel how much it cost him to remain still.
The pain began to subside as he gently moved.
He kissed your cheeks and lips and muttered praises, “That’s it. You’re alright.”.
The bed creaked whenever his hips moved, but the sound only furthered both of your pleasure. You lifted your legs higher up his body as he picked up his pace. You tried to be quiet, truly, you did. The only sound was the bed, while you and your lover’s moans were merely whispered in each other’s mouths.
You’ve never felt more full, nor more alive. You wanted this to last forever and ever, have him on top of you and his heat on yours.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck as he continued, harder, then slower as to not spill himself too quickly.
Luthor’s breath came hot against your skin, uneven now, no longer the steady breathing of the commander you had known. His hands remained beside your head, gripping the sheets instead of you, as though he feared what he might do if he let himself touch you freely.
It was no longer pain now. Not truly. It was pressure and heat and the strange feeling of him filling a place inside you that had always been empty before. You wanted him closer than this somehow.
His breathing was becoming heavier and his thrusts more erratic, the bed creaked in protest continuously and you prayed no guards were patrolling outside at this hour. Your hands traveled to his shoulders and held him there. Luthor started moaning, sweet sounds traveling to your ears and between your legs. You felt him push so hard it almost felt like he was in your stomach, but the slight pain only furthered your pleasure.
Luthor’s restraint began to leave him in pieces. His sounds were quiet, almost broken, sweet against your ear and low in your belly. You whispered his name again and again, as if saying it could keep him there with you forever.
You thought, for one foolish, desperate moment, that you wanted all of him.
His hand went between your bodies again and he furrowed his brows shut as he came. Luthor kissed your lips again, before he went to clean the last part of him off of you.
The light from the fireplace was almost gone by now. You stared at the canopy above you, a smile on your lips.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘˖*᯽*˖⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
He came beneath the covers to embrace you and you’ve never felt happiness like this. His thumb rubbed circles on your hand as the sea continued singing down below.
“I want you here tomorrow as well.” Your voice was slightly hoarse.
“What if I get you with child?” He moved his head to sit better on the pillows behind you.
“Then I will marry you before my belly has time to grow.”
“Your mother might object to that.” You could hear the smile on his face.
“We will be quicker than her.”
A chuckle escaped him.
“You speak as if it is so simple.”
“It is.”
“It is not.”
“Then we will make it simple.”
He said nothing for a while. His hand tightened around yours, just enough for you to feel it.
“You are very sure of me.”
“I am.”
Your eyes had already begun to drift shut, ready to dream about him once more.
‘I love you,’ he said, so quietly, as if believing you already asleep.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘˖*᯽*˖⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
author's note: Lyonel Baratheon I can't believe you made it into HOTD as well!!! The first time I saw this man, I was like 'hold up a sec, lemme get a better look' and gah damn he sexy lol. This was a long one, so I'm sorry for that, but I really like this idea of knight x princess. If you find it in your heart to let me know you enjoyed it, I would be very happy. Other than that, have a great day ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡, take care and know you can always write to me
Starlight is my favorite Maekar fic of all time! I've reread it so many times. I absolutely loved their dynamic. I'm such a sucker for stories where a marriage starts off formal and emotionally distant but slowly changes over time. I also got the feeling that Maekar started caring about the reader long before she began to see him differently (even though, in the end, she was the one who managed to tame such a stubborn husband). At least, that's how I interpreted Maekar in Starlight, and I absolutely loved it. I also completely agree with you—I much prefer stories where the reader is the first wife and first love, although I enjoy the second-wife stories too.It made me think how wonderful it would be to read a Baelor fic with a marriage that has a similar feeling. Since Baelor is already so gentle, patient, and kind, I imagined the reader as the emotionally distant one instead—quiet, reserved, wary, and almost untouchable, instinctively pulling away whenever someone tried to get too close, whether emotionally or physically. I'd love to see Baelor patiently earning her trust. I think it would be beautiful to see him patiently waiting until his wife chose him, much like a dragon chooses its rider—a bond that can never be forced (and, well... quite a few would-be dragonriders ended up as dragon barbecue for forgetting that hahaha ).
Thank you so much! That makes me very happy to hear! Whenever I read that someone enjoyed my stories it genuinely makes my whole day.
I did want Maekar to be reserved, even cold at times with the things he says until the moment he admits he has no idea where to begin to show his love for her. I imagine Baelor is someone who compliments you, who vocally expresses his love. While Maekar does so through his actions. It does take him quite a while to admit he loves her, and that is when she isn’t facing him. I’m really happy someone got that!
I totally see Baelor in that situation too, it could be a wonderful dynamic to explore, and you’re absolutely right, taming a dragon does have to be reciprocated. I imagine if Maekar didn’t wish for her to “take the reins” he wouldn’t have put her above him 👀👀👀
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
⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹
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.
⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹
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.
⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹
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.
⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹
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.
⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹
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
