─ summary: The night your daughter is born is the best and worst night of Maekar's life.
─ pairing: Maekar Targaryen x reader
─ word count: 4.5k
─ content: mention of canon character death | childbirth | there is a happy ending i promise | angst | grief | fluff | canon divergent
─ a/n: I started writing this series because I just loved Maekar so so much and felt like he deserved all the happiness in the world, which he obviously does not get canonically. And here we are now, five fics later at the end. Thank you for your continued support along the way. Much love. As always, thank you for your likes, comments, reblogs, and requests. 🖤
The light in the solar was failing, the day's last gold fingers clawing at the leaded glass of the window. Maekar sat behind the desk, a quill suspended over a parchment that detailed the grain stores for the coming winter. It was mundane work, the sort of arithmetic that usually grounded him, but the figures swam slightly before his eyes. He had been checking the same column for ten minutes.
Then a frantic knock shattered the quiet before the door opened. A young maid stood in the threshold, her apron askew and her face drained of all color.
"My prince," she gasped, the breath hitching in her throat. "It is time. The princess asks for you."
Maekar was on his feet before she finished the sentence. The chair he vacated scraped violently against the stone floor, toppling backward with a crash that he did not hear. He did not remember crossing the room or passing the maid. He was simply moving, his long stride eating up the corridor, his boots striking the flagstones with a rhythm that was more like a run than a walk.
He reached the door to the chambers and paused only for the fraction of a second needed to compose his face before pushing the door open and stepping inside.
The room was stiflingly warm, the hearth built up to a roaring blaze that chased away the evening chill. The air smelled of lavender oil and the copper tang of blood, faint but present. In the center of the room was the bed where you lay.
You were propped up against a mound of pillows, your hair plastered to your forehead in dark, sweat-soaked strands.
You turned your head at the sound of the door. Your eyes, usually bright with laughter, were glazed with pain and exhaustion, but when they found him, locking onto his face across the room, the tension in your shoulders dropped. You let out a breath that shuddered through your entire frame, your hand reaching out, grasping at the empty air beside you.
"You are here," you whispered. Your voice was thin, worn down by exertion.
Maekar took your damp, trembling hand and brought your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss against the heated skin.
"I am here." His voice was a low rumble, meant only for you. "I am not going anywhere."
Maester Darron cleared his throat, a delicate, professional sound that held an edge of hesitation. He did not look up from the basin of water he was wringing a cloth into. "My prince. Perhaps it would be best if you waited outside. This is… it is a difficult business. It might be easier for her if—"
"Do not finish that thought."
Maekar did not look at the maester; his eyes were on your face, watching the way a small, tired smile touched the corner of your mouth at his words. Darron did not speak again; he simply nodded, a short, sharp jerk of his chin, and returned to his preparations.
The hours that followed bled into one another, marked only by the shifting of the firelight on the walls and the increasing intensity of your pain. At first, you bore it with a stoic silence, gritting your teeth, squeezing his hand until the bones ground together. But as the night deepened outside the windows, the silence fractured.
A contraction took you, seizing your body like a violent cramp. You cried out, your back arching off the pillows, your head thrown back. Maekar stood, leaning over you, one hand supporting your neck, the other gripping your fingers.
"Breathe," he commanded, though his voice was gentle. "Look at me. Just look at me."
You gasped, your eyes flying open, darting around the room before finding his. "I can't," you choked out, tears spilling over and tracking through the sweat on your temples. "Maekar, I can't! It hurts too much; something is wrong."
"Nothing is wrong," he said, wiping your face with a cool cloth Darron had left on the table. "You are doing it."
"Please, make it stop."
The fear in your voice was a physical thing, a blade twisting in his gut. Maekar set his jaw, forcing his own face to remain a mask of calm certainty. He could not stop the pain, and the helplessness of it left a bitter taste in his mouth.
"You are doing so well," he said, his voice low and steady, cutting through the sound of your ragged breathing.
You let out a wet, breathless laugh that was half a sob. "You are a terrible liar."
"I do not lie," he said, kissing your forehead, tasting the salt of your sweat. "Now, hold on to me."
He held your leg as Darron directed, his large hands supporting your weight, steadying you when the waves of pain threatened to pull you under. He wiped the sweat from your brow, murmured encouragement against your hair, and kept your gaze focused on his when the terror threatened to drag you away.
In the lulls between the pain, his mind wandered, unbidden, to the months that had led to this night. He remembered the way you had glowed, your skin taking on a luminous quality that had made it hard for him to keep his hands off you. He remembered Egg pressing his ear against the swell of your stomach, delivering his daily reports on the baby's movements. He is kicking today, Father. He is very strong.
He remembered Rhae, sitting beside you on the settee, reading aloud from a storybook or narrating the events of her day in a whisper, as if the child inside could already understand the complexities of court life.
The intensity of the labor peaked as the night wore on. Your grip on his hand was crushing, your nails digging into his skin, but he welcomed the pain. It was nothing compared to what you were enduring.
"Push, my lady," Darron urged, his voice tight with strain. "Now. One more."
You screamed, a raw, primal sound that seemed to tear itself from your soul, and then the tension broke.
The sound that filled the room was not a scream, but a cry. Indignant, furious, and loud.
Maekar pulled back just as Darron straightened up, holding a small, writhing bundle. The maester worked quickly and efficiently, clearing the mouth and nose, rubbing the small back with a cloth.
"A girl," Darron said, his voice breathless with relief. "A healthy daughter, my prince."
Maekar did not wait for an invitation. He reached out, his hands moving with a delicacy that belied their size, and took the child. He did not care about the blood, the vernix, the mess of it; he pulled her against his chest.
She was small, impossibly so. A fragile, squirming thing with a furious face screwed tight against the light. He looked down at her and saw a shock of pale hair, like his own, plastered to her tiny scalp.
The love hit him instantly. He looked at this small, angry creature, and he knew he would burn the world to ash before he let a single hair on her head be harmed. He looked up at you, meaning to show you, to share this moment that was yours together.
You reached out, your hands trembling, face exhausted but radiant. You laughed, a soft, breathless sound of pure relief. "Let me see."
Maekar shifted the baby, turning her so you could see. Your daughter chose that moment to open her eyes, blinking against the dim light. Maekar smiled, the expression feeling foreign on his face, stretching muscles that had grown stiff with disuse. For one heartbeat, the world was perfect. The fire was warm, the baby was fussing, and you were smiling.
Then Maekar looked up and saw Maester Darron's face.
He was looking back at the bed, at the sheets beneath your legs. The color had drained from the maester's face, leaving him ashen, a roadmap of anxieties etched into his features.
"Maester?"
Darron didn't answer. He was muttering to himself, a string of jargon that meant nothing to Maekar, but the tone meant everything.
"Maester." Maekar's voice sharpened. He stood up and thrust the child toward the maid who was hovering near the wall, her eyes wide. "Take her."
"What is happening?" he demanded. He reached the side of the bed and took your hand.
Darron looked up, his eyes darting to Maekar and then quickly away. "There is bleeding, my prince. We must… I am trying to locate the source."
"How much?" He looked at the sheets and saw so much red.
Darron didn't answer. The maester's face, pale and slick with sweat, was answer enough.
Maekar turned back to you. Your head was falling back against the pillows, lolling to the side. Your eyes were losing focus, the pupils dilating. "Look at me," he commanded, squeezing your hand. "Look at me. Do not close your eyes."
"Maekar." Your voice was slurring, thick and clumsy.
"You are going to be fine."
You said his name again, a mere whisper of sound. Your eyes slid shut. Your chest rose, fell, and then went still for a terrifying second before rising again in a shallow, ragged hitch. You did not respond to his voice.
He was back in the worst moment of his life.
He knew these sounds. He knew the wet, sucking sound of breath fighting to fill lungs that were failing. He knew the smell of iron, the particular quality of light that filtered through a window when hope was dying. He had stood in a room like this one a long time ago, holding the hand of another woman, and he had come out the other side with a hollowness in his chest that never entirely healed.
He had spent years after that day making himself into a man who could not be touched, and then you had come into his life, smiling at his gruffness, laughing at his thunder, and you had undone all of it. Stone by stone, you had dismantled him and he had begun to believe that he deserved this happiness.
Now the gods, who had always had a particular sense of humor where Maekar was concerned, were showing him exactly how foolish that was.
The fury had to go somewhere. It bubbled up in his chest, hot and violent, seeking an outlet. From the corner, he heard the baby crying. That healthy, furious wail. It was the sound of life, of vitality, and in this room, filled with the scent of dying, it sounded like an accusation. This child was the cause of your suffering and his.
"Get her out!" Maekar roared, turning toward the doorway. The maid standing there flinched as if he had struck her. She fled, the sound of crying fading with her. Maekar turned back to the bed. He did not ask after the child again.
He looked at Maester Darron. The man was fumbling, his hands shaking as he tried to pack the bleeding with linen. The incompetence of it made Maekar's blood boil.
He spoke to you without stopping. He needed to fill the silence, to drown out the memories that were crashing against him. "I am here," he whispered, leaning close to your ear. "I am right here. You are not alone." He paused, his throat tightening. "You promised me… you said we would grow old. You gave me your word."
He looked at your face, so pale it was almost grey. The memory of Dyanna pressed in on him. He remembered the silence that had followed her last breath. He remembered the way the light had left the room, leaving him alone in the dark, and he knew, with absolute certainty, that he could not survive it a second time.
Time lost its meaning. Then, the maester made a sound. A sharp intake of breath, followed by a curse that was uncharacteristic of a man of the Citadel.
"What?" Maekar demanded, his head snapping up.
Darron's voice changed. The panic was still there, but it was suddenly overlaid with a different kind of focus. "I have it," he said, his hands moving faster, more surely. "A tear. Hidden behind the... I have it. Press here." He directed one of the assistants.
Darron worked for another five minutes, though to Maekar it felt like an eternity. Finally, he stepped back, his shoulders slumping with exhaustion.
"The bleeding is stopped," Darron said softly. "She lost a great deal of blood, a dangerous amount, but it has stopped."
"Will she live?"
"She needs rest," Darron said, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. "If she holds through the night, if the fever does not take her... she will live."
He gestured to the maids hovering in the shadows. "We must change the linens and her."
The maids moved forward, their eyes averted, carrying fresh sheets and basins of warm water. They reached for the bed, intending to shift you to strip the mattress.
"Do not touch her," Maekar said.
He leaned over the bed and slid one arm beneath your shoulders and the other under your knees, lifting you easily.
He held you there, cradling you against his body, while the maids stripped the blood-soaked sheets and replaced them with fresh, clean linen. He used the damp cloth to clean you as they worked. When the bed was made and you were changed, he lay you down gently, arranging your limbs with care.
Maester Darron paused at the door. "My prince, you should rest. She is stable for now."
"Go," He did not turn from the bed. "Close the door."
Maekar pulled the chair closer, so close his knees brushed the mattress, and took your hand again. It was still cold, but not as cold as before. He sat there as the night wore on, watching the play of shadows on the wall.
Morning came, a pale, gray light seeping through the large windows. The fire had died down to embers. Maekar did not move to stoke it.
Sometime around mid-morning, food was brought. Maekar ignored it. He had no appetite; the thought of food made his stomach turn.
Maester Darron came in around noon. He checked your pulse, lifted an eyelid, and felt your forehead. Maekar watched him like a hawk, ready to strike if the man's expression faltered.
"She is holding," Darron said quietly. "Her pulse is weak, but steady. She is a strong woman, my prince."
Hours passed, the room grew dark again as evening descended, but Maekar remained fixed in place. He had not slept, had not eaten, had barely moved. The exhaustion was a heavy, dragging at his limbs, clouding his thoughts.
Maekar leaned forward, resting his forehead on the edge of the mattress, right next to your clasped hands. He closed his eyes. Just for a moment, he told himself. Just to rest his eyes.
The adrenaline that had sustained him through the night and the day finally began to ebb. His body, pushed beyond its limits, began to shut down. The fear was still there, a cold knot in his stomach, but the sheer physical weight of his fatigue dragged him down.
His grip on your hand loosened slightly, but he did not let go. He held on, his fingers threaded through yours, as the darkness of sleep pulled him under.
When he surfaced, it was not gradual; it was a sharp, jarring intrusion as pressure tightened around his fingers.
Maekar jerked, his neck stiff, a groan catching in his throat as he tried to sit up. The room was dim with the deep, bruising purple of early evening. Shadows stretched long across the stone floor, and the air had cooled, carrying the scent of dying embers and the lingering, sharp odor of blood and wine.
He looked down. Your hand was in his, and your fingers had curled around his.
Your eyes were open. They were glassy, unfocused, moving sluggishly around the ceiling before drifting lower, scanning the tapestries, the heavy furniture, the shadows in the corners. They looked past him, then returned, locking onto his face.
He sat forward. "You're awake," he rasped. His voice was ruined, sounding like gravel grinding together.
You blinked slowly, your lashes fluttering against sunken cheeks. You tried to wet your lips but failed. Your throat moved, a dry, clicking swallow.
Maekar moved without thought, reaching for the pitcher and basin on the side table. The water was tepid, but he didn't care. He poured a cup, his hand steadying only by sheer force of will, and then he was sliding one arm behind your shoulders, lifting you with infinite care. You were light, terribly, frighteningly light. Your head lolled against his chest, your hair a tangled, wild halo of knots and curls spilling over his arm.
"Drink," he murmured, bringing the cup to your mouth.
You sipped, choking slightly, then drank deeper, your hands coming up to grip his wrist. The water spilled, a single drop tracking down your chin, but you swallowed greedily until he pulled the cup away, and you collapsed back against the pillows. Your eyes tracked over him, taking in the tunic he hadn't changed, the dark circles he knew must be bruising the skin beneath his eyes.
"Maekar," you whispered. Your voice was a wisp of sound, barely there.
"I'm here," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."
You shifted, trying to push yourself up higher, wincing as the movement pulled at you. "The baby," you breathed. "Where is she?"
"You need to rest," the instinct to protect you, to shield you from any exertion, overriding everything else. "The Maester said—"
"No." The word was stronger this time, a flash of the iron will he knew so well. Your fingers dug into his hand, your gaze hardening. "I want her. Now."
He looked at you, seeing the determination flaring in the depths of your eyes. He could deny you many things for your own good, but not this. Not the sight of your child.
He let go of your hand and stood, his knees cracking in the quiet room. He crossed to the door, yanking it open. A guard snapped to attention in the hallway.
"Send for the child," Maekar commanded, "and fetch Maester Darron."
Minutes stretched, taut and silent. Then, the door opened.
A maid entered first, carrying a bundle of white wool in her arms. Maester Darron followed, his expression unreadable.
Maekar stepped aside, his eyes fixed on the bundle.
The nurse approached the bed, lowering the child gently into your waiting arms.
Maekar watched the transformation happen. As soon as the weight of the baby settled against you, the fear, the pain, the confusion, it all vanished from your face. Your eyes softened, melting into a look of such raw, unguarded adoration that it made his chest ache.
You pulled the blanket back. The baby was asleep, a small thing with a shock of white hair and a scrunched-up nose. You stared down, your index finger tracing the delicate curve of a cheek, the tiny fist.
"Look at her," you whispered, the words catching on a sob. "Maekar, look!"
He stepped closer, compelled against the sudden knot of guilt tightening his throat. "I see her."
"She's perfect," you cooed, leaning down to breathe in the scent of the infant's scalp. "She has your ears! And your hair." You looked up at him, your eyes swimming with tears, a brilliant smile breaking through the exhaustion. "We made her my love. She's perfect."
Maester Darron moved to the side of the bed, his professional demeanor masking whatever relief he felt. He checked the sheets, felt your forehead, asked questions about your vision, your pain, your strength. You answered distractedly, your attention never truly leaving the child's face.
"The bleeding has stopped," the Maester said. "Your pulse is steady." He gave a stiff bow. "Rest is the only prescription now, my lady."
He packed his tools into his bag, gave Maekar a respectful nod, and saw himself out. The nurse lingered for a moment, but you waved her away with a dismissive, gentle authority. You wanted no one else here.
You looked up from the baby, your eyes finding him where he stood rooted near the bedpost. You shifted, wincing slightly, and scooted over, pressing your back against the far side of the mattress.
"Come here," you said softly.
Maekar hesitated. He felt too large, too dirty, too stained with the memory of the last hours to intrude on this sanctum. But you patted the space beside you, your eyes leaving no room for refusal.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, the frame dipping under his weight. He kicked off his boots, the leather thudding dully against the rug, and swung his legs up, lying back stiffly, the tension in his shoulders a solid wall.
You leaned into him, your head finding the hollow of his shoulder.
The baby was so small. A fragile, breathing thing that fit entirely within the span of his hand. Then the guilt hit him, crashing over him like a tidal wave, cold and suffocating.
He had blamed this child. In the darkest, most terrified moments of the hemorrhage, when he thought he was watching you die, he had looked at this baby and seen an executioner. He had felt a spike of hatred toward the innocent life that had torn you open. The shame was overwhelming.
"Maekar." Your voice vibrated against his chest. He didn't answer.
You shifted, turning your face up to look at him.
"You are trembling, my love. What is it?"
He looked at you and the love you offered so freely. He didn't deserve it.
"I thought..." He stopped, his throat closing up. "When the bleeding started, I thought I was going to lose you."
He felt you stiffen slightly, but you didn't look away.
"I was terrified," he confessed, the volume of his voice dropping to a bare whisper. "I stood there, and I watched the life draining out of you, and I couldn't stop it. I was helpless."
He took a shuddering breath. "And I was angry, so angry. At the Maesters, at the situation, at..." He couldn't say it. He looked down at the baby sleeping in your arms.
"At her," you finished for him.
"Yes," he breathed, the admission tearing him apart. "I looked at her, and I hated her for what she did to you." He turned his face into your palm, closing his eyes. "I am ashamed of myself."
"You were scared."
"That is no excuse."
You pulled him closer, guiding his head down until your foreheads touched. The baby stirred between you, making a small, snuffling noise, but settled back into sleep.
"You are everything to me. Everything. If I were to lose you..." He couldn't finish the sentence. The thought was a void he could not look into.
"You won't lose me."
He pulled back just enough to look at you. The intensity of his gaze pinned you. "I cannot bear this again. I cannot go through this a second time." He shook his head. "No."
He looked down at the baby again, but the resentment was gone, replaced only by a desperate, protective fear. This child was perfect, yes. She was a miracle. But the price of her had been nearly too high to pay.
"No more children," he said. The words were flat, absolute.
You looked at him, your eyes searching his. "Maekar..."
He cut in, his voice low and rough. "This girl — she is more than enough. I am begging you, no more."
He reached out, his hand hovering over the baby's head, trembling. "I will not survive if I lose you. And if we do this again... I cannot take that risk."
He saw the tears well up in your eyes again, spilling over to track down your cheeks.
"Okay," you whispered.
You nodded, your hand moving to cover his where it hovered over your daughter. "No more."
The relief that crashed through him was so powerful it left him lightheaded. He slumped, exhaling a breath he felt he had been holding for a lifetime. "Thank you," he breathed.
You smiled then, a soft, watery thing, and pulled him down. "Hold her."
"I do not want to wake her," he protested weakly.
"Hold your daughter, Maekar."
He shifted carefully, angling his body as you guided the infant into the crook of his arm. He went rigid, terrified of his own strength, but the baby fit perfectly against his chest, her head resting over his heart.
He looked down at her small face. The guilt was still there, a shadow in the back of his mind, but it was smaller now, dwarfed by the rising tide of affection. He bent his head, his beard brushing the soft fuzz of her forehead, and pressed a kiss to her skin. It was the first time he had kissed her since those frantic seconds in the birthing chamber.
The baby stirred, her dark eyes opening briefly. They focused on him, unseeing, yet holding a weight that knocked the breath from his lungs. She didn't cry, she just looked at him, then yawned, her tiny mouth opening wide, and closed her eyes again.
"I am sorry," he whispered to her, the words for her alone. "I am sorry I wasn't there. But I am here now, and I will love you forever."
He leaned over the baby, careful not to disturb the child, and captured your lips with his. It was a slow, deep kiss, a sealing of vows spoken and unspoken. He poured everything he had into it, his gratitude, his fear, his overwhelming, desperate love for you.
When he pulled back, the room was quiet. The shadows had deepened into night, but the darkness no longer felt like a threat. He was exhausted, his body aching, his soul weary, but for the first time in days, the knot in his chest had loosened.
He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, and let the world finally fall away.
summary : years into their marriage, reader begins to suspect she is carrying maekar’s child. however, after spending years living in the shadow of his late wife, dyanna dayne, she finds herself unable to believe that he could ever love her the same way. as the distance between them grows, maekar is forced to confront the grief he never truly let go of—and the wife he may be losing because of it.
cw : canon-era westeros. arranged marriage. widower maekar. deceased spouse. grief. emotional neglect. unrequited feelings. loneliness. pregnancy scare. feelings of inadequacy. comparison to a deceased wife. miscommunication. strained marriage. angst. hurt/comfort. happy ending. please read individual warnings for each chapter.
Lately, you could barely eat anything The mere scent of roasted meat drifting from the kitchens was enough to make your stomach churn. Foods you once loved now left you nauseous, forcing you to push away plates that returned to the kitchens nearly untouched The servants assumed you had fallen ill At first, you thought so too Until you remembered something You hadn’t told Maekar Not even after weeks had passed.
The nausea grew worse with each passing day. Some mornings, you could hardly keep anything down, and there were moments when dizziness forced you to sit before your legs gave out beneath you Still, you said nothing Because the more you considered the possibility growing inside you, the more frightened you became Not because of the child. But because of the child’s father
That night returned to you again and again The night Maekar came to your chambers after months of keeping his distance The night he seemed quieter than usual. And for a brief moment He called you Dyanna You still remembered how your entire body had gone rigid.
Maekar hadn’t noticed Or perhaps he had Perhaps he simply chose not to acknowledge it Just as you had The following morning, moon tea was delivered to your chambers as it always was And you forgot to drink it. Just once Only once At the time, you thought nothing of it now…
You couldn’t stop wondering how Maekar would react if he found out Would he see this child as his own? Or as a reminder of a mistake made on a lonely night? A night when he had looked at you and seen another woman The woman he loved The woman who had died Your hand drifted to your stomach Slowly, you closed your eyes.
Because deep down, you thought you already knew the answer You weren’t afraid that Maekar would be angry You were afraid he would be disappointed that this child was not Dyanna’s.
At first, Maekar assumed it was nothing. People grew busy. They found new interests. There was no reason to dwell on something as trivial as a few missed conversations.
Yet the silence persisted. Days turned into weeks. And somehow, you were never there anymore. When he returned from the training yard, you were not waiting in the hall. When he broke his fast, there were no flowers left on the table beside his seat.
When he spent long evenings buried in letters and reports, nobody appeared at the doorway to ask if he needed anything. The absence should not have bothered him. But it did. Eventually, he asked one of the guards. “Where is my wife?” The man hesitated before answering. “Her ladyship has been spending more time outside the castle, my prince.”
Outside. It became a pattern after that. You rode through the countryside with an escort. You wandered the markets near Summerhall. You attended performances from traveling singers. You walked the gardens for hours. Anything. Everything. As long as it kept you away from the castle. Away from him.
The realization sat heavily in his chest. Because before…. You had always found reasons to be near him. Now, finding you within Summerhall itself was becoming difficult. One evening, Maekar spotted you crossing the courtyard surrounded by servants and guards.
For a brief moment, your eyes met. A year ago, you would have smiled. You would have walked over. You would have asked how his day had been. Instead, you lowered your gaze and continued walking. As though he were a stranger. Maekar stood there long after you had disappeared. His jaw tightened. Without meaning to, his thoughts drifted back to that night.
The last night he had shared your bed. The last night either of you had spoken for more than a few minutes. And then he remembered. One word. One name. Dyanna. The memory struck him with uncomfortable clarity. He remembered the way you had gone silent afterward. Remembered how distant you had seemed the next morning.
At the time, he had dismissed it. Now, he was no longer certain. For the first time, Maekar found himself wondering whether that single mistake had cost him far more than he had realized.
Maekar learned of your menstrual cycle from a maid. He didn't mean to be nosy. But when his wife, the princess, secluded herself in her room almost all day, refusing to come down for meals and looking increasingly weary, the people in Summer Hall were naturally concerned. Including him.
"The princess hasn't had her period for two months, Your Highness." That statement made Maekar pause. Two months. He wasn't a fool. And he remembered that night well. The night he came to you. The night he let memory and reality become indistinguishable. The night he called out Dyanna's name.
Maekar closed his eyes for a moment. A wave of guilt surged through his chest. But another feeling followed immediately. Relief. Strange. And illogical. But a genuine relief. If you were pregnant… That would be his child. Your child. The thought didn't make him angry. It didn't make him sad. On the contrary, it made him unconsciously think of a little child. Before he realized you still hadn't told him. And that meant… You may not want him to know.
That night, Maekar walked to your bedroom by himself. No soldiers. No servants. Maekar pushed the door open quietly. The room was dim, lit only by the fading glow of the fireplace. You were lying on the bed with your back turned toward the door. He heard it immediately. The soft sound of your sniffles, muffled as though you were trying desperately to hide them.
Maekar stood still for a moment. Then he walked closer. “My lady.” The sound of his voice made your shoulders tense slightly. But you didn’t turn around. “I’m fine. My prince” You said it before he could even ask. Your voice was so quiet it was almost lost beneath the crackling fire. Maekar looked at the slight tremble running through your shoulders beneath the blankets. Then he sighed. “I know you’re not.”
This time, you said nothing. Because both of you knew it wasn’t true. The mattress dipped slightly as Maekar sat down beside you. Silence followed. No accusations. No questions. Only the feeling of his hand slowly moving through your hair. Tentative. Careful. As though he wasn’t entirely certain he had the right to touch you anymore.
You closed your eyes. And somehow, that only made the tears come faster. “I know.” Maekar finally broke the silence. Your fingers tightened around the blankets. “Know what?” Your voice came out muffled against the pillow. He was quiet for a moment. “The child.”
Everything inside you seemed to stop. Even your breathing. You stared at the wall in front of you. Unable to move. Unable to speak. “Who told you?”
“No one.” His answer came immediately. “But I’m not a fool.” Silence settled over the room once more. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. Couldn’t bear to hear whatever came next. Then the bed shifted again. Maekar lay down beside you. Close enough for you to feel the warmth of his body through the blankets.
“Look at me.” You shook your head. A small sob escaped before you could stop it. For a moment, you thought he would insist. Instead, his hand returned to your hair. Slowly. Gently. Again and again. “My lady.” His voice was lower now. Softer than usual. “Why are you crying?” The question made your throat tighten painfully.
Because how could you explain it? How could you tell him that you were terrified? Terrified that he wouldn’t want this child. Terrified that he would look at your baby and see nothing but a mistake made on a lonely night. Terrified that part of him would always wish this child belonged to someone else. To Dyanna. Not to you.
“I’m not crying.” The lie sounded weak even to your own ears. Maekar let out a quiet breath. Then moved a little closer. “You’ve never been very good at lying.” The tears came harder at once. And for the first time in weeks, Maekar felt something twist painfully in his chest. Because he was beginning to understand that whatever burden you had been carrying…
You had been carrying it alone. In the end, neither of you said anything else that night. Not after Maekar called your name. Not after he asked you to look at him. You remained turned away from him, just as before. And Maekar… didn’t force the matter.
Silence settled over the room once more. The only sounds were the occasional crackle of the fire and the quiet sniffles you tried so hard to hide. Maekar didn’t know how long you had been crying. An hour. Several hours. Or perhaps several weeks. He didn’t know. Because if he had noticed sooner, perhaps things would not have come to this.
His hand slowly slipped from your hair. Then wrapped carefully around your waist, pulling you closer. You tensed immediately. After a moment, you gently pried his arm away Maekar let you. Quietly. But before long, he moved closer again. Wrapping an arm around you from behind once more, as though he had no intention of leaving.
You said nothing. Neither did he. He simply lay there beside you, listening to your uneven breathing. Feeling the occasional tremor that ran through your shoulders. Sensing a sadness he did not know how to comfort.
At some point during the night, his hand drifted lower without thinking. Until it came to rest over your stomach. He stilled. It was not obvious yet. Not enough for most people to notice. But beneath the thin fabric of your nightgown, he could feel it. The slight curve beginning to form beneath his palm. Only the faintest swell. Yet it was there.
And for the first time in months, something softened inside his chest His child. Your child. The thought still felt unfamiliar. But it did not fill him with dread. Quite the opposite. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Hidden safely in the darkness where no one could see. He found himself imagining a child. Perhaps with your eyes. Perhaps with your smile. And the thought made something inside him ache in a way he had almost forgotten.
A quiet, fragile sort of happiness. The kind he had not allowed himself to feel in a very long time. Then another muffled sob escaped you. And the smile disappeared at once. Maekar lowered his gaze toward the back of your head. Before moving closer still. Resting his face against your hair. Holding you a little tighter. As though he were trying to say something. Even if he had never been particularly skilled with words.
And you— You remained awake in the darkness. Silent tears slipping onto your pillow. Completely unaware that the man lying behind you was not mourning the fact that this child was not Dyanna’s. He was quietly smiling at the thought that he might become a father once again.
Everything changed after that night. At least, for Maekar. You noticed it almost immediately. The servants noticed too. The guards certainly did. Because somehow, the Prince of Summerhall seemed to have forgotten he had an entire castle to manage.
Every morning, someone was sent to check whether you had eaten. Every afternoon, someone reported whether you had rested. Every evening, Maekar himself would ask what you had done that day, how much you had eaten, whether you felt ill, whether your head still hurt, whether you had been sick after breakfast. At first, you thought it would pass. It did not.
If anything, it only became worse. “Your Highness, I’m only walking in the gardens.”
“I know.”
“Then why are there four guards following me?”
“Because you’re with child.” You stared at him. Maekar stared back. As though that explained everything. Apparently, to him, it did. It became impossible to be alone. If you stayed in your chambers, Maekar appeared. If you sat in the gardens, Maekar appeared. If you went riding, Maekar somehow discovered it before you had even left the castle gates.
More than once, you returned to find him waiting. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. As though he had been standing there for hours. “You have been gone too long.”
“I was gone for an hour.”
“Too long.”
“My prince.”
“Come back inside.” The worst part was that he sounded completely serious. It became so ridiculous that even the servants struggled to hide their amusement. And then there was the sleeping arrangement.
Or rather— The complete lack of one. Because despite having his own chambers, Maekar had seemingly decided they no longer existed. The first night, you assumed it was temporary. The second night, you questioned it. By the fifth, you finally protested. “You do not need to stay here.” Maekar looked up from the book in his hands.
“Why not?”
“You have your own chambers.”
“So do you.” You blinked. “Then why are you here?” Maekar frowned as though the answer were obvious. “Because you are here.” You stared at him. He stared back. Neither of you spoke. Eventually, Maekar returned to his book. As though he had just won the argument. Which, annoyingly enough, he had. From then on, he refused to leave.
Every night, he climbed into your bed. Every morning, he woke beside you. And every time you tried to create even the smallest amount of distance, he somehow found a way to close it again. Sometimes it was a hand resting on your back. Sometimes it was his arm around your waist. Sometimes it was simply his presence. Large. Silent. Constant.
You didn’t know what had happened. Didn’t know why he had suddenly become so impossible. But everyone else seemed to know. Because whenever Maekar wasn’t looking, the servants exchanged knowing smiles. The guards looked suspiciously entertained. And once, you even caught an old maid muttering under her breath—
“Our prince has finally lost his mind.” For perhaps the first time in years… She wasn’t entirely wrong. For the past few days, Maekar had been quieter than usual. You noticed it during breakfast. You noticed it during supper.
He still sat beside you as he always did. He still made sure the foods you could stomach were placed within reach. Yet there was something oddly distracted about him. You had a feeling you knew why. A few days ago, you had finally complained. “You don’t have to watch me all the time.”
“I watch you?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
”…”
“You’re carrying my child.” After that, you had sighed and told him he worried too much. Maekar hadn’t argued. But he hadn’t looked particularly pleased, either. And now he sat at the table looking unusually glum. Like a large dog that had been scolded. No matter how hard he tried to maintain his usual expression.
That night, you retired earlier than usual. The nausea had not entirely faded. You had barely been lying down for ten minutes when the mattress dipped beside you. Then came an arm wrapping around your waist from behind.
“…Maekar.” No answer. Only the feeling of him burying his face against the side of your neck. You froze immediately. Because in all the years of your marriage… Maekar had never done this. Not once. “Maekar.”
“Hm.”
“What are you doing?”
“Sleeping.”
“…” You fell silent. Meanwhile, he remained exactly where he was. As though nothing at all were unusual. Less than a minute later, you felt the brush of his nose against your cheek. Then your forehead. Then your temple. Your eyes snapped open. “My prince.”
“What?”
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t know.” That answer made you turn toward him at once. The Prince of Summerhall was lying beside you with his head resting on one arm. His expression was perfectly calm. As though he had not spent the last several minutes nuzzling against you. “How can you not know?”
“I just don’t.” He sounded entirely sincere. Then he moved closer again. Close enough that your foreheads nearly touched. You began to wonder whether he had a fever. “My prince” he hum in response “Are you feeling unwell?” he quickly shakes his head “Then why—”
“Do you love me?” You went completely still. The room fell silent. Maekar continued looking at you. Far too serious for someone making a joke. Not that Maekar was ever known for joking “…What?”
“Do you love me?” He asked again. As though he genuinely needed an answer. You blinked. Too startled to form a proper response. Because was this truly the same Maekar Targaryen who avoided discussing feelings whenever possible? “Why are you asking me that all of a sudden?” Maekar was quiet for a moment. Then his gaze lowered. For perhaps the first time, he looked uncertain.
“Because you said I don’t need to pay so much attention to you.” You froze. “So I thought…” He stopped. As though the words felt awkward in his mouth. “…perhaps you don’t want me near you.” Something inside your chest softened immediately.
Maekar still wasn’t looking directly at you. The prince who had never feared battle. Never feared dragons. Never feared anyone. Now looked genuinely uneasy about your answer. “My prince…” You said softly. The moment you spoke his name, those violet eyes lifted to meet yours again. Waiting.
As though the entire world depended on whatever you said next. You stared at him for a long moment. Unsure how to answer. Because the question seemed so… simple. So simple that you couldn’t understand why he had to ask it.
For years, you had thought you made it obvious. More than obvious, even. You followed him everywhere. You asked if he needed anything. You brought him flowers. You kept him company when he worked late into the night. You were always there. Even on the days when he barely seemed to notice you.
“You thought I didn’t love you?” you asked softly. Maekar didn’t answer right away. Which was answer enough. You almost wanted to laugh. Instead, your chest ached.
“My prince…” Your voice softened. “If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t still be here.” Those violet eyes remained fixed on yours. As though he were carefully considering every word. “Really?” You blinked. “What do you mean, really?”
“You truly love me?” For a moment, you were completely speechless. And for perhaps the first time in your marriage, you thought Maekar was being unbelievably ridiculous. “Of course I do.” The answer came without hesitation. Then you paused.
Because the moment the words left your mouth, something in his expression changed. Only slightly. But you saw it. The tension easing from his face. The faintest relaxation around his eyes. As though he had finally received something he had been waiting for. “Oh.” That was all he said. “Oh?”
“Hm.” You stared at him in disbelief. “You asked all of that just to say ‘oh’?”
“Yes.”
“My prince.”
“I simply wanted to know.” He said it calmly. Yet somehow managed to move even closer. Until there was barely any space left between you.
“And now you know?” you asked. Maekar nodded. Then reached up and gently touched your cheek. His thumb brushed away the tears still lingering there. So carefully that it almost felt unfamiliar. “I know.” he said. “Good.”
“Very good.” You frowned slightly. “Why very good?” This time, Maekar was quiet for so long that you thought he wouldn’t answer. But eventually, he spoke. His voice lower than usual. “Because I love you.” Everything stopped. Your heart seemed to miss a beat.
You simply stared at him. And Maekar stared back. His expression remained completely serious. As though he had no idea how much those words meant. “What?” you whispered. Maekar frowned slightly. As though surprised you hadn’t heard him.
“I said I love you.” This time there was no mistaking it. No room for misunderstanding. You could only look at him. While tears slowly gathered in your eyes once more. Because these were the words you had waited years to hear. Years. So many years that you had nearly given up waiting altogether.
“Why are you crying again?”Maekar asked immediately. Concern replacing whatever calm he had before. “Did I say something wrong?” A laugh escaped you through your tears. You shook your head.
And for the first time in months, you were the one who moved closer first. Burying your face against his chest. Maekar visibly relaxed at once. The moment he realized you weren’t crying because you were hurt His arms wrapped around you immediately Holding you tightly. As though afraid you might disappear if he let go.
And in that quiet warmth— For the first time, you truly began to believe that this child was not a mistake Not to either of you But someone already loved by his father Long before he ever opened his eyes to the world.
Hiii 💖 I was wondering if you could please do a through the darkness follow up where reader is in the gardens playing with her children finally and gets lost and very upset.
A/N: oh my poor little heart, but yeah, I’ll absolutely write some hurt/comfort!! Writing about these two is really helping my escape at the moment so I’m happy to take any request for them lol!
Through the Darkness, I am found
Maekar Targaryen X Blind!Wife!Reader
Tags: Hurt/comfort, reader gets lost due to blindness, baby egg exists, children are left unsupervised for a short period of time, insecurity, self doubt, Maekar being somewhat deceitful in the name of overprotectiveness (but wifeys to smart to not catch on)
WC: 2.2k
Summary: Just when life seems to be setting back to normal you and Maekar get a scary reminder that things really are different now!
Series in chronological order: Prequel, prequel (illness)One, Drabble (2), Drabble (3), this one is 4, five, six, family dynamics headcanons, Seven, eight, nine, ten
“Mother, Egg drooled on my book!” Aemon whined. He was a good little boy, and really only got upset when his reading was disturbed.
“Egg is six moons old my love…all he can really do is drool and roll about.” You explained kindly, “but I will bring him over here.” You assure him. Putting down the flowers you were currently collecting in your hands, Daella was pulling them right out of the soil and you gladly let her, you had no idea what a mess it made the garden look, you just knew she mused about how pretty they were and clapped every time she added a new one to the bouquet you held.
“Come here,” you leaned across the blanket to pull your youngest from where he had crawled to the far corner. “You’re suppose to stay right here my little wiggly dragon.” You felt his little chunky legs and then scooped him back to your lap. “Right here.” You kissed his bald head and positioned him against your skirts with his back to your stomach.
Aegon was born two moons after his sisters first nameday and he was already a mischievous little boy. Maekar had made many a comments about him being the last. You weren’t so convinced. Your husband said you both had been spoiled with Aemon and Daella and he’d forgotten how difficult babes could be. He wasn’t difficult, he was just spirited, and you thought that it suited him considering everybody had taken to calling him by quite the humorous nickname. Egg. Daeron and Aerion had started to use it as a playful taunt, he was the only one of the child born without a spec of hair on his head. You, and all of your fresh motherly emotions had been throughly upset by this taunting. Cuddling the boy close to you in bed and admitting to Maekar through your exhausted tears that your newborn babe was being bullied by his own brothers before he could even sit up on his own. Maekar had taken your hand, eased it over Aegon’s big round head and kissed your temple as he admitted to you, that your son did indeed look remarkably like an egg! Everybody, including you, took to using the nickname after that.
You turned your chin up slightly to feel the sun on your face, it felt warmer then it had a bit ago, either time was moving quicker than you had realized or the sun had been perpetually behind a cloud all morning. You wanted Daeron and Aerion to join you once their lessons in the training yard were done. If it was midday already then they should long be done and your oldest boys should be with you picking at tarts and little cheese sandwiches for the rest of the afternoon in the garden. Maekar had even said he would join after handling some additional tasks in the training yard.
“aemon, is the sun in the middle of the sky?” You asked working your way up to your feet, shifting egg to your hip and smiling when you felt the weight of Daellas hands pulling at your skirt.
“Um, yes just about.” He informed you and then his nose was back in his book.
“they’ll not get out of this-“ you grumble to yourself, the older two were at those particular ages when they felt too mature to play in the gardens with their mother and siblings. But you knew any boys who found the name egg as hilarious as they did were very much still little boys themselves. You wanted this time with them. “Stay here on the blanket with your brother.” You untangle your daughter’s hands from your skirt and position her closer to where you knew Aemon was. “Watch her.” You instructed before taking a few steps on the path.
There had been stone paths that were put in around most of the gardens and yards of Summerhall. Physical directions for you to follow and adhere to. It was ways to leave the keep, set out in the direction of the stables and just ensure your footing stayed on the stones. It worked well, normally, so long as the stones did not get shifted about.
Today, of course, the stones had shifted.
A full hour had not even come to pass before the staff of the hall realized something was amiss when Aemon came inside half dragging Daella in his hold.
“Lady Targaryen is not in the garden.” A maid informed maekar rushing through the hall, she did not even stop to properly greet him or field his questions because she was headed to the garden to look herself
“Ser Farland accompanied her this morning to the yards. He is still stood within the gardens gates.” That was the rule. It was Maekar’s rule, one that he did not think you knew about. A guard remained somewhere near, lingering whenever you were outside of the keeps walls.
“My prince,” the woman stopped, her face softened to an apologetic look. “Your lady wife knows of Ser Farland.” Maekar’s jaw tensed and he was standing suddenly only half of his armor off from training.
“excuse me?” He blinked and his eyebrow cocks. “My wife knows of this and you all know she is aware and I have not been informed?!” He barked.
The maid opened her mouth, closed it and when Maekar stormed closer she swallowed down her fear. “Forgive me, the lady forbid us from informing you.”
“Fucks sake!” He snapped and moved from the room with haste heading towards the gardens.
“you-“ he points to the knight who stood just inside the hall with Aemon and Daella. A nurse maid now held the upset little girl and was soothingly running her fingers through the young intelligent boys hair. “You left your post?!” He slammed the white cloak against the stone wall, despite the man being inches taller than him. Nobody in this keep was as strong as the anvil and that gap grew larger when he was enraged… even larger when he was fearful.
“the lady bid me to leave her be-“ he explained groaning when his head was knocked back against the wall. “My prince please-“
“Mother doesn’t like to be watched.” Aemon piped up, hesitantly looking up at his father. “She always tells the guards and maids to leave us be.” He explained and the knight nodded quickly, greatful that this little prince was vouching for him.
“Y-your lady wife can be quite insistent m’prince.” The man sputtered out.
He knew that was true, he knew it in his bones.
Maekar gripped the man’s jaw making him look at him. “You wear a white cloak yet are bending to the wills of a woman?!” It wasn’t that he thought your words should not be followed it was just that he’d arranged this secrecy so you would remain safe and not feel like a child being looked after. “Bloody fucking useless.” He released the man tearing out the doors and down the steps to the garden. “I want men out along the perimeter!” He demanded not even looking to over his shoulder.
You had no idea how long you’d been wandering around, for at least half the time you had convinced yourself you weren’t lost, that the path from the garden to the training yard was just longer than you had recalled. But when you ran into a thick tree and could feel the grass starting to grow taller you knew that you were lost and far beyond the gardens and stables and the training yard.
“shhh, shh.” You comfort Egg rubbing the back of his head and keeping him close to your chest, “I’ll find our way back.” You promise him.
After a while longer of walking, and feeling your feet sink into the ground a bit you decided that walking seemed ill advised. You could just be making yourself more lost. So you backtracked the way you came and stayed under the trees shade. Humming to egg to manage you anxiety, until you heard a noise, panting, and heavy thuds of feet.
“hello?!” You called, startled when a hand grabed your head. “Let go of me!” You bark twisting away shielding egg.
“you will make my heart give out.” Maekar’s arm wrapped around you from behind and he pulled you back into his frame. You instantly calmed. Turned to him at once and let go of egg with one hand to feel the side of your husbands face.
“Thank the gods…” you exhale and then the tears begin at once.
“I’ve half a mind to paddle your arse. All this insolence fussing at the maids and guards? You could truly not have just forgotten they were there!?” He kissed your temple. “Let me keep you safe. Gods sake, don’t fight me on it anymore.!” He sighed, the worry clear in his voice. He was scared, scared enough to put those safety nets in place and he became terrified know that even those had not been enough!
You were a mess of tears and shaking hands and struggled breaths. This had been the most scared you ever were. Lost, wandering, you infant on your hip and two of your children abandoned in the gardens. “Daella? She was will aemon-are they okay?” You hiccuped “gods forgive me…forgive me Maekar.” Anything could have happened to you or to them. You cared not for his panicked scolding you just needed reassurance that all was alright.
“Breathe. They are both alright, unharmed.” He instructed but you just continued to ramble on. Mind racing.
“I’m not fit t-to be a mother. I cannot do this. I can’t even look after myself. Gods I’m a bloody fool!” You sob. Things had been going so well, you’d managed expertly but something like this was bound to eventually happen. You just had not anticipated it being this terrifying! “I-I, fucks sake,” you sniffled hard. “I was wrong-I can’t do this. Your right,” you whisper, jaw shaking “no more babes, I can hardly mother the ones we have.” He was appalled. He had never seen you so worked up, so self doubting. His hand cooled the heat of your swollen under-eye and he shook his head.
“no.” You were a good mother, a loving mother, and you had done well with Daella and Egg despite your limitation. He hated that his hesitation to grow the family large was now being used in your campaign against yourself!
“I’m useless-“
“none of that,” it came out harsh. Which wasn’t all that odd, he wasn’t a man who cooed often unless it was at the newest babe snuggled into your breast. The only time he’d truly been that gentle with you was the day you wed and he’d so gently taken your maidenhead, and while you’d been sick with the blinding fever. He hadn’t intended for his words right now to come out so brash.
“Shh,” his thumb wiped under your eye, getting rid of the tears. “There is no need to spiral my love.” He assured you, gentler this time. “I’ll not hear any of that nonsense, incompetence and inability are two words that have no place in anybody’s mouth when it comes to you.” He took egg from your hip, cradling the bald boy in the crook of his elbow and Maekar smushed you into his shoulder with his other hand. “Least of all should it come from your own lips.” He warned pressing a firm kiss to the back of your head.
“but what if I’d wandered further? Egg is just a b-babe he cannot be out here overnight.” You were worked up, all your anxiety finally coming to the surface now that you felt safe. Now that you did not feel like you needed to focus on practical things.
“I’d of found you.” He pushed your hair down your back. “Or do you doubt me now too?” His brow raised looking down at you and you shook your head against his chest.
“N-no I-“ you wiped your jaw because some tears dripped over the edge of it. “I’m just scared.” You whisper, your other hand still gripping to his vest. Not daring to let go.
“There’s no reason for that anymore, you are well, our son is grand, and you’ve raised a smart enough boy that he took Daella in and alerted a guard when you’d been gone a while.” Maekar pulled you back in and his hand dropped from your head and scooped up under your bum lifting you up and you instantly wrapped your legs around his side.
“Maekar-“ you objected, though your face was already nuzzling into his neck face hidden by his skin and beard and your arms looped around his neck. “I should walk, what will people think?”
“they’ll think whatever i desire them to.” He said plainly as he began to walk about towards the hall, you in one arm and Aegon in the other.
“don’t ever scare me like that again-” He whispered to you and pressed another tender kiss to your temple before you were back in the gardens. “Now I think I was promised a picnic with my family.” He hummed gently settling you down and you felt egg be deposited into your lap.
“yes, I do think something like that was promised.” You sniffled and kissed eggs head.
“stay here, breathe, I’ll go fetch the rest of our brood.”
Pairings: Baelor Targaryen x wife!Reader, Maekar Targaryen x sister-in-law!Reader
Synopsis: Two brothers and a weeping Queen, locked in a grief-torn tomb, mix royal blood and secret touch within a silent room. A crippled King, a guilty Hand, a dynasty in pain-one hidden child is conceived to hold the rotting reign.
Warnings: SMUT 18+, Baelor survived AU, Unprotected Vaginal Sex, Threesome (MMF), Oral Sex, Fingering, Dubious Boundaries/Consensual Taboo, Pregnancy, mentioned Canon Character Death, Grief, Child Loss, Men Being Vulnerable, Hurt/Comfort, Physical Illness, Depression, Political Themes, Disabled Character
Word Count: 10k
The Great Hall of the Red Keep smelled of old vinegar and burnt pine, a desperate, choking perfume meant to mask the scent of the seventy thousand who had rotted in the ditches of the King’s Landing commons. The Great Spring Sickness had left the city a hollowed-out skull, its streets swept clean by the grey broom of the plague, and the men who remained walked with the hesitant, bird-like steps of survivors who expected the floor to give way beneath them.
She sat upon the platform beside the Iron Throne, her robes of black velvet and heavy silver thread pinning her to the high-backed chair like a moth transfixed by an iron pin. The Crown of the Queen Consort sat upon her brow—a delicate thing of pale gold and small, weeping pearls—but it felt no lighter than a headsman’s axe. Her throat was dry. Her eyes were fixed on the great oak doors at the far end of the hall, where the midday light cut through the smoke of the braziers in a long, dusty lance.
”He will not yield the stairs,“ Baelor’s master of horse had whispered in the solar three hours past.
”He has sworn it by the Seven.“
But swearing by the Gods was a game for men who still had their blood whole.
The heavy doors groaned back on their iron hinges, and the murmuring of the small court—the thin, pale remnant of the Realm’s nobility—dropped into a sudden, terrified silence.
Baelor appeared first.
He did not wear the black armor of Ashford. He wore the royal scarlet, a high-collared doublet that hid the long, red tracks where the Maesters had stitched his scalp back to the bone. In his right hand, he held a staff of polished weirwood, capped with a dragon’s head of dark dragonglass; every muscle in his forearm was corded like a ship’s cable, the knuckles white and bloodless as he leaned his full, immense weight upon the wood. His left leg moved with a strange, mechanical hitch, dragging slightly against the stone rushes, the knee rigid beneath the wool.
But he walked.
A half-step behind him, so close that his shadow swallowed the King’s left shoulder, came Maekar.
The Prince of Summerhall was a mountain of dull grey steel, his mail unpolished, his face a grim, stone-carved mask that turned neither to the left nor the right. He did not look at the lords who shrank back from his passage. He did not look at the high windows. His eyes were fixed unblinkingly on the small of Baelor’s back, his large, scarred hand hovering two inches above the hilt of his greatsword—not to draw it, but to act as an iron bracket should the King’s balance fail.
The silence in the hall was absolute, save for the rhythmic, agonizing sound of the King’s progress: the sharp thump of the weirwood staff, the heavy, dragging scrape of the ruined boot, and the iron clink of Maekar’s mail keeping time behind him.
One. Two. Three.
She watched from her high seat, her fingers digging into the carved armrests until the wood bit into her palms. She did not see the King who had broken the Blackfyres; she saw the man who had lain in her lap, his brains leaking like curdled milk. She saw the husband whose boots she had unlaced while he wept from the pressure in his skull, his eyes rolling back until only the whites showed under the tallow candles.
Four. Five. Six.
Maekar’s eyes shifted then. For a single, fleeting heartbeat, as they reached the base of the high dais, his gaze left Baelor’s shoulder and flicked upward to meet hers. There was no triumph in his face. There was only the raw, red horror of a man who had gone into the hells to drag his brother out, only to find himself chained to the corpse. He looked older; the lines around his mouth were deep enough to hold grease, the furrow between his brows permanently etched into the skin.
Baelor reached the first step of the Iron Throne.
He stopped. His breath came in a short, whistling rattle through his teeth. The dragonglass head of his staff skittered half an inch on the polished marble, and for a terrifying second, his hip buckled inward.
Maekar’s hand did not hesitate. He did not care for the eyes of the lords or the dignity of the Crown. His massive, gauntleted arm shot forward, his fingers locking into the velvet of Baelor’s doublet under the shoulder, physically heaving the King’s weight back onto his center. His shoulder pressed into Baelor’s back, a brutal, necessary pillar of bone and steel.
”Eman ao,“ Maekar murmured into the ear of his brother, his voice low and harsh, a Valyrian whisper as a grinding stone.
I have you.
”Step, Baelor.“
The King bit his lip until a thin line of dark blood appeared in the crease of his mouth. He lifted the ruined leg. He took the second step. Then the third.
When Baelor finally turned and let himself drop into the jagged, monstrous seat of Aegon the Conqueror, he did so with the heavy, ungraceful thud of a felled oak. The iron swords of the Throne shrieked as his weight hit them. He rested his hands upon the pommel of the blades, his knuckles grey, his head bowed as he fought the nausea that always followed his long walks.
Maekar did not ascend to the lower step where the Princes usually stood. He remained at the base of the dais, his back turned to the Throne, facing the hall like a hound guarding a tomb. His hand returned to his side, his face settling back into its dead, expressionless iron.
The Grand Maester stepped forward, his chains clinking against his velvet robes, holding the ancient, ruby-set Crown of Daeron the Dragon. His hands shook as he lifted it high above Baelor’s greying head.
”Behold,“ the old man cried, his voice thin and cracked as dry parchment.
”Baelor of the House Targaryen, Second of His Name... King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.“
The shouts that rose from the hall were loud, but they lacked the marrow of true joy. They were the shouts of men who were afraid of the dark, cheering for a flickering candle because the sun had gone out.
She did not join them. She sat three feet away from her husband, her face a pale ivory mask, her ears ringing with a silence that no amount of shouting could fill. She looked down at her lap, where her hands lay empty.
Valarr, she thought, the name a cold, smooth stone in her mind. Matarys.
The King was on his Throne. The Realm was saved. And her sons were two boxes of grey ash in the darkness beneath the Great Sept, their bones already settling into the dust of the city that had killed them.
The royal apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast were too large for three people, but for forty days, no one else was permitted to cross the threshold.
The King’s sickness was not the plague, but it was a rot nonetheless. The pressure in his skull returned with every change of the moon, bringing with it a blinding, white-hot agony that left him unable to bear the light of a single candle.
In those weeks following the coronation, the windows were covered with thick, oiled hides, plunging the chambers into a perpetual, suffocating twilight that smelled of tallow, dried mint, and the sharp, vinegar-soaked rags they used to bind his brow.
She did not leave the bedchamber. She had no desire to see the sky.
She lay upon the small daybed near the cold hearth, her knees drawn up to her chin, her hair uncombed and matting against the velvet cushion. She wore the same grey linen shift she had worn on the ship from Dragonstone; the hem was stiff with dried salt and grease from her fingers, but she would not let her maids touch her, screaming with a dry, rattling throat whenever they came near with fresh water.
She was fading into a ghost, staring unblinkingly at the dust motes drifting through the dim room.
The heavy oak door groaned on its hinges.
Maekar stepped into the room, his boots making a slow, deliberate cadence that seemed to shake the floorboards under her head. He stopped three paces from her couch, out of his armor, wearing only a plain tunic of dark wool. His massive forearms were bare, his face a grey slate.
”You have not eaten,“ he said.
She did not answer. She watched a spider thread its way between the carved iron roses of the hearth-screen.
”Baelor asks for you,“ Maekar said, his voice dropping into that lower register he used only in this room—the voice of a man trying not to wake a sleeping beast.
”The fever has broken for the hour. He wants his wife.“
”His wife is dead,“ she spat. Her voice was cracked, the skin of her lips splitting as she spoke.
”She died at Ashford. Or perhaps in the common ditches with the boys. Go away, Maekar.“
From the doorway of the adjoining room, a sharp, metallic clack cut through the gloom. Baelor stood there, leaning heavily on his dragon-headed weirwood staff. He did not look like the King or the champion of the tourney; he looked like a man made of paper and twine, held together by sheer stubbornness.
”She will not look at me, Mae,“ Baelor said, his voice carrying the faint, raspy edge of his persistent coughing. He dragged his ruined leg across the floorboards, a slow, scraping sound that seemed to take a piece of the room with it.
”She will not look at me because every time she does, she sees the man who lived while her sons rotted.“
Maekar turned his broad back to the daybed, facing his brother.
”She is hollowed out, Baelor. She does not see either of us. She is waiting for her heart to stop.“
”And you?“ Baelor stopped, resting both hands on the crown of his cane, his small, pinprick pupils tracking the rise and fall of Maekar’s massive shoulders.
”You have not looked at me properly since we crossed the bay. You lift me into the sheets like an ox under a yoke, your teeth grinding until I can hear the bone click in your jaw. We are in the Red Keep, Brother. The Crown is on my head. Why does it taste like ash?“
Maekar did not answer. He turned his eyes toward the hide curtains, his face darkening until it looked like the stone of the walls.
”Speak to me, Maekar,“ Baelor commanded. It was not the soft voice of the sickroom; it was the flat, level command of the Prince of Dragonstone.
”We are three ghosts in a locked tomb. If we do not speak, the walls will crush us before the moon turns.“
Maekar’s shoulders gave a single, violent heave. He walked to the center of the room, away from the daybed where she lay like a discarded shroud, and stopped before the small cedar table where the wine sat.
He did not pour a cup; he simply gripped the edge of the wood until his leather-lined fists creaked.
”You want the truth, Baelor?“ Maekar’s voice was a low, gravelly rasp that tasted of brine and bile.
”The truth is that I am a thief. A thief who has spent his life counting the tallow rations and mending the walls while you rode into the daylight. I hated your mercy on Dragonstone. Every time you gave me your unblemished gratitude, it was a hot iron pressed against my ribs.“
Baelor leaned heavily on his staff, his brow furrowing.
”I forgave you, Maekar. The mace... the sun was in your eyes. The Gods chose the blow.“
”The Gods did not hold the shaft!“ Maekar roared, spinning on his heel, his face suddenly raw, red, and frantic. The controlled, military coldness he always wore vanished entirely.
”I held it! I held it because for ten years I wanted to know what your skull felt like under my hand. I wanted to know if the King’s favorite son was made of the same bone as the rest of us. And when I broke it, the Gods did not strike me down. They gave me your ghost to carry on my back.“
Baelor did not flinch from the roar. He stood perfectly still, his bad leg trembling slightly under his weight. He knew that his youngest brother was lying. Maekar had a way of taking whispers personally and instead of proving them wrong, he played into them.
”You carried me down the gangplank. You lifted me into the chairs. You think I do not know the weight of my own body, Brother? You think I do not know what it takes to hold Seven Kingdoms together when my own hand shakes too much to sign a decree?“
”That is my penance!“ Maekar shouted, stepping closer until his broad chest was inches from Baelor’s face.
”To be the shadow to a King who cannot walk without my mace. But it is not the worst of it, Baelor. It is not the sin that is rotting my gut.
On the daybed, her fingers stopped moving against her grey gown. She did not turn her head, but her breath caught in her throat—a short, sharp sound like wood snapping.
Maekar looked down at the floorboards, his jaw bunching until the skin under his silver-gold beard went white. His hands opened and closed, the fingers curved as if retaining the memory of a shape they had no right to hold.
”On Dragonstone,“ Maekar whispered, the words tearing out of him like briars from clay.
”The night before the messenger arrived with the black-wax seal... when the wind was howling through the buttery stairs. She called me a coward. She told me I was too weak to carry the man I broke.“
Baelor’s eyes narrowed, his gaze sliding from Maekar to the silent shape on the couch.
”And what did you do, Mae?“
He already knew. But he wished to hear it out of the culprit’s own mouth, see if Maekar had the guts to confess.
”I trapped her against the heavy oak door,“ Maekar said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, rhythmic cadence that sounded like an executioner’s rule.
”I caught her by the jaw until her lips parted against her teeth. And I slammed my mouth down onto hers. I kissed her, Baelor. I kissed your wife with the frantic desperation of a starving dog. I wanted to tear the gold from her throat. I wanted to know, just once, what it felt like to hold your prize while you lay ruined in the room above.“
The silence that followed was physical—thick, sour, and heavy as the air in a cellar before a storm.
Baelor did not raise his stick. He did not call for the Kingsguard. For three long seconds, his face remained a pale mask, his pupils tracking the frantic pulse kicking in the small blue vein at Maekar’s temple.
Then, slowly, the King let out a long, shuddering sigh that turned into a wet, rattling cough. He raised his left hand—the good one—and pressed his fingers into his temples where the old pressure lived.
”You are a brute, Maekar,“ Baelor said softly, his voice clear in its wisdom but heavy with an ancient sorrow.
”You have always been incapable of a soft touch. Dyanna knew it. I knew it. But you are a fool if you think that assault was an insult to me.“
Maekar looked up, his face twisted with confusion.
”She is your wife. Your everything.“
”And she was drowning,“ Baelor said, his eyes burning into his brother’s.
”And you were drowning under the sediment of your own actions. You reached for her because she was the only piece of the living world left before the iron took you entirely. She told me, Brother. I knew. But I wanted to wait and see if you ever were man enough to confess.“
Baelor dragged his ruined leg forward another step, the weirwood staff striking the floor with a flat, final thump. He reached out and placed his calloused palm against Maekar’s broad shoulder, right over the boiled leather where the grain was worn away.
”I cannot hate the man who carries me, Mae,“ Baelor whispered, his voice thick.
”You look at me and see the ghost of your honor. You look at her and see the life you were never permitted to build. But we are all broken pieces now. The mace did its work, the plague did the rest, and our boys are in the ash. If we do not hold each other against the dark, who will hold the Realm? Perhaps I would have before all of this. But the truth is that I depend on you both to carry my own weight.“
A low, ragged sob broke from the daybed.
She had finally turned her head. Her face was pale, her eyes flat as the water in a well, but they were fixed on the two brothers with a cold, clear scrutiny that had no hatred left in it—they could not with all the sorrow that was drowning her. She stretched out her thin hand toward them, her fingers trembling.
”The air is thin everywhere you stand, Maekar,“ she wept, repeating the words she had spat at him in the buttery dark.
”But it is cold everywhere else. Come here. Both of you.“
It was Maekar who moved first, his steps losing the rigid, military precision he carried before the court. He sank to his knees before the low couch, the massive frame that had broken a field of knights suddenly folding down into the rushes. He buried his face in the grey linen of her lap, his large, scarred hands locking around her waist with the desperate, white-knuckled grip of a drowning man seizing a broken spar. A low, ragged shudder went through his broad shoulders—the first time he had allowed the weight of the mace to truly bend his back.
Baelor followed, the weirwood staff striking the floorboards with a dull, hollow thump as he let it fall. He dragged his ruined leg forward, balancing his weight against the arm of the couch until he could lower himself beside his brother.
Maekar did not look up, his forehead pressed hard against her knees, his teeth gritted against the dry sob that was tearing at his chest.
”I broke you,“ he choked out into the linen, the words raw and bloody.
”I broke the Realm’s finest piece, and I cannot mend it. I look at your leg, Baelor, and I see my own hands swinging the wood. And it eats me, it eats me alive.“
Baelor did not answer with anger.
He reached out his good left arm, his long fingers sliding into the silver-gold hair at the base of Maekar’s skull. Gently, but with the unyielding authority of an elder brother, he pulled Maekar’s head up until their eyes met in the firelight.
Baelor’s brow leaned forward, pressing hard against Maekar’s forehead—the old Targaryen gesture of blood-recognition, close enough that their breaths mingled.
”The mace was an instrument, Mae,“ Baelor whispered, his voice thick but fiercely clear, erasing the distance of the Throne.
”But you are my brother and the Septons say we must love our brothers. You carried me from the mud at Ashford. You carry me every day to that monstrous chair. Do you think I would let a piece of iron stand between the two boys who grew up in the courtyards of Dragonstone? Look at me.“
Maekar’s breath hitched, his eyes wide and glittering with a vulnerability he had never allowed the world to see.
”Baelor...“
”I forgive you,“ the King said, his fingers tightening in Maekar’s hair, pulling him so close their lips almost touched.
”I forgave you before the blood dried on my visor. But you must forgive yourself, Brother. I cannot hold the Seven Kingdoms if my shadow is rotting from the inside out. I need your strength, Mae. I need my brother. We are two halves of the same dragon. We have always been. I love you.“
A great, shuddering breath finally broke from Maekar’s chest, the tension of a thousand silent nights melting out of his shoulders. He reached up, his massive, calloused hand cupping Baelor’s neck, pulling his brother into a fierce, crushing embrace that had nothing to do with duty and everything to do with a love that had survived the hells.
She watched them through her tears, her own hands reaching out to encircle them both, pulling their heads down into her lap. The ancient rivalry, the accidental violence, and the long years of living in the shade had burned away in the heat of the hearth, leaving only the raw, mended bone of their brotherhood.
But even as the brothers clung to one another, the hollow space in her own chest widened, a cavernous, aching void. The silence of the room suddenly felt like the silence of the nursery back in the Red Keep—empty, airless, and terrifying.
She felt the phantom weight of her sons in her arms, a burden that had turned to ash and memory.
”They are gone,“ she whispered, the words breaking the fragile equilibrium of the room.
”Valarr. Matarys. The halls are so quiet, Baelor. I walk them and I hear nothing but the wind. I have forgotten the sound of their laughter, and I fear the day I forget the sound of their voices entirely.“
The brothers stilled, their breaths catching.
Maekar turned his face up, his eyes raw with the realization that in his obsession with his own guilt, he had left her to drown in her grief alone. He reached up, his large, rough hand cupping her cheek, his thumb tracing the path of a tear.
”We have not forgotten them,“ Maekar said, his voice dropping to a jagged, broken rasp.
”We carry the weight of those Crowns, and the weight of their absence, every second of every day.“
Baelor moved then, shifting to press his forehead against her belly, right where she had carried them. He stayed there for a long moment, a King undone, his shoulders shaking with a quiet, devastating sorrow. He did not speak of the succession or the Realm; he spoke only as a father.
”I reach for them in the night,“ he admitted, his voice muffled against her skin.
”And I find only the cold sheets. We are not just brothers and Queen, my love. We are parents who have had the future torn from our hands.“
He looked up at her, and in his pale eyes, she saw a reflection of her own devastation. It was a shared altar of grief.
Baelor leaned up slowly, his good arm bracing his weight, and pressed his mouth to hers. It was a soft, desperately tender kiss, full of the familiar, heartbreaking sorrow they had shared since he left for the Blackfyre rebellion.
But as he kissed her, he felt the cold trembling of her lips, the hollow, unfillable space that his own fading strength could no longer mend.
Slowly, with a heavy, deliberate wisdom, Baelor broke the touch. He did not pull away completely; instead, his left hand reached out and caught the back of Maekar’s neck.
Maekar stiffened, his breath hitching in his throat as Baelor gently but firmly pulled him forward, drawing his brother’s face into the space between them. For a fraction of a second, a profound, hesitant stillness locked the room—Maekar’s eyes wide with a sudden, terrified reverence, looking to his brother for permission, for sanity, for the boundaries that were about to shatter forever.
Baelor simply nodded, his eyes full of a dark, profound surrender, knowing that he alone could no longer bring the heat back to her bones.
With a low, trembling sigh, the Queen reached up and brought her palms to Maekar’s jawline, tilting his head down.
When Maekar’s mouth finally met hers, the kiss was hesitant, almost sacred in its initial gentleness. His large, rough lips brushed against hers with a soft, aching caution, a stark contrast to the brute strength he usually carried.
But as she let out a broken sob against his mouth, his arms came around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. Baelor’s hand remained anchored on Maekar’s shoulder, bridging the connection, anchoring them all to the same desperate sanctuary.
Maekar pulled her down until she was cocooned between them, their massive, warm bodies acting as a barricade against the world that had stolen her boys. They did not move to take her, not yet; they simply held her, rocking her gently in the dim firelight, allowing her to weep until the screaming silence of the nursery felt a little less absolute.
They anchored her, letting the waves of her mourning wash over them, absorbing the pain so she would not have to carry it alone.
The lines between them did not remain clean after that night. Grief is a solvent; it eats through the walls that men build between their duties and their desires until everything runs together in a single, dark stream.
They became a secret Kingdom within the castle, a trinity of iron, ash, and silk that the outside world could neither understand nor penetrate.
In the absolute privacy of the inner chambers, the defenses they wore before the court fell away completely. No servants were permitted past the heavy thresholds after twilight. There were no maids to wash the Queen; there were no squires to tend the King.
The brothers handled every quiet, exhausting task of the sickroom together, shield to shield, leaving the outer world completely blind to the configuration of their grief.
It was the fifth moon when the Great Storm hit the Blackwater, a howling, black-winged monster that tore the lead from the roofs of the Red Keep and turned the bay into a churning pot of white foam.
Inside the royal bedchamber, the noise was deafening—the wind screaming through the stone battlements like a thousand dying horses.
Baelor lay in the center of the great bed, his legs bound in sheepskin to keep the cramps from twisting his limbs into knots. He was shivering despite the four layers of fur covering him, his skin translucent in the tallow candles’ light.
”She is cold,“ Baelor murmured, his hand reaching out blindly into the dark.
”Maekar... she is so cold.“
She was sitting at the foot of the bed, her knees drawn to her chest, her body shaking with a chill that came from the inside out. Her mind was filled with the image of the Great Sept’s lower vaults—how the water must be seeping through the old stone during a storm like this, how the small boxes containing her boys must be damp in the dark.
Maekar rose from his chair by the hearth. He had been drinking Arbor gold, not for the pleasure of it, but to deaden the ache in his own joints, his movements slow and heavy.
He did not look at Baelor; he looked at her.
”Come here,“ he said.
”No,“ she whispered.
Maekar did not argue. He climbed onto the high bed, his massive weight causing the ropes beneath the mattress to groan. He lay down behind her, his large, warm chest pressing against her spine, his arms wrapping around her waist to pull her back against him. He was hot—his skin always burned like a forge—and the heat of him hit her cold bones with the sharp shock of boiling water.
”Let him hold you,“ Baelor said from the darkness ahead. His voice was tired, devoid of the jealousy of Kings, filled only with the vast, grey emptiness of a man who had looked into his own skull and seen the end of his world.
”I have no heat left to give you, my love. Let my brother keep you from the stone.“
The candle on the cedar stand guttered, casting long, twisting shadows of the bedposts across the ceiling. The wind from the bay continued its relentless assault against the heavy hide curtains, but within the perimeter of the four-poster bed, the air was close, thick with the scent of tallow, musk, and the sharp tang of the spiced wine Maekar had brought from the hearth.
She lay in the center of the vast mattress, her grey linen shift long since discarded, her bare skin flush against the heavy wool coverlet. The boundaries that had kept them apart for months had dissolved completely into the dark, leaving only the raw, urgent geometry of their three bodies.
It was Baelor who began it, his touch slow and heavy with the lifelong familiarity of their marriage.
He lay on his side facing her, his ruined leg stretched out stiffly, but his upper body alert and tense with a quiet, concentrated focus. His left hand—large, calloused, but incredibly steady—extended to cup her breast, his thumb tracing the swollen contour of her nipple until she let out a low, shuddering breath.
He leaned across the small space between them, his mouth finding hers with a deep, deliberate pressure. It was a kiss that tasted of the old days at Dragonstone—slow, profound, and thoroughly possessive—his tongue sliding against hers with a rhythmic luxury that made her fingers tangle into the high collar of his nightshirt.
Behind her, the mattress groaned under a massive weight. Maekar did not have his brother’s patience; his presence was an iron wall of heat that pressed directly against her spine.
”She is burning, Baelor,“ Maekar growled into the nape of her neck, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
His large, hair-furred arms reached around her waist, his blunt fingers digging into the soft skin of her belly to drag her backward against his groin. He was already bare, thick, and heavy against her backside, his skin radiating the fierce heat of the training yards.
He buried his face in the hollow of her neck, his teeth nipping the sensitive cord of her throat, biting down just hard enough to make her arch her back into his chest.
With an unhurried, royal authority, Baelor broke the kiss but kept his hand anchored on her hip.
”Then open her, Mae. Let us see how much heat she can hold.“
”Baelor–“ she whimpered against the lips that she had kissed since her youth.
Maekar’s massive hand slid down between her thighs, his rough palms scraping the tender skin of her inner legs as he forced them apart. His fingers were blunt and calloused from the hilt of his mace, but they were slick with her own rising moisture as he found her center.
He slid two fingers deep inside her, his thumb pressing hard against her clitoris with a rhythmic, heavy pressure that made her legs tremble.
She cried out into the dim room, her head falling back against Maekar’s massive shoulder as his fingers worked inside her, stretching her tight walls.
At the same time, Baelor shifted his position, dragging his upper body closer until his chest crushed her breasts. He took her right hand, guiding her fingers down between their bodies until she touched his own length—hard, smooth, and pulsing with a frantic beat that belied his physical frailty.
”Hold me,“ Baelor whispered against her wet cheek, his eyes wide and dark in the candlelight.
”Drive the grey out of my bones.“
She gripped him, her palm sliding up and down the familiar, heavy shaft of her husband, her rhythm matching the brutal, frantic speed of Maekar’s fingers inside her.
The contrast was maddening—the smooth, deliberate warmth of Baelor in her hand, and the thick, bruising intrusion of Maekar’s fingers stretching her from behind.
She gasped, her breath catching in her throat as a sharp, tight knot of pleasure began to coil deep in her lower belly.
Maekar groaned—raw, animalistic sound—and withdrew his fingers, replacing them instantly with the heavy, weeping head of his cock. He lifted her left hip with an iron grip, tilting her pelvis up against his thighs, but before he made the final movement, his massive frame locked tight.
Baelor did not blink. His pale eyes met Maekar’s gaze with an absolute, unyielding clarity, his good left hand reaching out to firmly press against the small of his brother’s back, a deliberate, heavy shove that served as his answer.
With that final sanction, Maekar let out a harsh, broken growl and drove into her from behind in a single, unyielding push.
The fullness of him stretched her to the absolute limit, a blunt, hot weight that filled her entirely. She screamed against Baelor’s neck as Maekar began to move, his pace heavy and relentless, his hips slamming against her backside with a dull, rhythmic thud-thud-thud that shook the entire frame of the bed. Every lunge drove her forward into Baelor’s arms.
Baelor received her with a sudden, fierce hunger of his own. As Maekar possessed her from behind, Baelor leaned down, his mouth taking her left breast, his teeth grazing her nipple until she writhed between them.
His left hand slid down to find the sacred delta of his wife. Baelor’s long fingers pressed against her clitoris, adding a precise, intense friction to the brute strength of his brother’s rhythm.
Locked between the two men, she was entirely consumed. She could feel Maekar’s pulse deep inside her gut, his heavy chest heaving against her back like a bellows, while Baelor’s mouth drank her screams and his fingers drove her over the edge.
Her internal muscles clamped tight around Maekar’s shaft, spasming in a violent, long-drawn contraction that pulled a ragged cry from her throat as her orgasm tore through her.
Feeling her clamp down, Maekar let out a harsh, choking rattle. He delivered three more deep, frantic lunges, burying his length into her until his pubic bone cracked against her spine, and then he came—a hot, thick torrent that filled her to the brim, his body shuddering violently before he collapsed forward, pinning her into the mattress.
But they were not done. The heat of their shared release had quickened the room.
Baelor watched them, his breath whistling through his teeth, his eyes glittering with an intensity that looked like fever. He reached down, his large hand locking into Maekar’s hair, tugging his brother’s head back until their eyes met over her shoulder once more.
”Move, Brother,“ Baelor commanded softly, his voice thick with a dark, judicial authority.
”My turn.“
Maekar bared his teeth, but he did not argue. He withdrew from her with a wet, heavy slide, his body slick with sweat and seed. He did not leave the bed; instead, he shifted, his massive arms sliding under her armpits to heave her upper body up, propping her against the heavy velvet bolsters at the head of the bed. He sat behind her, his chest a pillar for her back, his massive legs anchoring her hips from the outside.
Baelor crawled between her knees. Without the strength in his legs to brace himself, he leaned his entire upper body forward, his forearms locking into the mattress on either side of her waist. His chest was heaving, his face pale, but his cock was rigid as iron as he guided himself to her entrance, which was already wet and dripping with Maekar’s seed.
He pushed inside her with a long, slow groan.
The transition was a different kind of agony—Baelor was longer, his movements carried a deep, unhurried weight that searched the very back of her womb. He began to ride her, his upper body swaying, his mouth finding hers again to catch her whimpers.
From behind, Maekar participated in her pleasure.
His large hands came around to grip her breasts, his thumbs rolling her nipples in sync with Baelor’s strokes, his deep voice growling praises into her ear as he watched his brother take her. Maekar’s hips twitched against her backside, the friction of her movements against his own spent flesh keeping him hard.
She closed her eyes, her hands locking into Baelor’s shoulders, her hips rising to meet every deep, agonizingly slow plunge of her husband. She was filled with them both now—Maekar’s seed being driven deeper by Baelor’s relentless pace, the two brothers working in a perfect, silent synchronization that had nothing to do with the laws of the Realm and everything to do with survival.
Baelor’s pace quickened, his breaths turning into short, ragged gasps as his center began to give way. His knuckles went white against the mattress. He buried his face in her hair, his body stiffening as he reached his peak, his hips locking tight against hers as he poured himself into her, mixing his own hot fluid with his brother’s in the deep dark of her body.
He let out a long, shuddering sigh and let his forehead rest against her collarbone, his strength entirely spent.
Maekar’s arms tightened around them both, pulling the King and the Queen back against his massive, warm chest. The three of them lay locked together in the cooling grease of the tallow candles, their breathing a single, ragged cadence that filled the quiet room, completely hidden from the world beyond the door.
The three of them became a single knot of flesh and bone, bound together in the absolute, impenetrable darkness of their chambers—a union so flawlessly hidden that the lords beyond the heavy oak doors saw only a dutiful Hand and a devoted Queen serving their King.
The outside world did not stay beyond the door forever.
By the eighth moon of Baelor’s reign, the Small Council had grown restless. The King was seen more often now—he could attend the Council table three days out of seven, leaning upon his weirwood staff and speaking with the clear, judicial mind that had always characterized him—but the court had noticed the change in the governance.
The Prince of Summerhall had been named Hand of the King, an appointment that had caused many lords to mutter into their wine.
Maekar did not rule like Baelor; he had no patience for the petitions of the smallfolk or the long-winded disputes of the river lords. He sat at the foot of the Council table like a block of iron, his decisions short, sharp, and usually backed by the threat of his garrisons.
Yet those who watched closely saw that the Hand never made a move without the Queen’s counsel.
She had returned to the court after grieving her sons for weeks, but she was no longer the soft lady of the late King’s firstborn son.
She wore gowns of dark, blood-red silk that high-collared to hide the bruises Maekar left upon her throat, her hair braided tight against her skull like a warrior’s helm. She sat in the Council chamber not as a spectator, but as an active partner, her voice cold and precise as she balanced the grain ledgers and directed the distribution of timber to the plague-impoverished smallfolk.
Behind the long cedar table, they maintained a flawless, rigid distance, executing the King’s will with a mechanical precision that left no room for the court to suspect the raw communion of their nights.
But the real rot was not the gossip of the court. It was the inheritance.
The Great Spring Sickness had done more than kill seventy thousand smallfolk; it had taken the top branches off the royal tree. With Valarr and Matarys gone, Baelor had no children. The succession by law would jump to Aerys.
The triad sat together one evening in the private solar, the remnants of a capon dinner cold upon the silver platters. Baelor sat in his high chair, his ruined leg stretched out before him, his fingers tracing the silver filigree of his cane. She sat upon the floor between his knees, her head resting against his good hip, while Maekar stood by the window, watching the rain come down over the harbor.
”We cannot delay the Grand Council another moon,“ Baelor said, his voice flat.
”The lords are demanding to know who will hold the title of Prince of Dragonstone. They want an heir, Maekar.“
Maekar turned from the window. His face was dark in the shadows.
”You have an heir. By the laws of the Realm, it falls to Aerys’ line. And if it happens against all odds that either Aerys or Rheagel die...“
The suggestion hung in the air. It will pass to Maekar’s children.
The Queen let out a short, sharp laugh—a sound that had more teeth than humor.
”Your sons, Maekar? Let us speak of your sons.“
She rose from the floor, her red silk skirts rustling like fire, and walked to the table where the regional reports lay. She picked up a parchment with a heavy black seal from Oldtown.
”Daeron is twenty turnings of the moon,“ she said, her voice dropping into a cruel mimicry of the Grand Maester’s droning.
”The Citadel reports he was found three nights past in a brothel near the Honeywine, so drunk on sour piment he had forgotten his own name and was trying to wager his horse against a dead pig. He screams when the candles are put out because he says the green dragons are crawling out from under his blankets.“
Maekar’s jaw tightened until the bone showed white through his skin.
”He is weak. The wine has taken him. But he is the eldest.“
”And what of the second?“ she hissed, stepping closer to him, her eyes flashing with a dangerous, unstable light.
”What of Aerion? He is cruel and vain. His siblings are scared of him. He should never return from Lys. This Trial was on his behalf. Baelor would still be–“
She struck the table with her palm, the sound like a pistol shot in the small room.
”I will not see that monster sit upon my sons’ Throne,“ she wept, her voice breaking.
”Valarr was gentle. Matarys would have been a knight of the sun. I will not see their seats inherited by a boy who smells of sulfur and burnt meat.“
Baelor bowed his head, his hand gripping the weirwood staff so hard the wood groaned.
”She is right, Brother. Aerion cannot have the Crown. The Realm would not survive him. Lord Rivers tells me that if Aerion were named heir, half the Reach would be in communication with the Blackfyres across the Narrow Sea within the year. They would rather have the bastard’s son than a King who burns children for sport.“
”Then who?“ Maekar growled, his voice rising in anger.
”Aemon is a boy of books; he has already taken his first vows at the Citadel. And Aegon is... he is eight years old, a child who spends his days running wild with the stable-grooms. Do you wish to leave the Iron Throne to a boy who sleeps in the straw?“
”He is better than the alternative,“ Baelor said softly.
”But the lords will not accept a child of eight when there are grown Princes alive. They will smell weakness, Maekar. They will think the King is a cripple and the Hand is a tyrant who cannot govern his own House.“
The three of them looked at each other, the silence in the room suddenly matching the cold dark outside the window. They had built a wall around their grief, but the Crown was an iron cage that demanded a price they had not yet paid.
Baelor was the first to break the stillness, his voice returning to that low, judicial cadence that belonged to the Small Council chamber.
”We cannot leave the line barren, Mae. Aerion breathes the air of Lys, but his shadow still walks the Red Keep. If Daeron remains unanchored...“
He trailed off, the omission heavier than the words. Daeron, Maekar’s eldest, was a boy drowning in wine and terrible, prophetic dreams, entirely unfit to carry the weight of a Kingdom—let alone his own life—without a steady hand beside him.
”You mean to marry him,“ she said softly, her mind instantly connecting her husband’s thoughts. The grief for her own sons was still a raw tear in her throat, but the political reality was a cold stone that had to be swallowed.
”To Kiera.“
Maekar’s jaw tightened, a hard, defensive muscle bunching along his cheek. Kiera of Tyrosh was Valarr’s widow—the girl who had sat in the Great Sept weeping over an empty cradle while the bells tolled for the heir to the Throne.
”She has only just buried her husband,“ Maekar growled, though there was no heat in it, only the heavy weariness of a father who knew his son’s frailties.
”And Daeron... Daeron is not a man who wishes for a wife. He wishes for a cellar where the lights do not wake him.“
”A wife might ease his mind, Mae,“ Baelor countered gently, his eyes tracking the embers in the hearth.
”Kiera knows the court. She knows the quiet sort of sorrow that Daeron carries. If she can give him peace—if she can keep him from the cups long enough to secure the succession—the Realm might look at Summerhall and see a future instead of an open grave.“
She reached out, her fingers brushing the back of Maekar’s hand.
”It is a cruel thing to ask of her, and a harder thing to ask of him. But Baelor is right. If we do not bind Daeron to the Crown with silk, the lords will look to Aerion with iron.“
Maekar let out a long, ragged breath, his forehead dropping against her shoulder as if the weight of his entire House was pressing down on his neck.
”And the others?“ he asked, his voice muffled by the linen of her shift.
”My girls. Rhae and Daella are still in the Septry at Summerhall, asking the Mother why their cousins are dead. And Aegon...“
He swallowed hard, the mention of his youngest—the small, fierce boy they called Egg—bringing a sharp twist of pain to his face.
”He is too young to watch his brothers rot from the wine, and too old to be left in an empty castle with nothing but the ghosts of his mother. I am unable to take care of them. I always was and I am even more now after Dyanna passed.“
”Bring them here,“ Baelor said with absolute finality. He shifted his weight, his good hand coming down to rest over both of theirs, sealing the pact.
”Summerhall is a house of mourning now. Bring the girls to court; the Queen will find maids for them, and we will keep them within the safety of Maegor’s Holdfast. Aegon will remain at your side, Mae. Let him see his father serve the Realm. Let him learn what it costs to keep the Dragon alive.“
She leaned forward, her mouth brushing Baelor’s brow before she turned her face into the crook of Maekar’s neck, her heart breaking for the children who would have to learn the cold geometry of King’s Landing far too soon.
”We will be their fortress,“ she whispered against his skin.
”All of them.“
The space between the cold calculations of the lineage and the candlelight became the final crucible where the old laws died. The heavy oak door remained bolted from within, the hide curtains drawn against the pale courtyard below, trapping the three of them in a warm, sour twilight and the raw salt of their shared grief and burden.
Outside the heavy oak doors, the ruin of their dynasty whispered in the wind, but within these stone walls, the air was thick with the scent of melted wax, spilled spiced wine, and the suffocating weight of an impending end. They were Targaryens—Gods reduced to ash and bone—and the realization that they were the last had finally broken the dam of their restraint.
It was Maekar who broke under the weight first.
With a low, ragged growl that seemed to drag up from the soles of his riding boots, his massive, scarred hands locked onto her waist. The sheer, sudden violence of his movement was not born of anger, but of a terrifying need to anchor himself to something living.
He lifted her effortlessly, the rough wool of her heavy skirts bunching around her hips, exposing the pale curve of her thighs to the dim, amber firelight. He backed her onto the edge of the heavy cedar table. With a sharp, impatient sweep of his arm, he sent a stack of wax-sealed missives, maps, and a heavy silver chalice crashing to the stone floor. The metal clattered and rang, a solitary, desperate sound that died instantly in the quiet of the room as he cleared a space for her on the dark, polished wood.
Baelor did not retreat. Dragging his ruined leg—the permanent physical toll of the battles that had claimed their brothers—the King leaned his weight against the table beside her. His pale face, usually a mask of stoic, judicial resolve, was flushed with a sudden, desperate fever.
His long, elegant fingers, stained with the ink of dead treaties, tangled in the heavy hair at the back of her head, pulling her face up to meet his.
He kissed her with a bruised, drinking hunger, his mouth tasting of the sweet, spiced wine they had shared to numb the grief, while his thumb repeatedly stroked her tear-wet cheek, wiping away the salt of her sorrow only to replace it with his own frantic warmth.
Beside them, Maekar stood between her knees. The heat radiating from his massive, warrior’s frame scorched her bare skin, a stark contrast to the drafty chill of the room. He gripped her thighs with two iron hands, his fingers sinking deep into her flesh, forcing them wide apart until she was completely opened to him, illuminated by the hearth fire.
Maekar looked up her body, his chest heaving under his heavy leather jerkin, his jaw clamped so hard the muscle bunched. For a moment, his dark, tormented eyes searched Baelor’s face, it was a silent, agonizing asking for permission—a lifetime of duty and fourth-son deference warring with a primal, desperate urge to worship what belonged, by law and Crown, to the King.
Baelor did not blink. His pale, violet eyes met Maekar’s dark gaze with an absolute, unyielding clarity. In the wreckage of their world, titles and property meant nothing; there was only survival, and the shared warmth of the few who remained.
His good left hand reached down, his fingers spreading wide to firmly press against the back of his brother’s neck. It was a deliberate, heavy guide, pushing Maekar down—a silent command, and a surrender of his own.
With that final sanction, Maekar dropped his head. He did not free his length from his breeches; instead, he buried his face directly into her wetness.
A sharp, breathless gasp tore from her throat, her back arching off the cold cedar as Maekar’s mouth slammed against her center. His tongue was heavy, wet, and utterly ruthless, driving deep into her opening with a fierce, animalistic hunger that bypassed all courtly gentility.
He licked her from bottom to top, the rough, coarse scratch of his silver-gold beard scraping the tender skin of her inner thighs, leaving them flushed and sensitized. His lips locked around her swollen pearl, sucking it into the hot cave of his mouth with a desperate, bruising intensity that made her vision blur.
Above her, Baelor captured her screams. His mouth sealed over hers, swallowing her cries, tasting her pleasure and her panic as they merged into one. At the same time, Baelor’s left hand slid down between her thighs, his long, pale fingers slicking themselves in the abundant moisture Maekar was drawing from her. With a low, vibrating groan against her lips, Baelor slid two fingers deep inside her. His knuckles rubbed against her sensitive, aching opening as he began to pump them in a slow, agonizingly deep rhythm, setting a deliberate counterpoint to his brother’s frantic pace.
The contrast was overwhelming, fracturing her senses. Inside her, Baelor’s fingers stretched her with a gentle, judicial persistence, moving in and out of her slick warmth with the steady, reassuring rhythm of a tide.
Below, Maekar’s tongue relentlessly lashed and swirled against her clitoris, his large hands anchoring her hips to the wood to keep her from squirming away from the sharp, mounting pleasure.
”Baelor... Maekar...“ she wept into her husband’s mouth, the names blurring together as her fingernails clawed through the heavy scarlet velvet of a doublet, seeking purchase, seeking to pull them both closer, to dissolve the space between them entirely. Her hips arched helplessly off the table, caught between the slow, deep stretch of Baelor’s hand and the hot, frantic friction of Maekar’s mouth.
Maekar’s breathing turned into short, frantic snorts against her wet flesh, his nostrils flaring with the scent of her arousal. Sensing her edge, the tipping point where her whimpers turned into breathless, ragged catches, he slid his own blunt, thick fingers inside her alongside his brother’s.
His rough, calloused knuckles stretched her to her absolute, aching limit. He began to finger her with a rapid, hooking motion, his thumb pressing hard against her pelvic bone to ground her, while his tongue worked her into a desperate frenzy.
The double invasion of Baelor’s smooth, elegant fingers and Maekar’s thick, rough ones, combined with the wet, sucking heat of the mouth on her, shattered her completely.
Her internal muscles clamped down with a violent, spasming tightness, milking the fingers buried deep inside her as a high, broken sob was wrung from her chest. She came hard, her entire body shaking violently on the polished cedar, her fluids pouring out over Maekar’s lips, chin, and beard.
Maekar did not stop. He kept his fingers deep inside her, riding out the violent, rhythmic contractions of her climax, anchoring her to the physical world. At the same time, his tongue continued to lap greedily at her weeping center until her shaking finally began to subside into soft, trembling aftershocks.
Slowly, Baelor withdrew his wet fingers, his breathing shallow and ragged. He rested his forehead against her shoulder, his pale hair mingling with hers, his chest rising and falling in heavy, exhausted syncopation.
Maekar pulled his face away from her groin, his mouth and silver-gold beard glistening wet with her release in the dim, flickering firelight. He reached up, using the back of his hand to wipe his chin, his dark eyes softer now—the frantic, desperate tension finally drained from his massive shoulders.
The three of them lay locked together on the table, a tangle of limbs, velvet, and damp wool— bound together by a secret that kept them alive. The scent of sex, salt, and cedar was heavy in the air, their breathing a single, quiet cadence that the outside world, with all its ruin and judgment, would never hear.
The winter solstice passed, leaving the Red Keep pinned beneath a heavy, grey frost that turned the Blackwater into a sheet of slate.
There was no more shame between them. Maekar took her with a fierce, possessive hunger that seemed to grow with every month of his guilt, his massive body a furnace that kept her from freezing; Baelor held them both, his gentle voice and his cold hands the anchor that kept the ship from drifting into the deep.
It was a late hour during one of their nights, and the solar was warm with the scent of dried peat and spiced wine. Baelor sat at the small table, a mountain of ravens’ scrolls from the Stepstones spread before him, his spectacles balanced on his nose as he tracked the movements of the Tyroshi fleets. Maekar stood behind him, his hand resting casually upon Baelor’s good shoulder, his thumb tracing the seam of his brother’s doublet as he pointed to a line regarding the mercenary contracts.
She sat upon the rug by the hearth, her skirts gathered around her knees, a wooden spindle turning between her fingers as she spun rough wool—not for the court, but for the simple need to keep her hands moving.
Suddenly, the spindle skittered from her fingers. It rolled across the stones and hit the leg of Baelor’s chair with a small clack.
Neither man noticed at first.
”The red sails are shifting toward the Sunspear,“ Maekar was saying, his voice low.
”If the Martells do not strengthen their garrisons—“
He stopped.
The sound that came from the floor was a small, wet gasp.
She had stood up, but she had not made it two steps before her knees buckled. Her face was the color of skimmed milk, her eyes wide and glassy as she gripped the pewter rim of the wash-basin near the door. Her chest heaved once, twice—and then a violent, retching spasm shook her entire body, forcing her down onto her knees as she brought up the remnants of her dinner into the water.
Maekar was across the room before Baelor could even reach for his staff. His massive hands caught her by the waist just as her head was about to hit the stone rim, lifting her back onto her feet and holding her steady against his chest.
”Baelor—call the guards. Get the Maesters,“ he growled, his face full of sudden, sharp panic.
”No!“ she gasped, her hand shooting out to catch Maekar’s collar, her fingers tearing at the wool. She wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve, her breath coming in short, rattling gasps that smelled of sour wine and bile.
”No Maesters. Do not call them.“
Baelor had reached them now, his weirwood cane thumping frantically against the stones, his face pale as he leaned over them.
”My love, you are ill. The sickness has returned. The grey rot—“
”It is not the rot,“ she whispered.
She looked down at her own reflection in the fouled water of the basin, then slowly, with hands that shook like dry leaves in a gale, she let go of Maekar’s collar and placed both her palms flat against her lower belly.
The room went so still they could hear the wax dripping from the candles onto the table three paces away.
Baelor’s eyes left her face and drifted down to her hands. His mouth opened slightly, his breath catching in his throat with a sharp, whistling sound.
”My love...“
She looked up, her eyes locking onto Maekar’s face, then shifting to Baelor’s.
Her belly was soft beneath the red silk, but beneath the flesh, there was a sudden, tiny thrumming—a pulse that did not belong to her, a second heartbeat that was quick and fierce as a bird in a net.
The quickening had returned.
Maekar let out a breath that sounded like a groan, his massive hand coming down over hers, his fingers digging into the silk until he could feel the warmth of her skin. His eyes were wide, full of a terrifying, holy confusion.
”Whose?“ he whispered, the word leaving his lips before he could stop it—the old, forbidden question that they had buried beneath five moons of silence.
”Baelor’s... or mine?“
She looked between them—the King whose Crown was a heavy burden, and the Brute who had broken him to hold it. She let out a short, wet laugh, her tears finally breaking through, hot and clean against her skin.
”Does it matter?“ she whispered, her voice dropping into the deep, quiet dark of the room.
”It is a Targaryen. It is the blood of the Dragon. It is legally Baelor’s, it is biologically ours, and it is a gift from the Gods… an heir—a child after all the loss.“
She took Baelor’s hand and drew it into the circle of their flesh, until the three of them were bound together over her womb, their hearts keeping time against each other in the winter night.
”We will tell the Council it is a miracle,“ she said, her smile sharp and dangerous as a razor.
”We will tell them the Seven have looked down upon the King and restored his House. And if any man looks too closely at the child’s eyes... we will let Maekar teach him how to see.“
Summary: Years ago, Maekar chose another woman and you both went your separate ways, your brief love story ending before it ever really had the chance to begin. You hadn’t seen him in years and hadn’t thought much about him since, but when he sees you again, he starts to wonder if he made the right choice after all.
Pairing: Regretful! Maekar x Unavailable! Stark! reader
WC: 7.5k
18+, non-canon, dragons are still alive (maekar rides vermithor and baelor rides meleys), reader has a direwolf and so do her siblings, council drama, smut, maekar is questionable, dyanna is still alive and so is jena, arguments, mentions of violence, talks of depression, hurt, angsty, unresolved feelings, fade to black at the end, descriptions of grief, timeksips, slightly proofread.
Part 6/6| part one part two part three part four part five
Wildlings were in Winterfell, an unexpected and brutal attack. They were the reason for the meetings, the whispers, and worry— but no one had expected an attack so soon.
In the chaos— steel clashed, dragons roared, and people were hurt, People were killed.
You laid in the snow just a few inches away from Lyonel, both of you unconscious and severely injured. A moment that had been lovely a few seconds prior had turned into a nightmare.
Your blood seeped into the snow around you, your pulse seeming to slow more as the moments passed.
Maekar fought and killed as many wildlings as he could, rushing to get to you.
He could not lose you too, it would kill him.
Wintefell was left in disarray after that ambush, bodies laid amongst the snow, things still burning from Caraxes fire, the small children scared to leave their chambers.
You and Lyonel were both carried into your chambers, Maekar rushing to get the aide of a Maester.
"Please, do not leave me here alone. Do not leave our daughter." Maekar pleaded, holding your hand.
Your breathing was shallow, three arrows sticking out from you. If no one had known any better they would've assumed that you were a target.
After the arrows were removed, they were examined— trying to figure the best course of treatment for such wounds.
"My prince, it is difficult to say whether or not she could overcome these." The Maester stammered.
"You will fucking save her, that is all there is to it." Maekar roared.
Baelor placed his hand on Maekar's shoulder, trying to remind him of his manners.
"What of Ser Lyonel?" Baelor questioned.
The Maester held the bowl of warm water in his hands, setting it down on the closet table to him.
"His wounds are similar, yes— but one of the arrows we believe struck his liver."
Baelor and Maekar shared a look.
"A poisonous arrow to the liver is seldom survivable." The Maester added.
Maekar took another step, scaring the man.
"You will save both of them. I will not lose her and she cannot lose him.. she has been through enough."
"They will do all that they can to heal both of them, but all we can do is wait." Baelor reminded him.
You laid in your bed, the shutters closed, the room chilled from the cold outside — hoping to break your fever.
Maekar sat in the chair beside your bed, his eyes stuck on you. He hadn't ever seen you get sick before, not truly. You always joked with him, telling him that northerners didn't get sick— you were immune to it. It was a jape that you kept going, but this time you were injured and sick. Each hour being a gift from the Gods.
If you were to succumb to your injuries, how would he go on? What would he do? How could he explain the magnitude of that loss to his daughter?
He felt completely helpless, watching you lay there suffering at the hands of some pathetic wildling. After what they did to you, your home, the people who were visiting— he cut off the head of every dead wildling and fed them to the dragons.
He watched as their jaws clamped onto their heads, bursting them like pumpkins.
The hours flowed into one another, the light from the outside fading into darkness. A darkness that was accompanied by firelight.
Maekar had very little time to reconcile with your words from the last conversation, the words where you admitted that you chose Lyonel. His years of hope and of regret turned into ash in his mouth. He was not angry that you chose Lyonel, he was angry with himself.
He wanted you to be happy and that meant swallowing his pride and letting you go—it meant praying to gods that he didn't believe in for Lyonel's recovery, it meant watching you live your days out in Storms End.
Your father came into the room, a wound on his shoulder from the blade of a Wildling. He limped to your bedside, his eyes flickering over a bruised and grief stricken Maekar.
"She would appreciate you being here by her side." Your father spoke, taking a seat on the other side of the bed.
"She doesn't deserve to be here..”
"laying here in this bed, like this." Maekar trailed off.
Your father rubbed your hand, the warmth of your skin a bit of a shock to him.
"We should only be glad that the royal family was here, with your dragons. If this had of happened while you were gone, they would've ripped through Winterfell."
Maekar scoffed.
The door to your chambers being opened once more as Greywind was let in— laying at the foot of the bed.
"Where is Rhaenyra?" Maekar questioned.
"She is with Lady Jena, along with Aegon and Rhae. The rest of the family are where they were after the chaos."
There was a silence afterwards, a silence that said all the words that either of them could say.
While you laid there, it was as if a fire had consumed you from the inside— your body trying so hard to fight off the poison.
It had been days with no end in sight for you or Lyonel, no signs of either of you getting better— only staying the same.
They allowed Rhaenyra to come see you as she had asked for you on numerous occasions, crying for you. Maekar held her in his lap, while he sat in the chair by your bed and told her stories about you.
He wouldn't leave your side for anything. He tasked Baelor with informing him of any new information being told at the meetings— now that their father would be in attendance.
Another day had gone by, another day where everyone around you moved to clean up your home. No one knew what would come next and your fathers heart hadn't beat in his chest properly, since you were hurt.
Before the attack, you had so many regrets that you could've listed off— things that you should've done, words you shouldn't have said, hesitations that changed your life, but now they didn't matter. They were merely vapors in the air, now that you fought to wake up again.
Maekar sat in the chair holding your hand, the heat radiating from your skin.
He found himself praying, something he had never done— but for you, he'd make any promises that he could in return for your health. He'd beg, even.
Lyonel was in his own chambers, recovering at the same rate as you.
Maekar had him brought back to your chambers.
The Maesters recommended that being beside one another could heal the two you, your love prevailing over the poison. It was a ludicrous suggestion, completely nonsensical— but what if they were right?
Their words rolled in his stomach as if he too had been poisoned, but he agreed.
While laying side by side in the bed, Lyonel's hand found yours— your heartbeats in sync.
"We are hopeful, my prince." The Maester spoke, standing in the hall.
"Lord Baratheon's fever has gone down, we're hoping Lady Stark's will follow."
Maekar huffed, scratching his brow.
"It has been nine days, three with them laying side by side in the bed together and all you are is "hopeful"?"
The Maester's confidence fell at his words.
"Yes.. yes, my prince. We are hopeful, hopeful that this posion will have no lasting effect and that it is almost out of their systems."
Maekar walked away, muttering curse words about the incompetency of him.
Three days later…
The brightness of the morning had crept in slowly, the cold breeze coming along with it.
People were moving around Winterfell, most of them anxious about what the day would bring— trying to resume back to their normal lives.
A funeral had been held for the people who died during the attack, the smell of burnt flesh still lingering in the air.
A maid had come into your room that morning as they always did, cleaning up around you and Lyonel as the two of you recovered. They wanted the room to be tidy and fresh smelling once you woke up.
"Goodmorning, Lady Stark, Lord Baratheon." The maid muttered. She still spoke even when she was unsure that the two of you could hear her.
She grabbed the dirty linen from beside the bed after she opened the shutters, a gasp escaped her lips as she took a glimpse at the bed— stepping closer.
The door to your chambers shut with a faint click, the maid rushing down the hall with the linen. Heat flooded her cheeks as she looked for Maekar, tears pricking her eyes.
Maekar had been forced to attend a council meeting that morning, a meeting that King Daeron deemed necessary. He could hardly focus during the meeting, because he wasn't by your side as he had been.
The maid knocked nervously against the council room door.
"Come in!" King Daeron shouted.
She wiped her tears, slowly opening the door.
The door opened to a full council meeting, all eyes were on her.
It was as if her words in that moment had escaped her, her chest rising and falling fast— everyone confused.
Maekar rose from his seat, his brows furrowed—"what is the matter, girl?"
She spoke, her sentences broken by the sobs that left her.
People hurriedly moved around your room, handling tasks that you were unaware of. Maekar held your hand through it all, hoping that you'd come back to him.
ꕀ
The hour of the wolf was there, that next day— another day where Maekar slept in the chair beside your bed.
The room was warm, the crackle of the fire slowly coming into your hearing.
Greywind slept at the foot of the bed, barely willing to let anyone approach you that day. He'd been guarding you more than he ever had for some reason.
Your eyes slowly opened, feeling heavy as if they had been sewn shut. It was hard to process where you were, because the last thing that you remembered was walking alongside Lyonel.
Your mouth was dry, your throat sore like it had been clawed from the inside.
Your eyes flickered over your room, your eyes meeting a sleeping Maekar in the chair beside you.
"Ma..Maekar." You spoke, your voice hoarse.
He continued sleep.
You adjusted in the bed, trying to prop yourself up with what little strength you had. A wince left your mouth, your hand flying to bandages on your body.
"Maekar." You mumbled.
His eyes fluttered open, figuring that he was just hearing things. His eyes widened when he saw you trying to sit up in the bed.
He jumped from his chair, coming to your side.
"I'm so glad that you are awake—"
"What happened? Why am I bandaged up?" You questioned, interrupting him.
He sat on the edge of the bed, grabbing your hand and holding it in his.
"There was an attack on Winterfell by the Wildlings, they had somehow managed to make it over the wall." He admitted.
Your eyes widened, your heartbeat quickening as panic raced through your veins.
"Father?—"
"Rhaenyra? Where's our daughter?"
He held your hand, "they are okay. We suffered some loses, but mostly everyone was unharmed."
You took a deep breath, feeling some relief— but also realizing that you were hurt during the midst of the attack.
Your brows raised, "where's Lyonel? I wish to see him."
Maekar's smile disappeared, a look of guilt overtaking his face instead.
He hesitated, something that was unlike him.
You pulled your hand from his, "what is the matter?"
He still hesitated, unable to find the right words— his heart feeling like it was being squeezed in his chest.
"Lyonel was shot by arrows the same as you, the arrows were coated in poison. It was the reason that the two of you had been unconscious for so long.."
"I must go see him then." You spoke, moving the sheets from you and preparing to leave the bed.
Maekar's hand grabbed yours again with a firm grip, your eyes flickering to his.
"Lyonel.. died three days ago—"
"The maid realized that he was dead in the bed beside you, when she came to tidy the room."
You angrily yanked your hand from his, a scowl on your face.
"That's not fucking funny, Maekar."
Your chest rose and fell fast, Maekar's eyes struggling to meet yours.
Tears fell from your eyes, your hand flying to cover your mouth.
You pushed yourself up from the bed, exerting all of your energy.
"You shouldn't leave the —"
Your feet felt foreign agasint the cold stone, a feeling that your body struggled to register. You stumbled to the door, opening it and stumbling down the hall towards Lyonel's chambers.
Tears stained your cheeks, because Maekar was wrong—maybe he was trying to be cruel because you didn't choose him.
Maekar followed you, feeling guilty as sin while he watched you limp to Lyonel's room. This time he had nothing to feel guilty for, but in his mind he begged the gods to give him all the grief that you would experience.
You made it to his room, pressing your body against the door for support as you pulled on the handle. You shut the door behind you before Maekar could enter.
Lyonel's room was cold, only the moonlight from the window shining in.
You could see him, laying still in his bed— looking sound asleep.
"Lyonel?" You called out, your voice shaky.
You slowly approached the bed in measured steps and when you reached his side, it was as if a knife had sliced through your heart.
Your lip trembled when you saw him, your tears flowing down your face and neck.
Your hand found his and it was shockingly cold. You slowly pulled yourself into bed with him, laying your head on his chest one last time.
"You weren't supposed to leave me here.. you promised us." You cried.
Your tears wet his face as you pressed yours against his, "I love you, I love you, I love you so much.. please come back."
Maekar jumped outside the door as the wail that tore from your lungs startled him. It was the most earth shattering cry that he'd ever heard, a scream that came deep from within.
Baelor, Jena, and your father rushed from their chambers at the sound of the loud scream— wondering what had happened. They saw Maekar standing outside of Lyonel's chambers and their hearts dropped.
Your father approached the door, a deep hesitation filling his bones. He never wanted to see you cry, let alone grieve the man that you had just begged him to allow you to marry.
He slowly opened the door, seeing you hover over Lyonel's body as you sobbed. He walked in and shut the door behind him.
"Are you alright, brother?" Baelor asked.
Maekar shrugged, "how can I possibly be fine and her world just crumbled into pieces? She is the love of my life and I only want her to be happy, yet that was snatched away by the the stranger."
"This is not your fault." Jena chimed in.
Maekar scoffed, "that matters very little."
Baelor and Jena left, but Maekar and your father stayed. They stayed by your side, refusing to leave you alone in your grief.
You laid beside Lyonel for hours after you cried yourself to sleep, refusing to leave his side beforehand. Once you were sound asleep, your father had Maekar carry you back to your chambers— locking the door to Lyonel's room behind him.
Your room felt empty when you woke back up, but so did you.
Lyonel was dead and you didn't even get to finish the conversation with him.
You cried when you woke up, the tears running along the bridge of your nose.
Lyonel was good to you, he was kind, he was gentle, and he loved Rhaenyra like she was his own. He was everything that you had prayed for and you waited, you waited too fucking long and now he was gone.
You dragged your feet on the one person who never dragged theirs when it came to you and your daughter.
It was your fault.
The light from the shutters peaked through some of the slits, the light shining onto the sheets on your bed.
You laid there and minutes, hours, possibly even days had passed. It didn't matter, it all felt the same.
A never ending nightmare.
There was a knock on the door.
The door opened slowly, Maekar standing in the doorway holding Rhaenyra.
You glanced at him and then brought your eyes back towards the sheets on your bed.
He shut the door behind him, walking over to the seat.
"She's been inconsolable today, the Maester assumes that maybe she just doesn't feel well."
"Hmm." You groaned, turning in the bed— facing the window.
"I figured that you might like to see her, now that you're awake."
You just laid there, listening to Rhaenyra babble and closed your eyes.
"I do not wish to see her."
Rhaenyra grabbed at Maeakar's beard, a frown on his face.
"You've finally awoken after days, days of her not being able to spend time with you."
"No." You mumbled.
"Mama, mama." Rhaenyra whined.
Maekar stood up from the chair, "are you sure?"
You ignored him, answering his question. After a moment the door opened and then gently shut behind the two of them.
The pain that you felt was a pain that had consumed you, every fiber of your being consumed by the thought of him. His scent still lingered in your bed, his laugh still felt like it echoed off the walls, his cloak was still in the chair across the room.
He was your moon and you were his sun, two things that were never meant to live without eachother.
He would be the biggest loss of your life.
You stayed in your chambers, the food outside of your door left untouched, the maids sent away, your daughter also sent away. You kept yourself in complete solitude and darkness.
Two days later..
You sat in the tub, your knees pulled to your chest in the hot water.
The gold doe necklace that Lyonel had made pressed against your skin.
"My lady, would you like help?" Elaena asked, holding the rag.
"No, I can do it just fine." You replied, taking it from her hands.
"Very well." She spoke with a smile, standing up and leaving the room.
Your hands trembled as you dragged the rag across your skin, the soap lathering— the scent of cherry and vanilla moving throughout the air.
With the way that you felt, you wanted to hold your breath and let the water in the tub take you away. You wanted to drift off to a place where didn't experience any of this, where you didn't hesitate.
Your fingers gripped into the rag, scrubbing your skin— scrubbing raw and hoping to feel more than what you did in that moment.
You took your time while in the bath, longer than you normally did. Instead of climbing back into the bed like you wanted to, you dried yourself off and got dressed.
Putting on your gown took effort, deep breaths, and tears but you managed. After what took longer than it should've, you were dressed and you braided your hair.
You turned the handle to your door, opening it slowly.
As you walked down the halls, servants stared, gave fake smiles, and whispered under their breath.
ꕀ
In the council room— Baelor, Maekar, your father, and King Daeron sat around the table.
"She cannot be allowed to wallow in her grief." Baelor spoke, twisting the green ball in front of him.
"She's hardly wallowing, it's only been a few days." Maekar pointed out.
Daeron sat there, his fingers clasped in front of him.
"Lady Stark needs time, but we do not have it. After such things have occurred here, we should be departing soon."
Your father glanced at King Daeron.
"We are hardly whole and you speak of leaving?"
"You can leave, if you wish father. I will be staying." Maekar protested.
"The royal family has more than one obligation, Lord Stark. We will discuss the matters that are prevalent and help with any small tasks that you might need, but we must return home."
"Maekar, you cannot stay. You have six children that you need to attend to." Baelor reminded him.
"Seven.. I have seven children." Maekar corrected.
Daeron sat up in his chair.
"Yes, you have seven children— which is why you will not stay. You won't have to stay, because Lady Stark will be coming with us."
Everyone's eyes met Daeron's.
"Father—"
"I have had far more than I can take. Lord Baratheon is now.. unfortunately dead. Which means that there is nothing stopping the union between her and Maekar." He declared.
"This is fucking nonsense, we don't have to—"
"Yes, you do, Maekar! It would be foolish of me and everyone else here to act like the two of you weren't still in love. She was going to marry Lord Baratheon, yet the two of you still frolicked around like teenagers." Daeron roared.
"I am not sure my daughter will be up to a wedding so soon, especially after such heartbreak." Your father cautioned.
"It does not have to be immediately, but it will happen." Daeron replied.
You knocked at the council room door.
"You may enter." Baelor called out.
You opened the door, all of them admittedly surprised to see you standing in front of them— dressed and not crying.
You stepped in, shutting the door.
"Daughter, I didn't expect you to be out of your room today." Your father confessed.
Your fingers pressed against the necklace as you stood in front of them.
"Well, I couldn't spend forever in my room. I have a child to take care of.”
"To what do we owe the visit, Lady Stark?" Baelor questioned.
You brought your hands back down to your side, biting your tongue.
"I wanted to talk about Lyonel's funeral—"
"I would like it to be just me and Rhaenyra present, something small."
"You don't want anyone else attending?" Your father pried, a confused look on his face.
"No one here knew Lyonel as deeply as I did, none of you in this room probably even liked him.. I just don't want our last moments to be surrounded by people who do not care."
"We do care." Daeron chimed in.
You scoffed, feigning a smile and trying to keep from becoming overwhelmed.
"You care to the extent that I do. You care, because I cry and because I'm sad. You do not care because you cared about Lyonel or loved him. "
The room fell silent, only the sounds of the fire crackling and the wind howling filling the gap.
"What do you want done with his remains?" Maekar interrupted.
"I'd like to keep them."
Daeron and your father nodded in agreement. You left the room afterwards, shutting the door behind you.
Three days later..
The gods had granted Winterfell with even more snow as if there wasn't enough already. Despite the snow, the sun was out with flurries falling to the ground.
Maekar stood behind you, dressed in his funeral attire— holding Rhaenyra in his arms.
Vermithor stood near the pyre as you walked closer.
Your pressed your hands against the wood, leaning close to Lyonel's body.
"One day, when I leave here— I will find you. I will find you every chance that I get." You whispered.
Your fingers instinctively grabbed your necklace, touching Lyonel's ring that was now attached to it.
Tears fell from your eyes as you glanced back at Maekar, giving him the go ahead.
"Dracarys." Maekar grumbled.
Vermithor stepped closer, opening his mouth—the pit in your stomach twisting into something unimaginable.
The fire consumed him and all you could do was watch.
Watch as your sweet late night conversations disappeared in the wind, watch as the promises you once made faded away, watch as your once possible future slipped through your fingers.
You watched the man that you loved so deeply burn, while the one that you never stopped loving stood behind you— holding your daughter.
Your life was complex, but despite everyone's comments— Lyonel was willing to accept it and make you his wife.
The cold had become too much for Rhaenyra, so Maekar took her inside— but you stayed. You stayed and watched until the flames went out, until there was nothing but smoke swirling in the air.
It felt as if a dream, a dream where Lyonel would come laugh at you for being worried about such a thing. It was not a dream, even when you dug your nails into your palms wanting to wake up— you didn't.
ꕀ
Despite wanting to be the only one who attended his funeral, that did not stop them from holding feast in the dining hall.
"To the laughing storm!" Lord Commander Robin cheered, the ale spilling from his cup onto the table.
The dining hall erupted full of cheers and loud banging on the tables.
You sat in your chambers in the chair, staring into the fireplace with your goblet filled with wine. You didn't want to be part of that "feast". A feast for a man that most of them didn't bother truly getting to know.
Everyone attended, but you.
You drank your sorrows away, wishing to be left alone.
There was a knock at your door, a knock that you ignored.
Another knock followed.
"Go away!" You yelled.
The door opened, a thud following after as it shut.
Maekar walked towards your chair, coming into your view.
"Why are you not present at the feast?" He asked.
His eyes glanced at the half empty goblet of wine, a sudden realization washing over him.
"I am not needed there." You replied.
"You think sitting here, drinking yourself into a stupor is what you should be doing?"
You brought the cup to your lips again, taking another sip.
"Fuck off, Maekar. I don't need you to barge in here and control what I do."
He scoffed.
"I am worried about you, everyone here is.. you're barely eating, still haven't spent much time with our daughter, you're isolating yourself."
"I will be fine, I just want to be alone." You mumbled.
"You are not fine!—"
"Lyonel has died, he's dead and he'll never come back. That doesn't mean that you need follow him." Maekar snapped.
Your eyes felt as if they were going to pop from your skull at his words.
"How dare you?—"
You stood up, stepping closer to him.
"You cannot fathom it, can you? Fathom that I chose him over you, that I am distraught that he's dead, that I cared about him more than you could've ever cared about your own wife!" You spat.
His shoulders pulled back, his brows furrowed.
"I beg your pardon?—"
"I did fucking care about Dyanna, you know how complicated things were! Don't be cruel."
You laughed bitterly.
"I never stopped loving you and it has cost me.. everything."
His expression softened, staring at you blinking away your tears.
"Losing Lyonel is not everything—"
"It's not just about Lyonel, Maekar! It's about how my life is a doll tragedy. I am a mother to a bastard—"
"Don't." He sternly corrected.
"I lost the man that I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with, yet I still stand in front of you and still feel things for you!—"
"What is wrong with me?" You stammered, bringing your hand to your mouth.
Maekar stepped closer, his chest pressed against you. He brought his hand to your face, wiping the tears that fell.
"You are human, my love. You are not perfect nor is anyone here. Do not beat yourself up over a moral standard that you've created for yourself. Lyonel loved you, I love you, and your family loves you. That’s all that should matter.”
You pressed your head against his doublet, your tears staining the fabric.
"I know that they want me to marry you." You spoke, voice barely above a whisper.
Maekar looked down at you and your eyes met his as you glanced up through your tears.
"Where did you hear that?"
"I heard the conversation before I knocked on the door.. I'll do it, I won't protest it." You conceded.
Maekar stepped back, "you do not have to. I can talk to father and get him to understand."
You wiped your tears and shook your head.
"He is the king and in his eyes, he's been more than understanding. I am unwed with a child bore to the prince and the prince is a widower—"
"I cannot stay here anymore, it doesn't feel like my home."
"I will not force to you marry me." Maekar argued.
"I am not being forced.. because I still love you and I don't know how to process it, how to accept it. I feel as if I've lost one great love, while still tethered to another.. I just cannot lose you too."
He pulled you into a tight hug, his hand rubbing the back of your head.
Neither of you knew what the rest of your life would like, but it wasn't something that needed to be decided at that moment.
The two of you spent the rest of the night in your chambers, Maekar holding you as you cried throughout the night.
In the weeks that followed, you and Maekar slowly began to find a rhythm. It wasn't perfect, but it worked for the both of you.
You put a cloth around Rhaenyra's neck as she ate the bowl of oats in front of her.
"Why must the fucking ceremony be held this afternoon when the sun is about to go down?" Maekar grumbled.
You ate the pomegranate that sat in front of you.
"I suppose your father finds it to be a more reasonable hour."
He rolled his eyes.
"Ah, yes— spend the entire night fucking celebrating when we have to leave in the morning."
"Well, they can spend the entire night celebrating— but I will be in my chambers after eating." You smirked.
Rhaenyra pushed the bowl of oats from in front of her, shaking her head.
"Kepa." She spoke, pointing at the biscuit on his plate.
"She's getting better at using High Valyrian, pretty soon she'll be better than most of your family." You teased with a smile.
Maekar put jam onto the biscuit and pushed the plate to Rhaenyra, "do you want me to cut it?"
She shook her head, her small fingers reaching for the biscuit.
"You shouldn't only talk to her in High Valyrian. I don't always use that language." Maekar pointed out.
You wiped your mouth with the cloth in front of you.
"I want her to learn, she will never learn if she doesn't hear her family speak it regularly. If I can speak it, then there should be no reason that she cannot."
"Fine, have it your way.” He caved.
The feeling of knowing that within a few hours you'd be married to Maekar was odd, it was something unexplainable. You would've never figured that he would've been back in your life and that the two of you would have a daughter together. You could only hope that the life she'd have would make all of this worth it.
"Once we finish breakfast, you should come with me to feed the dragons. They will need heavy meals tonight." Maekar mentioned.
"I will come, but I fed Silverwing and Caraxes earlier. I had to wait for the rest of the meat to get here for Vermithor and Meleys." You added.
"Do you have preparations for Greywind?"
You grabbed the other pomegranate on the table.
"As much preparation as there is available. He is meant for the cold, so I'm not sure how well this will work. However, if he declines in any capacity he will be brought back immediately.."
"I just don't want to leave him, he'll he lost without me."
Maekar rubbed your hand.
"He will adjust to Summerhall. I do not anticipate that it will be too harsh on him."
ꕀ
The wedding ceremony between you and Maekar was far from traditional. It was a ceremony that no one had prepared for on that trip. It wasn't luxurious and full of parades, events, and people traveling from all over like how they normally did. It was a smaller scale, it was with your family, his family, and a handful of guests.
The daylight had begun to fade as everyone waited near the weirwood tree for you and Maekar to make your entrance.
You stood in your chambers, dressed in your gown staring at yourself in the mirror. You looked like a younger version of your mother.
The thought of being married should've made you happy, you should've been over the moon— but you felt sick to your stomach.
You felt guilty and scared, not happy.
The room felt like it was closing in on you, your gown was too tight, and everything felt wrong.
Maekar knocked on the door as he realized that you were taking longer than expected.
"Are you alright?"
You felt like you couldn't breathe, your fingers rushing to undo the laces on your gown.
Maekar opened the door, rushing in as he saw you in a panicked state.
"What's wrong? Has something happened?" He fretted.
Tears flowed down your cheeks as you grabbed onto him.
"We shouldn't.. we shouldn't do this."
He looked at you with a confused look on his face, "what are you talking about?"
"I can't chance something happening to you." You cried.
It was then that realization hit him. You were terrified of what could happen, because of what happened to you and Lyonel.
He held you, giving you a kiss on the forehead.
"I am not going anywhere, that I promise."
You couldn't explain what came over you or why you felt that way. It was truly something that you uad never experienced before. The feeling made you feel like you were back in that moment with Lyonel, trapped in a moment that you couldn't change.
You took a bit longer than expected to collect yourself, but Maekar didn't mind. He stayed by your side and reassured you as he helped you lace up your gown again.
"I'm right here, my love." He whispered.
The two of you eventually walked outside together, holding hands as you approached the Weirwood tree.
King Daeron and Queen Myriah stood in the front row, watching with joy at the union of two great houses— something they'd hoped would have happened years ago.
Baelor and Jena stood alongside them, Baelor holding Rhaenyra— helping her see the two of you. Egg waved at you as you walked closer, a wide smile on Valarr’s face, Aerion rolled his eyes with boredom.
Since, you followed the Old Gods and Maekar technically followed the new— you just followed the way of the Old Gods. You didn't need a septon present, just witnesses.
You and him had decided to say your vows in High Valyrian, the one thing that brought the two of you closer years ago. He taught you, making sure that you were fluent and could talk to him without everyone always understanding.
Your vows were sealed with a kiss, cheers and clapping erupting as you sealed your new life. You were now part of the royal family and you had decided to take the Targaryen last name as well. It was uncommon in practice, but not unheard of.
After the ceremony—the dining hall was filled with music, laughter, wine, and conversation. You and Maekar sat at the center of the front table, people making their way forward to say congratulations.
"Congratulations, my prince and my lady. I wish the two of you a long and happy union." Lord Arryn spoke.
You smiled.
"Thank you, Lord Arryn. I am glad that you were here to witness our wedding."
Maekar glanced at you, an annoyed look on his face.
"How many people are going to come up here and say the same fucking thing?" He grumbled.
You glanced up at him, "be nice."
Although you weren't a fan of being the center of attention nor with pretending to be happy with so many people now approaching you, your husband hated it more than you. He complained during most of the dinner.
You and Maekar left everyone to continue enjoying the food and drinking— both of you put Rhaenyra to bed and then retreated to your chambers.
When you shut the door to your room, a sigh escaped your lips— "finally." You mumbled to yourself.
Maekar began pulling his boots off.
"We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow." He griped.
"Aye, we do."
The fire crackled, an intense warmth against your skin as you began to take off your gown.
"You are my husband now." You pointed out, allowing your gown to fall from your shoulders and to your feet.
"That I am." He responded as he turned to you.
You stood in front of him in just your shift, your hair covering part of your face.
He stared at you, not just because of arousal— but because you looked like the most beautiful thing in the world to him.
Instead of both of you going to bed as you should've been, neither of you couldn't keep your hands off of each other. You spent hours underneath him, on top of him, facing away from him— reaching your peak multiple times and crying out his name.
You slept good that night, but it was nowhere near enough.
ꕀ
That following morning, you dragged yourself from the bed and prepared to leave.
Maekar had already gotten up and left your room.
Your room felt different compared to how it had before, looking for the missing things that were packed in your trunk.
That had been your room since you were born and a room that you figured that you would've grown old in, but there you stood— preparing to say goodbye to Winterfell.
You didn't worry about breaking your fast, you got dressed and made your way to your fathers chambers.
The servants and staff said their goodbyes to you as you walked passed them, each of them wishing you well.
Your father stood in the hall, talking to Baelor as you approached.
"Ah, well maybe next time then. Once again, thank you for having us, Lord Stark." Baelor spoke with a smile, shaking your fathers hand.
He walked towards you, "we will be leaving shortly. Rhaenyra is with the other children and we're letting Greywind roam a bit before crating him."
You nodded, continuing to walk towards your father.
Your father had a smile on his face, the same one that he always did when he'd see you.
"I was just on my way to come find you." He mentioned.
You grabbed his hand, a small smile on your face.
"I hate that I am leaving you, I wish that you could come with me."
Your father laughed, bringing his hand to your face.
"You will be just fine without me. I can manage here without you, if it means that you get to go have a life."
Your eyes welled with tears, no amount of blinking stopping them from flowing.
"I will write to you as much as I can.. I will come visit again soon."
He gripped your hand.
"Daughter, listen to me. You do not have to rush back to visit me nor write me all the time, it is your time to live. You have another chance, so do it—"
"Live for you, for Rhaenyra!"
You hugged him, squeezing him tight as if it would be the last time that you'd see him again— because maybe it would be.
"I love you, father."
He rubbed your head, his smile never leaving his face.
"I love you too and I am proud of you, so very proud."
You were scared to let go of him, because letting go meant accepting that Winterfell wouldn't be your home anymore— that he'd be far away from you.
The two of you held the hug for a moment longer until you pulled away, wiping your tears.
"I guess that I should get going."
"Yes, you don't want to miss your ride from here." He teased.
You walked away from him, hopeful for your future— but grieving the new change.
Outside, everyone stood around— doing last minute checks as you prepared to leave.
You made your way over to Maekar as he fussed at Vermithor for one thing or another.
Maekar noticed your wet face, "everything alright?"
You nodded, putting your gloves on.
The staff and servants stood outside of Winterfell watching as the horses began taking off. Aerion and Valarr's dragons ascended in the air as they also took off.
"Are you ready? Do you have everything?" Maekar questioned one last time.
"Yes, I'm ready."
You climbed onto Vermithor, a familiar feeling from many years ago. Maekar climbed in front of you, sitting down and instructing you to wrap your hands around him.
Vermithor groaned, giving a big shake as he took off— bringing both of you into the air.
It had been a long time since you were last on dragon back, but the feeling was still surreal— being off the ground and in the clouds.
You glanced down below, watching as your home and family faded into the distance.
Several moons later…
Living in Summerhall was an adjustment for not just you, but Rhaenyra as well. It was odd waking up beside Maekar every morning in a different place from where you once lived.
Things were good, great even. You had finally accepted your past, but also accepted that you couldn’t change it— all you could do was move on.
You were going into your marriage and this new area of life with a happy outlook.
Everything was fine, until you got sick.
You didn't think much of it, thought that it might have been a bug of some sort. It wasn't until you were sick every morning that it dawned on you.
You hadn't had your moon blood since before you left Winterfell.
The Maester confirmed what you had prayed wasn't true, you were with child. It should've been lovely news for a newly wed woman, but not for you. You couldn't pinpoint when you conceived, so it could've been Lyonel's or Maekar's.
As if suffering his loss wasn't cruel enough, he might've left you with a parting gift.
When you told Maekar, you were terrified, a sobbing mess— but he wasn't angered. He hugged you and held you as you cried, because he knew that it wasn't intentional. He also understood that you could've never predicted that this would happen.
"No matter who the child looks like, it's ours. It will be raised as ours and loved just like the rest." He assured you.
That was the only thing that kept you going during the pregnancy. His promise and the hope that it was his child instead.
ꕀ
Your skin was covered in sweat, your hair pressed against your forehead.
"I can't do this, Maekar." You cried out.
He pushed your hair from your face, "yes, you can."
"You've brought me one healthy babe before, I know that you can do it again."
Your doe necklace glistened in the light from your sweat.
Your labor this time had been slow, unbearably slow.
The Maester checked you one last time, adjusting your shift.
"It's time, we're going to prepare for you to start pushing."
You looked at Maekar, a scared look on your face.
"I'm not ready.. I'm not—"
"What if it's not yours?" You panicked.
He rubbed your forehead and grabbed your hand, "that doesn't matter. The child will be loved all the same, I promise. You're so close, my love."
"Princess, we're going to count to ten and we need you to push until we reach ten."
Maekar kissed your forehead, "I'm right here. You can do this."
"1."
"2."
"3."
"4."
"5."
"6."
"I can see the head! Keep pushing."
"7."
"8."
"My Prince, would you like to grab the babe as it comes out?"
You looked at him and nodded.
Maekar left your side and pulled his doublet off. He stood at the foot of the bed, watching you push.
"9."
"10."
"Keep pushing! Do not stop, the babe is almost out."
"11."
"12."
“13.”
You felt immediate relief as the babe came out, finally feeling like you could breathe.
Maekar held the screaming babe, his eyes filled with tears.
"It's a girl."
You were happy that your baby was healthy and that the delivery went without complications, you just had a more pressing question on your mind.
They wrapped the baby up and Maekar brought her to you, allowing you to see her.
Tears flowed from your eyes, bringing you to an unexpected sob.
She was beautiful, a head full of curly black hair. She looked just like Lyonel.
"I'm so sorry." You cried.
He smiled, "there's nothing to be sorry for. You just gave me another wonderful and healthy daughter."
You named her Laenora Targaryen.
She was an unexpected gift, but a gift that you were grateful to have nonetheless. A gift that your husband accepted with open arms, despite everything else.
He truly loved you more than he could ever put into words and you were lucky to have him.
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms: Prince Maekar Targaryen x Arryn!Reader
Rating: Mature (MDNI)
WC: 4.8 k
AKOTSK Masterlist
Tags/Warnings: Angst, mentions of past character death, arranged marriage, blood, childbirth, reluctant love, wedding night consummation, family bonding, family dynamics, trauma, no use of Y/n, no physical description given of reader, no beta we die like kings
A/n: For anon who sent me: imagining Maekar’s 2nd wife, who he is not overly affectionate with (because he knows better than to fall in love again!) is pregnant. But the pregnancy, is going quite roughly and it’s all reminding him a lot of how things were during Dyanna’s last pregnancy. Let me know if you wished to be added to the tag list, please let me know if I forgot to tag you.
Maekar had resigned himself to living alone in this world after Dyanna had died. He had never expected to fall in love again, but you came to him by way of his brother, the only other person who knew Maekar better than he knew himself.
A dragon alone in the world is a terrible thing, brother. Mayhaps Lady Arryn can heal that splintered heart. Remember the comfort and joy that her sister, Alys, brought to our dear brother, Rhaegel.
Maekar crumpled the parchment between his calloused fingers after reading the words repeatedly until his vision blurred. Then he tossed it into the fire, watching the flames consume it. The allure of the crackling fire beckoned him. A temptation to let it consume him, burn him to ash, and allow the wind to carry him away. To reunite him with Dyanna. But he had made a promise when he held her body in his arms, watching the life bleed away from her. He would stay strong for their children, the little parts of her that remained behind. He could not leave them orphaned in the world.
You entered Summerhall bathed in light, cloaked in sky blue and white, with your cast of falcons in wooden cages. It was hard to ignore the somber family gathered in front of you, awash mostly in black with hints of crimson and scarlet. Maekar was barely a man of forty, yet looked older beyond his years. Though you could not fault him for such. You had lost your own mother to the birthing bed and understood the toll it took.
"We welcome you to Summerhall, Lady Arryn," Maekar stated, a hard bite to his voice before lifting your gloved hand to kiss. The six children stood in a line, and he introduced each one to you.
"I will be leaving for the Citadel soon," Aemon told you, an eager smile on his sweet face.
"Then we must get to know each other very well before we depart," you assured him.
Skystrike, your snowy white falcon trimmed with black on the edges of her wings, preferred to perch on your shoulder, and you were not surprised when Maekar's younger children gathered around to coo over her.
"Oh you have more!" Daella grinned, tugging Aegon's hand as the two ran over to study the birds in the four cages.
"Does the creature not rip your flesh and gowns riding that way?" Maekar asked gruffly, those intense violet eyes studying you from head to toe.
Lady Royce stepped forward to hand you the thick, leather glove, and you clicked your tongue thrice in quick succession, giving Skystrike the command to move onto it. Your lady slipped off your sky blue cloak fastened with a silver falcon in flight to reveal the structured leather pads sewn into the shoulders of your white gown. An impressed smile briefly crossed his face before settling back into his usual dour countenance.
"She's so pretty and soft," Rhae whispered, stroking Skystrike's white feathers. She was barely five and cute as a button with wide, amethyst eyes and downy silver curls. Immediately, you fell in love with her.
"The servants will take your birds to the rookery," Maekar said. "Though I suppose this one stays in your company?"
"If allowed, my prince. Though she can stay with the others if you do not wish her in your house," you replied.
"Oh Papa, you mustn't," Rhae wailed dramatically, clinging to Maekar's hand.
"She may stay with you, you will be living here, and I wish for you to be comfortable," Maekar murmured, and you could tell those words did not fall easily from his lips. You had been reluctant to accept Prince Baelor's invitation, as you did not wish to be viewed as a noble woman trying to advance herself with a prince of the realm. Alys had been the one to convince you.
"Come, we have a feast prepared in your honor," Daeron said, offering you his arm, and you noticed Maekar's nod of approval toward him. Skystrike cawed before moving to her position on your shoulder while your two ladies followed behind.
The younger children danced around your heels, chattering, and Aerion grumbled.
"You're going to send her running for the Red Mountains," he complained.
"I can assure you that I do not easily falter," you chuckled, feeling Rhae's little hand slip into yours as you held onto Daeron's arm.
The feast was extravagant: roasted duck, venison, fresh fish, swan pies, roasted carrots and leeks, ripe red apples, figs, and large bowls filled with thick, creamy sister's stew. Each bite was delectable, and you fed Skystrike little pieces of fish throughout the meal. While Maekar was silent during much of the supper, his children filled the space with chatter and seemed delighted to ask you questions. Happily, you responded to each one and asked your own in return, wishing to know more about them.
"I did not realize how warm it is here," you said kindly, feeling the sweat bead beneath the thick material of your gown.
"Yes, it can be quite balmy," Daeron commented.
"I will adjust," you smiled, grateful for the chilled white wine.
Maekar escorted you to your chambers as the velvety night blanketed the sky. He had to peel Rhae from your skirts and send her off with a handmaiden.
"I had them bring in a perch for your bird," he said, hands at his side.
"That was most kind. Thank you, my prince," you said, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. The flesh instantly warmed and flushed.
He merely grunted in response as he gazed down at you. A simple truth hung heavy in the air, unspoken, with neither of you ready to broach the topic. Baelor's intentions were clear: to wed his brother to you, and Alys had been the catalyst to push the arrangement along. Those intense violet eyes threatened to burn a hole through you, but you were no stranger to gruff men. Your father had not been made of warmth and gentleness, embracing the hostility and sharpness sculpted into the Eyrie. There were cracks in Maekar, the damage done by his beloved's wife's death, and you suspected you could poke and prod until he crumbled. Then perhaps you could make him anew. Rebuild him from the shattered pieces.
"Sleep well." His boots pounded against the floor as he left you alone. A few minutes later, Lady Jessamyn Redfort and Lady Mya Royce entered to help you ready for bed. Skystrike settled on the perch, yet you remained awake until the hour of the eel, exhaustion finally settling into your bones.
The days passed with Maekar keeping a comfortable distance, inquiring politely after you from time to time. His children filled the empty spaces, and as time ticked on, you grew close to each one. Daeron, weighed down by dreams he could not understand, Aerion, wrapped in anger and entitlement, diligent Aemon dedicated to his studies, sweet Daella with her dolls and endless dreams, Aegon longing to be a knight, and precocious Rhae, who was filled with all the whimsy a child could possess. Each one warmed your heart, even Aerion, for you could see the boy trapped inside him who missed his mother dearly. They all did.
One afternoon, you returned to your chambers to find a gown waiting for you. It was made of a lightweight fabric, unlike the ones brought from the Vale, which had similar leather padding sewn into the shoulders. It was a kind gesture, as most of your dresses proved too heavy for the balmy weather; in fact, you had packed away all your veils and headcoverings, having needed them in the veil to protect your cheeks and ears from the harsh, chilled air of the mountains.
"Prince Maekar asked us for your measurements, my lady," Mya smiled.
"He has had a hunting outfit made for you as well," Jessamyn grinned. "A red hot heart beats beneath his surface."
"It was most thoughtful of him," you smiled, trailing your fingers over the dress's sky blue fabric. You were touched that he had it made in your house colors rather than the Targaryen ones. Though you had to admit he did cut a dashing, stern figure in black and red.
A family hunt was arranged within a fortnight, and Summerhall bristled with a palpable excitement, filling the usual quiet halls with exuberance. Young Aemon would be departing soon for the Citadel at King Daeron the Good's instructions, and so this would be the last moment spent together with the whole family. Even Prince Baelor joined, bringing along his sons for the occasion, who were fine young men.
"I never could resist a good hunt, especially with Maekar," Baelor smiled as he walked with you. "Tell me, has he been welcoming?"
"Very much so, Your Grace," you said, pausing to smell one of the white roses blooming in the gardens as the horses, hounds, and falcons were prepared. You were excited to show off their skills.
"That is good to know. I do intend to press the matter of marriage today."
"I think that is for the best. An unwed maiden living within a prince's household for too long would cause scandal. What if he refuses?"
"Then you would be brought back to the Red Keep to serve your sister, Lady Alys. We would not throw you back to the wolves," he said gently. "But Maekar will not refuse. He might cause a fuss, but he is bound by duty, as are all of us in the end. Not even the royal line can escape that."
He kissed your cheek before parting ways, and you went off to prepare your falcons. Skystrike would be riding with you, and you had assigned Stormchaser, the largest male and coated in black, velvet,y feathers to Maekar, thinking they would be a good fit. The eldest of the bunch was a gray female donned Greywing, your dolt of a brother had named her, and she seemed at ease in Daeron's company. Clever, red Fireheart was in Aerion's company; she was fast with sharp eyes. That left the youngest brown and white falcon, Stormwing, for Aegon to handle. All in good hands.
Maekar came over and slipped the clipped and shorn white rose behind your ear. "Best of luck on the hunt, Lady Arryn. I'm sure your birds will prove their worth."
"Thank you, my prince."
You observed the girls mount their horses before getting on your white palfrey. Maekar and Baelor took the lead of the party, and everyone headed into the fertile lands to the west of Summerhall. About halfway through the journey, Skystrike fluttered her wings before departing from your shoulder and diving through a thick swatch of trees. She returned with two brown hares gripped in her talons. The cadger gathered up the prey and placed it on the cart along with the fish Stormchaser had gathered from a nearby lake. Rhae looked a bit pale.
"I do not like this," Rhae whispered to you.
"It is not for everyone. You can stay behind next time if you wish," you told her gently, noting the whispers between Baelor and Maekar.
"No, I wish to show Papa that I'm brave," she replied, jutting her chin in the air.
"My little Egg, would you let your sister borrow Stormwing?" you asked the boy.
"Of course," he said, showing Rhae how to slip on the glove and the young falcon perched on her small arm, letting out a chitter.
You showed Rhae how to lift her arm and gently jostle the bird into the air, using Skystrike as a demonstration. She followed your movements, and Stormwing glided into the air with a screech. He returned a bit later with a pigeon between his talons.
"Papa, look!" Rhae said, pointing her finger.
Maekar clicked his tongue while shifting his black horse and smiled at his youngest. "Well done, we can bake that into a nice pie." Those violet eyes locked on yours, and he gave you a small nod.
"Now he knows how brave you are," you smiled at Rhae.
A deer was spotted, and the hounds were off, followed by the five falcons. You guided the younger children away, letting the others handle that slaHowever,. Though Aegon was curious and followed behind his father and brothers. The hunt proved fruitful, and the party returned to Summerhall with plenty of meat in tow. Rhae bristled in the kitchens, telling the cook that a pigeon pie must be made for her supper.
"You mean to eat the whole thing yourself?" Egg asked her.
"I do!"
The two giggled as they went tearing off down the halls. You removed your leather riding gloves and headed to your chambers, where your ladies prepared a bath for you to soak in before dinner. You nearly jumped out of your boots when you discovered Maekar waiting for you. He stroked the thick patch of feathers on the back of Skystrike's neck.
"Seven Hells!" you yelped, clutching your chest.
Maekar snorted, amused by your response, but did nothing to soothe it. "My brother and I have spoken, and I will marry you by month's end," he told you.
"Very well."
"It will not be a grand affair."
"I do not expect it to be." You wondered if he meant to offend you with his words, but they didn't rattle you. You were to be his second wife and would receive less grandeur than his first wife. It did not matter if he truly loved you, nor you him; people had married worse for less. At least he gave you space to breathe and provided you with thoughtful gifts.
"My brother and nephews will stay on until after the wedding. You have proven to be a good hostess; I expect you will continue to be one during their stay. I will make the announcement at dinner."
"I will make sure to dress exceptionally for the announcement then," you smiled.
He nodded, passing by you toward the door. "I'm fond of the pink silk and the pearls."
After you marinated in the hot bath until the waters grew cold, you had your ladies dress you in the pink silk and your pearl jewelry.
"Oh, you look so fancy, like a rose in the garden," Rhae sighed dreamily as she danced around you, wearing a pale lilac dress.
"Why, thank you. You look very floral yourself, perhaps we grow together in the garden," you smiled, taking her hand and giving her a little spin. You could feel Maekar's eyes on you while you performed a little dance with Rhae. Part of him ached to watch his youngest slowly pull away from him, yet it brought him joy to find her so taken with you. He loved how kind you were toward all his children.
Maekar stood at the head of the table while the family gathered around, and you clutched a glass of sour red wine tightly in your hand.
"Before we begin to enjoy the bounty from our fine hunting today, I wish to announce that Lady Arryn and I will wed at month's end. It will be a small affair," he stated before sitting down.
There was a brief silence which was quickly filled with soft cheers from the younger children and well wishes from the older ones and adults.
"Wonderful news, brother," Baelor smiled.
You couldn't tell whether he or Rhae was happier about the matter. There was no vocal dissent, and that settled your nerves. You filled your belly and drank wine. Rhae only ate one slice of the pigeon pie and shared the rest with her sibling and Maekar, making a little show of bringing the plate with the heaping slice to her father personally. The genuine smile on his face warmed your heart. There was at least one point of common ground: both of you loved his children. You could make this marriage work.
You and your ladies were skilled in the art of sewing, having practiced over the years to pass the time, and the three of you altered the one red dress you owned for the wedding. You constructed new trumpet sleeves from black silk to honor your husband's house colors and lowered the neckline of the dress, trimming it with black Myrish lace. Even Daella and Rhae joined in on the dress alterations. The house smithy was kind enough to construct a thick black leather belt for you, one that hugged and cinched your waist perfectly, and Rhae helped you lace it with red ribbon.
Maekar found you one afternoon, as you suckled on a bleeding fingertip.
"I would have gotten a seamstress for you, silly girl."
"Nonsense, we have it handled," you insisted after removing your finger, another ruby droplet beading through your skin.
"My wife will end up with rougher hands than me," Maekar gruffed, taking hold of your wrist and wrapping his handkerchief around the wound, applying pressure to your fingertip. There was something about his words that made you flush.
"Your hands are perfect," you whispered, watching the red bloom like rose petals over his neck.
"What a pair we will be, you and I. The dragon and the falcon, both of us with talons."
"The Vale does not breed gentle creatures. I hope I do not disappoint you."
He shook his head. "I have enjoyed having you here, and will continue to do so."
"I am glad, I've been very happy here."
"That is good to know." He pulled the cloth away and hummed when he discovered the bleeding had stopped.
The wedding was held in the sprawling gardens with Baelor and his sons in attendance, along with Maekar's children. Maekar's violet gaze lingered on your dress, a rare sparkle in his eyes making them appear as precious jewels. Your hand seemed to fit perfectly in his; his cloak wrapped around your shoulders as you were united as husband and wife.
Fire and blood. As High as honor. Two winged creatures for ancient houses united.
"You make for a lovely Targaryen bride, sister," Baelor praised, kissing your cheek.
"Thank you, brother," you whispered.
That night, Maekar unwrapped you, taking great care with each garment he removed from your body until you stood bare before you. He would not shame you by ignoring his duties; he detested the rumors hurled in Aelinor's direction and often had arguments with Aerys regarding that matter. A wife deserved to be properly bedded by her husband, for she was the one who would suffer should consummation not occur. His mouth was hot and hungry against yours, desiring affection and a closeness he had not felt since Dyanna's death.
You were surprised by his thoughtfulness, his fingers stroking you and opening you up before his cock nestled inside. Not many words were exchanged, instead replaced by soft moans from you and deep grunts from him. After the strange pressure that made you whimper softly, you relaxed and allowed your body to enjoy it. His large hands adjusted your hips, and you clung to him as pleasure swam through your body. His teeth claimed the apex of your shoulder, the dragon leaving his mark behind, and you realized this was the most he had ever touched you. You savored every moment before a delicious peak wracked your body, and his seed filled you.
He hoped his seed would not take, while you hoped that it would.
In the turn of two moons, you grew with child, a blessing from the Gods, from your wedding night. Though your husband viewed it as a curse, but kept such thoughts to himself.
Maekar's hands would knead your sore shoulders, making sure you had warmed pillows to soothe your back. Jessamyn and Mya would prepare buckets with hot water for you to soak your aching, swollen feet. While you were happy to be with child, you found the toll it took on your body fairly miserable at times. Especially as your stomach expanded and grew rounder. Maester Beldon assured Maekar that you were in good health and that the pregnancy was progressing as it should. Fear lingered in the back of his mind; he had lost Dyanna to the birthing bed shortly after Rhae was ushered forth into the world. He would never forget the memory of holding her in his arms as life slipped from her dark eyes.
Rhae was glued to your side, her small cheek pressed against your bump, whispering to the babe that grew inside. Maekar employed more servants to ensure you were well looked after and did not have to lift a finger for any household tasks. Daeron and Aerion began to hover over you as well, no doubt under his instructions to do so. Even Egg, usually boisterous, took on a calmer demeanor in your presence. Daella helped to keep you entertained with cards, dice, and sewing projects. You even looked forward to weekly letters from Aemon.
"How are you faring today?" Maekar asked, kissing your forehead as you relaxed on the long, plush, red velvet chaise. He was sparse with his affection, still keeping you at arm's length. He did not know if he could love another only to have them ripped away again.
"Oh, the same, she feels lower today," you groaned, rubbing your swollen belly.
"Ah, a she now is it?" he chuckled.
"Just a hunch, it could very well be a boy. You seem to make sons."
"I would be happy with another daughter." His hand skimmed down your braid before sending in your ladies to check you over.
His happiness seemed diluted, fear creeping around the edges. A cold dread. Dyanna had experienced a rough time during her pregnancy with Rhae, and the worry was sharp and metallic on his tongue; a hot, phantom blood filling his mouth and threatening to choke him to death. His nights were restless, pacing around the dark, silent palace while you slept. There were times he found himself in the Sept, knees digging into the stone as he prayed to Gods he never believed in. Perhaps this was their curse for his unbelieving spirit, but he was a practical man and found the Faith to be foolish.
"Damn, this cursed blood flowing through my veins. Shall I bleed myself dry for you? Would blood atonement appease you?" he growled, slamming his tightly balled fists against the altar, making the candles rattle. He continued until he broke his skin, crimson rivulets flowing from his torn, bruised flesh. "Take it then, drain it from me, but do not touch her." Scarlet streaks stained the altar, leaving Septon Barre feeling perplexed in the morning when he discovered the garish scene.
You found him in the morning, shaking in front of the cold hearth, and covered your mouth when you saw his battered hands. You had Jessamyn fetch you a fresh basin of water and clean cloths, and you tended to your husband's hands.
"May I ask what happened?" you inquired softly, wiping away the blood.
A sad, solemn look hung heavily on his lined face. "I had a disagreement with the Gods."
"I see. Well, I should like a word with them for making my husband suffer." You pressed a gentle kiss between his furrowed brow after wrapping his hands. "I will be fine."
~~
"The babe comes feet first," Maester Beldon sighed as your labours progressed and grew more strenuous. "There is but one solution, I must cut it out of her belly."
Maekar's vision went black, and when it returned, he found himself with his hands wrapped tightly around Beldon's throat, the maester's face near purple. It took Daeron and Aerion to drag him away.
Mya kissed your temple. "My prince, there are other methods we can try. They will make my lady uncomfortable, but I've seen my mother perform them many times. I mean no disrespect to your maester, but we women know these ways better."
You gave her a strained smile, squeezing her hand. The one babe her mother had not delivered was your youngest brother, the one who caused your mother to bleed out. You trusted Mya more than anything. Vulnerability strained in Maekar's violet eyes, a brokenness lingering beneath his surface. Daeron placed his hands on his father's shoulders. Though he and Aerion looked just as rattled as Maekar.
"Please, save them both if you can, but she is more important," Maekar whispered.
"Maekar…" you groaned.
"I will not condemn another woman to death. I will not lose a second wife," he said through gritted teeth.
"Come and attend to your wife, my prince, while I see to your wife," Mya said. "This will be painful."
Daeron helped his father to stand, and Maekar made his way to you, drawing your hand between both of his.
"Jessa, see to the little ones, please," you panted at Lady Redfort.
"Yes, my lady," she said, looking rather pallid as she scurried out of the room to tend to the younger children. You knew she had a weaker countenance than Mya's and wished to spare her.
For a brief moment, Lady Royce had considered trying the shaking of the sheets method, but feared that if Prince Maekar had to watch them rattle and toss you with the sheets, it would send him into another rage. So she opted agto shift the babe in your womb manuallyt the babe in your womb. Mya placed a wooden stick between your teeth before exploring your rounded stomach covered with the sweat soaked shift with her hands, pressing to feel the baby's position. The pressure increased as she attempted to shift the baby inside you, making you groan with pain and squeeze Maekar's hand. You were tempted to spit out the stick and scream at Mya to stop. Let the damned child live inside you for the rest of your years.
It pained Maekar to see you in distress, but he could hardly wrap his hands around your beloved lady's throat. Not when she had promised to assist.
"Breathe, my lady," Mya said, moving her hands and pressing them deeper against your flesh. "I can feel her move."
So could you. The babe twisted your womb, a newfound hope springing forth that neither of you would die that day. Your fierce, determined nestling with a heart of a dragon. She was fighting for her life and you must do the same even though your body screamed to be finished.
Maester Bolden sat wheezing on the floor, so two of the midwives came over to inspect you.
"There is a head, my lady," one of them said.
You nearly wept tears of relief. Maekar opened his mouth, but Mya held up a hand. "Wait to thank me until the babe is safely out."
"I need you with me, husband. The three of us must persist together," you smiled as sweat beaded down your cheeks. "We will be favored by the Gods today."
The dragon and the falcon unstoppable.
Mya helped you to stand, and Maekar helped lower you into a squatting position as the midwives gathered around while the useless maester remained sluggishly propped against the wall. Your husband supported you with the strength of ten men as you pushed the babe from your womb. Blood dripped and pooled onto the floor below; a sacrifice. Take this from me and bless me with a healthy babe; my husband is not cursed. We are not cursed. You did not relax until you heard a tiny wail fill the room. Even Aerion breathed out his relief.
"You have a daughter," Mya whispered as the midwives cleaned the babe, wrapped her in a cloth, and then placed her in your arms.
"You were right, a little girl," Maekar smiled, kissing your clammy cheek.
"Let us get her to the bed, my prince; it will help slow the bleeding," one of the midwives said. Once you were lying down, they packed cloths between your thighs to soak up the blood. Your newborn daughter rested on your chest. Her face was slightly squished, and her eyes were squeezed shut. The soft breaths she took nearly made you weep.
"I know, you are not ready to face the world just yet, but you were so brave, my girl," you whispered, stroking the downy tufts of hair protruding from her scalp.
"Both of you were brave," Maekar praised, one hand resting on top of your head and the other on his daughter's tiny back. "She will need a good name."
"Jaelarys means hope, perhaps one with that prefix," Aerion offered up.
"That would be perfect for this little one," you smiled, tracing her tiny nose with your fingertip.
Jaenora was chosen after a week, as the family suggested various combinations. It was the one everyone agreed upon. By then, her sky blue eyes were wide open, filled with curiosity. Hope bloomed, bringing Maekar closer into your embrace as he was not afraid anymore to let you burrow beneath his skin.
Summary: Your relationship with Maekar becomes cold, and you wonder where did you go wrong
Warning: angst, hurt no comfort
Notes: again, it's different from the prompt I posted before, love keeping you guys on your toes 😝 first angst let's goo
Part 1, Part 2
Your relationship with Maekar was good. You've been dating for approximately one year. You've moved in to his place, and now you live with him. You've known he's a gruff kind of guy, and you love him for it. Seen it as his charm, even. You've always been affectionate and sweet to him. That includes bothering him by clinging excessively to him, literally and figuratively, just to annoy that old man.
"Come on, just one more kiss!"
"I'll be late for work." He says in that rumble tone.
"And I won't be seeing you till midnight, so give me one more kiss!" You demand dramatically, saying the words to his mouth as your arms cling to his shoulders.
He rolls his eyes. "I don't work till midnight." He grumbles to himself.
"That's what I feel, okay? Now give me that kiss or I'll drag you away from that office."
He groans, but then leaning down to give a subtle kiss to your lips.
You smile in victory. "Don't forget to eat. And drink. Water, not coffee or wine." You say the last part in a warning tone.
"I'm sure you've already said that earlier."
"And I'm sure you'll be hearing it again."
He scoffs, but you catch that small smile in the corner of his lips.
You give him one last peck on the lips before he closes the door.
You are secure in your relationship. You feel good enough for yourself, and you have no doubt about Maekar. Little did you know that he has. No, not his doubt about you. But about himself.
You're young, beautiful, and sweet. He knows you love him, you always make sure to say it and let it sink in him. But he has this feeling that one day you're gonna wake up next to him and regret your decision. A big, grand decision that brings you to him.
He can't wrap his head around it, like what are you doing with a man like him? He's older than you, rough around the edges, hardened by years and experience. What do you see in him, really?
What starts as a self doubt, repressed and lingered as time passes, turning into an ugly, churning feeling of resentment to you.
And in his own Maekar way, he doesn't immediately lash out on you or act aggressively. But his touch grows colder, his word shorter, his attention fading.
That leaves you confused and hurt at the same time.
He knows it's not fair to you, that he's the problem, that he can't handle his own shit. But he can't help it. He can't just wait any longer, counting to the day you'd leave him, detached and regretful. He knows he wouldn't be able to recover from it.
Your chest is heavy, slightly out of breath after an intense lovemaking with him.
He rolls to the other side of the bed. Looking to the other side of the bed.
After a while, you gather the bed cover and come closer to him. You smile, leaning to give him a gentle kiss, one he doesn't reciprocate.
You can't tell what he's thinking. Except that distant look on his face. Maekar is not particularly expressive with his words, but his eyes tell. Always. And tonight, they give no warmth nor affection.
"Hey, you okay?" You prop yourself on your elbow, staring at him.
His eyes don't exactly stare at you.
For a moment it's just silence.
Then whatever it is seems to snap out of him, and he clears his throat.
"Yeah, it's fine."
Maekar makes a movement that seems he's about to get out of the bed. And you pray in that quick moment that he's gonna scoot closer to you and you'd giggle in his arms, or that he's gonna kiss your forehead and say he's gonna grab water for both of you then come back.
But no, none of that ever happens.
"I'll just finish some things real quick." He says and simply gets out of the bed, without looking back at you, leaving you in the cold sheets alone.
Everyday is like a blur of loneliness. He'd talk to you quickly and give you a kiss more quickly. You don't even make love anymore and it's been weeks. He's gonna come home late at night, say a few words, and sleep. Not noticing your pained, longing eyes on the other side of the bed. Or maybe he notices, but just chooses to ignore it.
It's been a roller coaster of emotions, your heart. Your mind spirals, replaying every little thing you say to him, whether you wrong him, whatever goddamn mistakes you make that leads your relationship to be like this.
Are you not good enough, is that it? Or maybe you're too clingy, and it's bothering him. Or maybe he becomes sick of you, and he can't tolerate it anymore.
You'd bury yourself in the shower, contemplating what have you done, that it's all your fault, that it's understandable he acts like this, anybody would.
After a lot of heavy procession, it took weeks you remember. You finally begin to accept it. Maybe it's the end. Things just don't work anymore, and it's okay. Maybe you and Maekar would be strangers after this, maybe you'd never meet again, maybe he'd meet someone else, maybe you'd never be able to forget him. And you've learned to accept it.
He comes home late again, as usual. At least it is for a couple of months. You wait for him, sitting on the couch, already rehearsing your speech. It's really the end, you tell yourself.
He takes a glance at you, surprised you're not already in bed.
"Maekar, I need to talk to you."
He raises an eyebrow. Not 'we need to talk', like you used to say when things were not... Like this. He realizes it's been a long time too since you called him with your silly pet names.
You give a forced smile. "I know it's late and you're tired, but this is important. Just a quick talk."
He knows something off when he looks at your forced smile, though to be honest you've been wearing it for the past couple of months. He just didn't bother to look at you.
He sits with you on the couch. With distance separating you.
You sigh, finding yourself unsure what to begin with.
"I know we've been... Distant, lately. For the couple of months. And I've spent a great deal of time wondering about it. What have I done, what did go wrong, why things aren't what they used to be. Crying about it too, honestly."
You smile to yourself, a humorless, self-deprecating smile. You're a crybaby. Maekar used to let you cry in his arms, and whispered sweet nothing to your ear, surprising himself of doing something he's never done before in his entire life. And then after you calmed down he'd tease you and torment you, and you'd be mad at him, though it doesn't last as soon as he kisses you. Now those memories seem so far away, like it happened years ago.
"And I've come to terms with it." You look down.
Maekar stares at you, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable in his seat. His heart thumps against his ribs, and he knows whatever you're about to say next would shatter him.
"And?" That's all he got to say.
"And I guess we go our separate ways."
You look at him. And he doesn't like that. That resigned, settled look in your eyes. Like you've thought about this for a long time and you've decided. Like it's final.
He feels like he wants to say something. To defend himself, to question you, to prevent whatever is coming. Instead, he just nodded. He agrees. He accepts your suggestion. That easily. Like you don't require a thought. Like it's not bothering him. Like it's not important to him.
Maybe you are not important to him.
"If that is what you desire, then so be it."
You feel your chest getting heavy and your throat getting tight, but no tears come out of your eyes. Maybe you're more prepared than you thought.
The old you would've never expected this. She was happy and hopelessly in love with the man she thought she'd spend the rest of her life with. The thought of you breaking up with him, it's just... Never cross your mind.
But here you are.
"I'll take care of my stuff and get them clean from your place tomorrow."
That seems to get his attention.
"You're not staying here tonight?"
You look away, contemplating whether to tell him the truth.
"I actually already rented a place some days ago."
His eyes look distant. How long have you planned this? Do you already rent a place because you're convinced you'd break up with him? How do you seem so prepared and settled about it?
"I will... Help you with the stuff tomorrow." He says hesitantly.
"No need. I uh, I already pack them. Some of them."
He nods, trying to process your already permanent leave.
"So, this is it, then." He doesn't reply.
You get up from the couch and hold your purse.
You give a small smile. "I'll see you tomorrow morning." The last morning you'd ever see me, you think to yourself.
He gives you an understanding look. Walk you to the door, his door, until you disappear from his sight.
Only then he sits quietly on the couch, mind elsewhere. The living room feels alone and strange without you here. He thinks about what you said, and he's stupid, so stupid that he didn't expect your leave. Your actual leave. He never meant it to be like that. He never meant to go this far, to push you away this far.
Papa's the Favorite (platonic and romantic relationships, wife!reader, multiple characters hinted, angst, not proof read)
"I fear that he doesn't like me."
She frowns softly, fiddling with her ring as she watched her son babble his first word. Papa. He sits on the floor, content as he waves around his wooden horse in his tiny hands. Sat behind the babe, he looks to his wife with a frown. "What makes you say that?" She simply shrugged.
"I cannot help you if you don't talk to me, love." He uttered as gently as he could, frustrated in his worry. "You can't say things like that and not elaborate." She fiddles with her ring once more, staring at her son as he babbles the word repeatedly. "... it is you."
He pauses, confused. "... me?" His attention was momentarily caught by their son, who plops backward into his stomach with a shocked grunt. He helps him sit up again before meeting her gaze. "What about me?" "He favors you." She mumbles. "In everything, unfortunately."
She doesn't look at him as her fidgeting hands grew more restless. "Sleeping, holding, changing. If you had teats, I'm sure he would prefer you as well." She wipes a lone tear, standing from her chair to pace, continuing. He never interrupts, quiet.
"He resembles everything about you except his skin and hair. His eyes, his nose, his smile. That is all you. And this thing," She falters, taking a deep breath. "... I know you're the first one who bonded with him when I could not. I know he perks up at the sound of your voice,"
Her hands grip her skirts. "... but, I wanted at least one thing to be mine. Something that I could revel and take joy in... and yet, he still looks for you." She sniffles softly, not bothering to completely wipe her face. Just enough to see. "And I fear that it will always be that way."
He doesn't respond, thinking. He remembers when she gave birth. She was sick, terribly so. That along with their son's premature birth, along with her getting an infection, the babe was always with him when he wasn't breastfeeding from her. She was always in bed, too weak.
He was the one to rock him, to soothe his cries, to talk to him at night, to take him on walks in the gardens, to see his first smile and hear his first giggle. He hadn't realized it until now, a pit forming in his stomach. "My love-" "It is no one's fault but mine." She rasps, sniffling.
"I was the one to wander in the rain the week before. I can blame no one. Not even you." She turns to him finally, trying to smile. "I... can see why he would choose you, as I have." She sniffles. "You are gentle, honorable, loyal. You're never too far when needed."
She turns again, smiling bitterly. "You are more of a mother than I have been-" She jumps as her arm was gripped tightly, not hearing him stand and stomp over to her. His frown is deep, his grip gentle but firm. Without a word, he cups her face, hands slightly trembling.
"You are his mother. He knows your warmth, your touch, your voice. He cries for you when you're not here, he clings onto your shoes, and he always seems to sense you before anyone else can." His grip and touch becomes desperate. "You must know this. You have to,"
His forehead rests on hers, eyes closing. "I'm sorry. I have been a fool not to notice your struggles." He swallows the lump at the back of his throat. "I will step back. I will allow you to soothe him more regularly, I won't be the first too pick him up, I won't-"
She calls his name, shaking her head, cupping his face in return. "It is already done." "No, it isn't. There's still time-" "He knows you, dear husband. Not me, not fully." A hand snakes up to his head, gentle. "He cries when I hold him and you're there. He smiles at you. He giggles when you smile."
She sighs softly. "Maybe that is for the best." "For who?" He huffs, hands now digging into her hips and skirts. "That cannot be it. I won't allow you to accept this so quickly and so easily." Both of their faces wet, they don't see their son crawling to them until he plopped down on his father's feet.
She sighs fondly, picking him up. He squirms, small hands reaching for his father. He doesn't take him, holding his tiny hand, staring at his wife with a pained heart and expression. He places a kiss to her wet lips. "We'll figure it out."
The boy starts to fuss, wriggling in her arms. She tried to soothe him, to no avail. For what seemed like forever, her husband takes the boy with reluctancy. Still, his eyes never part from his wife's face. "I swear we will." She said nothing, leaning into the kiss to her head.
"He will learn to favor you."
Which character do you think this fits the best? I couldn't decide.
