A LITANY FOR LIVING | chapter i (prologue)
After the Stranger robs you of husband and child, you do not expect much from a second marriage, least of all to a prince of the realm. But Prince Maekar seems to be as grief-hardened as you are, with six children who are equally lost—and maybe the gods are not done with either of you yet.
PAIRING: Maekar Targaryen x Widow! Female Reader / A Knight of Seven Kingdoms / A Song of Ice and Fire universe CONTENT: Reader is Maekar's second wife, arranged marriages, slow burn, canon divergent, pre-Ashford, Reader is from House Royce, Widow!Reader, miscarriage, grief, hurt/comfort, romance, found family, eventual smut, age difference, older man/younger woman, annoyances to lovers, maekarlings galore, swearing, alcohol WORD COUNT: 3.7k NOTES: This is a prologue, the rest of the chapters will be between 8-12k each. I've written a rough first draft of the entire fic, so I will try to post as I edit. Also, English isn't my mother tongue so I always appreciate feedback (: Divider by @/honeyluvsw.
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The first time you see him, you are still married and with child.
Gulltown, Lord Grafton's dominion, had extended an invitation to all great houses of Westeros. Your house being what it was, it was only natural your family would attend the tourney.
Which is how you find yourself here in this windy seaside town, after passing through roads you rode through many times over: barren cliffs and fishing villages and the coastal edges of the Vale. It is said that here your ancestors first set foot eons ago. You do not know whether the histories are correct, but you know this: Gulltown is a welcome sight after days of travel.
Ships here crowd the harbor. The streets stinks of salt and tar and roasting venison, and somewhere beneath it all, there's that particular metallic tang of steel and oiled leather that means a tourney is underway.
For most knights, the journey has been a long one—many a knight arriving green from a hard sea passage, others scrubbing blood and mud from armor that has traveled leagues of crossings.
The man they call the Anvil is not one of them.
He arrives with a Targaryen procession in tow, black and red and proud, like a dragon of old conquering new lands.
Not that you pay Maekar Targaryen much attention at this point. You note his arrival the way you note any knight entering the lists: another name, another rival, another sword that might unhorse your brother before the week is through.
Your focus is otherwise drawn to your twin brother, Willam Royce, whose bronze armor seems to shine like fish scales pulled from a gleaming river.
"Don't forget to properly pay tribute to Lord Upcliff this time around," your aunt tells your brother. Seated inside your house's pavilion, the air is damp and thick. "We don't want a repeat of last year's incident, yes?"
"You need not worry about my temper, dear aunt." Willam throws her an easy smile, a feat that comes to him as naturally as breathing. "Worry about hers."
As he speaks, your brother's teasing gaze flickers towards you, a full-teeth grin spreading across his puckered lips.
The sleaze.
"I will be if he is," you mutter, not looking up from your needlework. You are hard at work on the birthing cloth for your child, as you have in the days prior, stuck in a carriage with your aunt. "That bastard's the one who couldn't learn the meaning of the word no last time."
"There's my little sister." Willam laughs—little, only because he was born just a few minutes ahead of you. Just for good measure, he pokes you in the ribs. "A true Bronze woman."
"You absolute idiot." You shove him off. "I am with child."
"Aye, the niece or nephew of the future Lord of Runestone!"
"We'll see about that. Tragedies strike lords every day."
"Don't jest, dear sister, not when I'm about to head out for the trial of arms."
You shake your head, exasperated by your brother's antics.
At one-and-twenty, Willam remains unmarried, a grace that has left him wild and unrepentant, forever dooming all those around to suffer him. You, by contrast, have long since been married, long enough now to be carrying a first child in your belly.
Your husband is not here for the tourney; his affairs kept him back home, which suits you well enough since at this point, you would much rather have a bed to yourself. There is still your brother to manage, and social calls to attend to.
A tourney is underway, after all, and no one enjoys them less than a woman five months pregnant.
"Which one is he, exactly?" Your aunt's teeth chatter, her voice raised amidst the scuffle.
You shield your eyes as a salt-sharp gust rises up. Dressed from neck to toe with Runestone wool, you are prepared for the cold, harsh spring days of the coast, unlike your aunt's meager silk cloak that seems to protect her from nothing.
The mêlée churns beneath your canopy in a mess of mud and steel. You watch it all as you've always done—the way a master-at-arms looks at a field, really. Look at the feet, not the face, your father used to say, instructing Willam in the Runestone yard as you watched, and whatever else marriage has changed, it has not cured you of having an opinion of a training yard.
Somewhere along the way it has made you your aunt's own private herald of the field, and her question now turns to him.
By your account, the field holds four dangerous men.
The prince is one of them.
He is not difficult to find. The silver Targaryen hair is easy to spot even under a helmet, and the mace marks him further than anything else could. A spiked, graceless thing.
Prince Maekar Targaryen.
"There," you say, nodding towards the figure now bracing to strike, "that's him."
"Hmph." Your aunt sniffs the air, a disapproving mien gracing her delicate features. "His lady wife is not half a year in the ground, and here he struts, swinging a mace at other men's sons. He might at least pretend to be grieving."
Your aunt isn't the only one with an opinion to air. Everywhere he goes, whispers seem to follow Prince Maekar, fragments reaching you even now, "...not proper...", "...his brother Baelor never disgraced his late wife like this..." and the name of Maekar's dead wife, "Lady Dyanna Dayne". It seems that the prince has been deemed the scourge of this tourney.
Despite this, you find him to be a formidable sight on the field.
Even now, as a knight of the Vale comes for him, the prince meets the charge without a flicker of hesitation in his stride. He turns inside the blow, mace sweeping low and brutal, and his opponent goes down within moments. Murmurs rise, followed by a fracas of steel. By every account, the match should be over—and still, the prince swings again, three strikes where one would have sufficed.
The crowd makes a sound at that, as does your aunt.
"A madman," she utters, and the throng of voices that follow seem to be in agreement with your aunt's assessment.
"Hm..."
It is not that you don't see it: there is madness in the prince's ways, yes, certainly more than there ought to be. But as you watch the man fight, you see something other than impropriety, something the rest of the crowd seems determined to ignore.
For there is fury in Prince Maekar's swings, a ferocity in his cries, something in him that screams grief.
"Mayhaps he just needs to feel something," you say, more to yourself than anyone else "… anything at all."
Willam survives the mêlée, and that night, he insists on the entire family joining the feast ("so you can be seen, little sister, before you are confined for good!").
At supper, the hall is bright and loud, everyone toasting the day's favorite—a Lannister of all things. The high table seats its guests of honor for all the room to admire: the victorious lion, Prince Maekar, Lord Grafton and his daughters, all arranged like hunting trophies on a pedestal.
"The eldest Grafton girl," your aunt murmurs, eyes tracking the lady in question. "Six-and-ten, well-dowered, and her father's favorite besides. You could do considerably worse, Willam."
"You've given me the same speech about every maiden between here and the Eyrie, aunt," Willam complains, grabbing a chalice of juniper wine to refill his cup. "At this point, I think you're trying to be rid of me."
"You are one-and-twenty and unwed, boy."
"He cannot marry the Grafton girl, aunt," you offer, struggling to slice through the serving of meat on your plate with the blunt knife you've been given. "Judging by her father's expression, he'd sooner see his daughter wed to a lion or a dragon than a man of the Vale."
"Such nonsense. Once I introduce your brother to her, you will see."
You smirk. "I am certain the lady will see plainly enough, to be sure."
Willam presses a wounded hand to his chest. "My sister and her venomous tongue. Tut, tut." Then, to the table at large, "But oh, you adore me, sister, I know it. 'Tis my burden to bear, being so beloved."
"T'is your volume, certainly."
Your aunt sighs and turns her campaign on easier ground—your plate. "And you, niece, might eat something other than mutton and cheese. At this rate, you'll make the babe as stubborn as the rest of you."
"The babe is half-Royce, aunt. That war is lost already."
The rest of the evening unspools in much the same fashion, with you eating well, jesting at your brother's expense, the mead and wine making rounds until the candles burn down to stubs.
Prince Maekar distinguishes himself twice more that night.
Once, seated near Lord Grafton—in a way that might have been comical on any other occasion. For Prince Maekar is slumped in his seat, the picture of a sulking princeling—elbow on the table, chin all but resting in his palm, a cup at his elbow he keeps refilling. At his side, Lord Grafton is talking, but the prince does not appear to notice or hear any of it. You do not know which of the men you pity more.
The second moment comes later, as the feast dwindles down and the singers grow hoarse. The prince rises to take his leave, something clenched in his posture.
The hall quiets the instant he does.
Lords and ladies bow and curtsy as he passes, but their eyes track him with a nervous, sideways quality, whispers riding just under the threshold of hearing—too soon, too soon—and when the doors close behind him at last, the whole room seems to exhale at once, shoulders coming down.
You frown, resting a hand over the curve of your belly.
You are not sure, watching the room recover itself, which is the crueler thing: the tourney, with its men and its weapons and its violence—
Or this.
Your brother fares better in the jousts the next morning.
The prince rides too, looking dour as ever. He tilts three times and wins three times, and the stands gives him an applause that befits his station, though the next applause is twice in volume, something that is not missed on the prince's part, who wrenches his horse away.
The tension that follows is that of blood and steel.
When the draw puts Willam in the prince's half of the bracket, you find yourself studying the man properly for the first time: feet, hands, his posture in the saddle.
Prince Maekar's armor suits him. Dark metal chased with the old detailing of myths of Old Valyria, three red dragons worked into the breastplate with real skill. His lance runs thick with studs along its haft, matching the breadth of the arm that carries it. And the way he moves…
A madman, indeed.
For there is anger in every movement—so much anger—and you suddenly worry about Willam's safety, remembering the unnecessary violence the prince showed his opponents yesterday. You watch your brother's mount gather beneath him, the ribbon you tied to his arm yesterday—your favor, bronze against his sleeve—snapping hard in the wind.
In the end, your study of the prince comes to nothing; Willam falls in the second tilt at the hands of another lord and by then, he has gotten far enough to do honor to your house and remains, thankfully, relatively unscathed.
"You were reckless in the last turn," you later tell your brother, watching as a maester tends to his broken nose. "And you wore your horse down. The creature won't make the trek home."
"Then I shall sell it. What is one warhorse to the Lord of Runestone?"
"It is everything," you snap, "or do you forget that our ancestors forged our house on horseback?"
"You and your histories. We look to the future now, dear sister. Besides, this tourney has borne fruit regardless. I have garnered the interest of no fewer than three ladies."
"Finding a place to put your cock is not the same thing as interest."
This delivers a blow to his ego, Willam's amusement slipping into lines of frustration. "You're just a jealous harpy. Next year, no longer will I be in need of your favor."
"Good," you sneer, rising to the occasion, "then I might finally cast it to someone with an actual chance of crowning me with a prize."
"Hah!" He barks out a laugh, tension slipping from his shoulders. "You're a treacherous cunt, you know that?"
You grin wickedly. "I've never heard you complain."
"Aye, but I do pity that husband of yours."
You only shrug, turning your face back toward the horizon, where the tourney's banners flurry violently against a greying sky.
That should have been the end of it, so far as Gulltown was concerned.
It very nearly is.
The baby had been restless all night, causing you to toss and turn in your empty cot for hours on end. By the time pale light streamed through the tent's curtains, you knew: no rest would come, and you would be a fool to try to defy fate.
Not one to stay idle, you do the only thing that has ever reliably calmed you. You take your horse, your hawk, and go.
Ser Gerold Stone—or as you and Willam always called him, Old Geld—follows a length behind. A balding man of two-and-fifty with a round belly gone soft from age and gray untrimmed whiskers, the knight has been your father's sword since before you were born, a part of Runestone's tapestries since you knew what a tapestry even was.
Naturally, that just means the man has an opinion on everything you do.
"You are with child, girl," he mutters for what must be the third time this morning.
"You know I won't fall."
"I know nothing of the sort."
"You taught me to ride, ser."
"Aye. And I regret the teaching of it every day since."
The hills above Gulltown are empty at this hour of the day. You ride the long way up at a walk, past some goats, following the ridgeline, up until the gorse gives way to open grass, and the wind sweeps up from the sea below.
Knowing your habits and preferences, Old Geld stays at the base of the rise, minding the horses while you climb the last stretch alone on foot. Hawk balanced on your leather-sleeved arm, the wind pulls at your skirts with every step.
The air tastes of salt and brine.
At the top, you slip the hood from your hawk's eyes, and Ursula's stare finds you at once—flat, gold, her talons flexing once against the glove hard enough to be felt through leather.
"It is just you and I today, girl," you say soothingly.
Ursula shakes her feathers once, casting her sharp gaze to the horizon.
Most call hawking a game of waiting, and perhaps it is, but the waiting has always been the point of it for you. Here, on the quiet crown of a hill with the wind sweeping the long strands of grass, there is only silence, and the bird, and the particular emptiness in your own head that you have chased since you were a girl. Peace, some might call it.
You think of nothing in particular as you wait. The road home. Whether the nursery will be finished by the time you reach it. How you still need to speak to Lord Grafton of payment for Runestone ore delivered last moon.
And then Ursula is airborne, wings cracking once against the wind, missing her first dive entirely—
—and that is when you see him.
At first you are not certain what you are looking at. A shape in the distance, slowly molding into a horse, a rider driving it hard, and only as they close the distance do you understand who it is you are watching.
Prince Maekar comes from the far side of the hill, opposite the path you and Old Geld climbed, pushing a great roan horse with the whole force of his thighs, the animal's neck dark with lather even from this distance.
You do not hail him. A man riding like that, you reason, does not wish to be stopped, least of all by a lady he does not know.
That is your first mistake.
For Prince Maekar hauls on his reins without warning, and the horse's hooves thunder to a stop, just a slope beneath you. For a moment, you can only stare—stare at this prince sliding off his horse and looking out to the sea.
Up close, Prince Maekar is even more imposing than under all the armor. Thickly build, tall enough that even standing on the slope beneath you he does not feel small, with a square-cut beard that matches his silver-touched-gold hair. His clothing is tailored, a red black doublet with a heavy black coat trimmed with fur.
A Targaryen prince, through and through.
It is precisely at this moment, as you inspect this hard-featured man and a wardrobe that must cost more than what your father paid for your dowry, that Ursula chooses to soar from your grasp again. The sound of bells and wings roar in your ears, making you gasp in surprise and turn to your bird.
That is your second mistake.
Because if there's one thing the training yard has taught you is to never look away. In turning to your bird, you have given yourself away entirely, and when you look back down the slope—
Maekar is already staring at you, the full weight of that gaze landing on you like a shackle closing round a wrist.
There is nowhere to hide now, and you try not to cower back. You have done nothing wrong, you tell yourself. This is your hill as much as his—more, if it comes to that; you were here first.
So you do not shrink. You lift your chin, meet the look he is giving you—an expression you cannot read—feeling the heat climbing to your neck.
Above you, Ursula folds her wings and drops her talons into a pigeon mid-flight—a clean kill, the screech of death in your ears. It is the only thing that tears you away from the prince momentarily.
When you glance back down, you see that the prince and his horse are gone, and for a brave, foolish moment, you allow yourself to hope that he has simply ridden on and spared you both the awkwardness of a conversation.
Wrong again.
The unmistakable sound of hooves against turned soil tells you exactly how wrong. He has climbed up to reach you. When you look up, there is a prince of the realm on his horse before you, glaring in your direction.
By now, there is no pretending not to know who he is. "Your Grace." You manage a curtsy, and not a good one at that.
Prince Maekar says nothing.
You imagine yourself in the prince's eyes. A high-born lady, no chaperone in sight, alone with a hawk on top of a slippery cliff.
"How long were you standing there, girl?" are the first words Prince Maekar utters to you. His voice has a brooding quality to it, deep in nature, rough like sandpaper.
"Since first light."
The prince's eyes narrow. "You might've fucking said something."
"I might've," you pause, bearing the full weight of your hawk as she settles back on your glove, pigeon carcass and all, "but then I would've scared the prey away. My hawk, she is in want of a meal."
"So you decided to spy—"
"I was not spying, Your Grace, I was hawking." The words come out before you can think on them, cold and slippery as mountain water. He scowls; you stand your ground. "You may have the hill, if you want it so fiercely—though next time, mayhaps you ought to run your horse into the ground somewhere with fewer witnesses."
You hear it echo back at you the moment it leaves your mouth—run your horse into the ground—and only now does your stomach twist and your breath hitch.
What in the seven hells are you saying to this man, this dragon known for his brutality in combat?
Even for you, this is beyond reckless.
The vision of your ancestor, Rhea Royce, and her lord husband, Daemon Targaryen, flashes through your brain. How her corpse had been found less than a league away from Runestone's castle after an importune visit from the man.
Without thinking, your hand reaches to the swell of your belly. Prince Maekar's gaze tracks your movements, like a mountain lion tracking sheep.
Old Geld. You need to call for Ser Gerold.
But just as suddenly he arrived, the prince wrenches his horse away. He doesn't say farewells, doesn't deign you with another look, for that matter.
He simply leaves.
And all at once, your chest loosens with tension you had not realized you were holding onto, and you watch as the prince thunders away.
On your sleeve, Ursula is finishing her pigeon, completely oblivious to the aftermath of this heated exchange and what it is doing to your twisting stomach. By the time she's done, your nerves have somewhat settled, and Old Geld comes up asking what's taking you so long, and when you say it is nothing, he gives you a long, hard look.
That morning, you get back to your tent, just in time for breakfast.
"Wherever have you been, niece?" your aunt asks, tearing jammed bread and passing you half without waiting for an answer.
"Hawking."
"You Royces and your birds! I will never understand what your father was thinking, letting you gallivant about with those creatures."
You do not mention the prince, and nobody presses further to know more details of your morning. For that, you are relieved.
You leave Gulltown that very afternoon.
Willam rides the whole distance back with the strut of a glorified rooster, while you keep to the carriage with your aunt. The wheels jounce hard over rough road. Somewhere past the crossroads the babe stirs, turns, settles again, and you ride with your hand resting light over the place he sleeps.
It is three more days to Runestone.
You go toward it with a great sense of relief, tucking the tourney and its prince away into the back of your mind where such things belong, because everything good is still to come.
You have no reason yet to think otherwise.
Hope you enjoyed! I was so excited to write something for this sulking prince, I'm excited to share the rest. Feedback is always welcome (and appreciated!).
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