Meine original Septa hat schon über 30 Jahre überstanden und ist immer noch sagenhaft butterweich. Der kleine Schatz ist nicht mehr in Benutzung, um ihn im Alltag nicht zu beschädigen. In der Größe »klein« passt mir die Vintage Schutzhose super mit ihrem sehr guten Schnitt: viel besser als aktuelle Modelle gängiger Hersteller!
Smooth greetings from the last millennium!
My original Septa (a legendary German brand with formerly the best protective pants) has lasted over 30 years and is still incredibly soft. I'm no longer using this little treasure to avoid damaging it in everyday life. In size "small" the vintage protective pants fit me perfectly with their excellent cut: much better than current models from common manufacturers!
..."the fleeting grace of bodies. may God save us and set us free. the desire. may God strike us."
..."they had God. i longed for life."
-l'arte della gioia, 2025
summary: as the septa that instructs young daenora targaryen, you accompany her to summerhall where her uncle, king maekar, has sent her to keep her from courtly schemes. there you find her cousin who claims he has dreamed of you.
tags: MDNI!!! bipocfriendly, forbipocreader, dornish!septa, orphan septa, smart and cunning reader, competent reader, willful reader, sexually aware virgin reader, vows of chastity, faith vs desire, religious guilt, gothic inspired, religious imagery, prophetic dreams, dragon dreams headcanons included (dream sharing + more), doomed targaryen, tragic romance, one year love story, eventual smut, breaking sacred vows, this will not have a happy ending, multi-part series, more tags to be added...the first part is not nsfw at all, but it might get weird in future installations who knows...
disclaimers: the fic is bipoc friendly. i am bipoc myself, and this series is very self-indulgent and well for me. while all descriptors will be vague/neutral, i write mainly for me (screaming into the void lol) and i write what i wish i could read more of (aka with a tanner/darker complexion in mind). also this is my very first attempt at a one-shot/multi-part series, or at writing x reader, so feedback and critiques are welcome, especially for my prose, but don't be mean about it.
timeline to consider: takes place in 221 AC; daeron is 31 (not confirmed exactly when he was born, but I'm going with 190 AC); daenora is 7 (not confirmed when she was born, but I'm going with 214 AC)
word count: 3.4k
inspo: L'arte della gioia (2025),, Nosferatu (2024)
VOLUME ONE: i dreamed of you
Daenora had not yet parted with her mourning blacks since the death of her sister the year prior. She had told you the Stranger had marked her family for death, that He was coming for them all with a calculated patience; one by one down a list.
It was better, she’d said, if He found her prepared then.
You had not refuted her, had not explained the unpredictability of death and the fleetingness of life. Some lessons could not be taught with scripture alone, nor could they be softened by the words of the Faith.
She had wept into your arms all night until her breath broke, and you only held her, that was all you could do. You had tried not to cry yourself when she listed off everyone who had already died. Baelor. Valarr. Grandsire Daeron (whom she’d been named after). Father. Mother. Aelor. Aelora. An account of all her dead.
“I will be lonely all my life, Septa,” she hiccuped and tried at composure. She had wiped her eyes and straightened herself with a dignity not meant for a girl so young. “I’ve no mother…no father.”
The words struck you in a place that had not quite healed over the years, and you found yourself mirrored in her: orphaned and at the mercy of your uncle. Though Daenora’s uncle at least had the decency to be more discreet with his intentions and had not delivered her to a motherhouse.
“You have me, sweetling,” you said. It came more fierce than you had intended and that caught you off guard.
That had soothed her some, enough for her to reach for your hand and curl her small pinky around yours.
“Promise.” It had not been a question.
Your face warmed as she smiled, a small thing that took more effort than she would ever admit to. But you tightened your hold on her finger, “promise.”
“Always and forever, or Maegor’s ghost will come and haunt you for lying,” she whispered, a mischievous grin tugging her lips wide. She’d always smiled like that when you let her have her way, or in most cases, made her think she’d bested you.
And that promise was what would bring you to Summerhall.
Though it had not been so simple to keep you with her at first. Maekar had been opposed to Daenora’s wishes initially.
Daenora had screamed until she turned purple when Maekar had refused her pleading to have you with her.
“They’ve good septas in Summerhall, Daenora,” he’d said it without room for brokering a compromise.
“The septas there are dull!” Daenora howled. “They do not speak many languages like mine, they would not know how to make the numbers make sense in my head the way my septa does!” The tears rolled from her eyes, fat and sorrowful. “They would yell at me when I fail to tell the Norvoshi currency from the Pentoshi!”
You’d stood hidden in the shadows of the hall through it all; meek and pretending like your hearing failed you. But heat had rushed up your throat and settled in your face. Still you did not look up.
You had to be modest, let all praise wash over you. That is what the Faith rewarded, propriety and humility, no matter that what the child said was true. They would not find another like you, no matter how far they searched.
Even if they searched heaven and hell, you thought. But you stood as still as the stone statues whose marble feet you prayed at as the King and his Hand continued discussing.
“She’s lost enough already,” Lord Brynden explained. “Granting her this small whim may turn fruitful if you still wish for Aerion to have her.” He looked upon you then.
“I will go where she goes. I’ll stay here too!” Daenora screeched, thumping her foot against the stone like an angry rabbit.
“Leave her here and other lords will have her for their sons. Press her claim when she bears them children.” Lord Brynden continued.
You could feel the heaviness of those red eyes that you avoided. It is not that you believed the rumors about the Lord, that he could kill with intent alone, but you never tested that theory.
You were never in the same room as him for longer than a moment, but you could always feel his gaze trailing you whenever you were instructing Daenora.
The memory of the first and only time he’d ever spoken directly to you rose in your mind unbidden.
He’d overheard you teaching the girl High Valyrian and Rhoynish in the same lesson. She mastered her House’s tongue by five and was able to hold secret conversations with you in Rhoynish by six.
Soon you were moving onto teaching her Lhazareen, but the Hand had stopped those lessons.
“Do you mean to have the Princess speaking dothraki too before she turns ten?” He’d asked, no humor in his tone.
“Only if she wishes it, my lord,” you’d replied, head bowed, always bowed in deference.
Daenora looked him straight in the face with a small grin, “she will teach me the Old Tongue, too.”
“Hmm,” he hummed and took one step closer to where you two sat. “Who is your lord father?”
“I have none, Ser. Gone days before my birth.” You said simply.
“Your mother?” He pressed.
You suspected he would keep pressing until he knew the last drop of information about you. That would not do. “I have no mother either. I am an orphan.” You hoped that would settle the matter.
“You were not born an orphan, girl.” He spat, “surely the holy women told you who your mother was!”
“They gave me no names, My Lord.”
“Bisa hunnane iksis issare qopsa,” (this donkey is being difficult) Daenora giggled.
You put your hand over the girl’s and gave her a stern look which snuffed her giddiness. She returned to the tome before her, quill in hand for scribbling any musings or questions.
Luckily, the man did not speak High Valyrian, or if he did, he said nothing about Daenora’s quip.
Now, in the hall with him, with a crying Daenora, he seemed less rigid than he had then. There was something like pity when he looked at the girl.
“Let her keep the septa,” Brynden continued.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “Aerion is not a gentle man, best if she’s prepared for that. A soft mind would not survive him.”
Maekar’s jaw tightened and he flexed his fingers at his side. “No, it would not.”
The King turned his gaze upon you, and sighed. “It is done then. You will see to Princess Daenora while she remains in Summerhall, instruct her well.”
You dipped your head, “Your Grace,” and took your leave with a beaming Daenora following close to your skirts.
“By the Mother’s mercy!” She cried out.
Or rather Lord Brynden’s, you thought but held your tongue. Daenora might hear you and she had a habit of parroting everything you said.
The travel to Summerhall passed in a blur of Daenora’s restlessness and the insistent call of a bird you swore had followed you from King’s Landing.
An honor guard awaited you; you went from the guardianship of one set of Targaryen men, to a new one.
Their banners snapped lazily in the breeze with the same rhythm as your skirts.
When they greeted you, the bird sang too, an ugly sound that sounded almost like garbled words. The song sent a shiver through your body and tiny goose pimples rose across your arms.
Had the wind not carried the sound sooner, you might have made meaning of it. But it was of no consequence now.
Daenora clung to you with one hand and kept the other close to her chest to keep her mantle from flying off her shoulders.
The men flanked you and the girl, leaving the rest of Daenora’s household to follow (handmaidens mostly).
No one else had come to greet you, not Daenora’s cousins, nor anyone from their court.
You walked the rest of the path to Summerhall and blessed whichever thoughtful soul had fashioned the road and decided on flagstones instead of simply beating the earth flat.
Summerhall was nestled behind a belt of trees nearly as tall as the palace itself, long sentries that kept quiet watch.
It was a beast of ochre brick, tall windows, and horseshoe arches.
From afar, it had the same architecture you remembered from Dorne, from the Water Gardens you visited only once on your journey toward Oldtown and the motherhouse.
It had been a dream. Warmth, the sweetness of the blood oranges on your tongue, and laughter. It was a vision you clung to even now, long after memories of your homeland had faded.
The closer you came, the more the Targaryen heraldry revealed itself. Dragon statues, dragons imprinted into the very stone you walked upon. Even the braziers were in the shape of a dragon, wings cradling the embers.
But the sun and spear of Martell was carved into the palace too, etched into pillars and latticework, in the doorframes and the shapes of the patches of shrubbery.
There was a tower near the west side and it too had the claim of House Martell, a large bronze bell etched with sun and spear. The wind was strong enough that the clapper clanged against the bell sending a hollow sound across the courtyard.
Daeron II had taken good care to honor his union with Myriah. It was romantic in a way, to have stone remember love in a manner that would outlive them for generations.
You felt a tug at your hand and looked down at Daenora.
“Is it empty? Will it only be you and me here?” She asked, suddenly shy. “I think I would like that.”
“No,” you said gently. “Your cousins reside here too.”
“The drunk one,” she muttered.
You gave her a warning look, she knew better than to speak so of others.
“That is what they call him, septa, ‘The Drunken’.”
“You mustn't repeat everything you hear, Daenora,” you whispered.
She clapped a hand to her mouth, “Will Maegor’s ghost come for me for misbehaving?”
You nodded your head with convincing solemnity.
“I will not call him so to his face, I promise!”
“That would be very wise.”
There was no curtain wall surrounding the palace, but guards paced the open courtyard,and you could see shadows lingering near the great arched windows.
At the very center of the courtyard was a large reflective pool, deep enough to cover you up to your knees if you stepped into it. Lily pads with blooming water lilies above them floated over the surface of the pool in a scatter. Beneath them, cream and red colored carp swam in slow movement, turning gold then carmine whenever the sunlight caught their scales.
“Daenora!” You called out to her when she reached into the pool sending the fish into a startled frenzy.
“They’re too fast for me,” she giggled and it sounded like the gentle tinkling of bells. “Do you think they are for eating?”
“No child,” you pat her hand dry with a linen square you kept in your skirt pockets. “They’re for decoration…or for looking at, not for eating. They’re poisonous.”
She looked at you with frightened eyes. “Can fish be poisonous? I didn’t know that, septa?”
“Yes, they can be,” you folded the square and slipped it back into your skirts. “There’s one with tiny spikes all over its body that puffs when frightened.”
Daenora puffed her cheeks and pointed to them, “like this?”
You tossed your head back and laughed, “yes that’s right! Daenora the puffer fish!”
She giggled at the nickname and pressed herself closer to your side, burying her face into the fabric of your robes. A soft sigh left her lips and she muttered something you didn't quite catch.
The palace’s steward approached when you reached the steps that lead into Summerhall. He was old and bowed at his waist. He welcomed Daenora on her cousin’s behalf. A cluster of servants came out from the shaded arches and made for the wheelhouse to bring your belongings in.
“This way,” he signaled for both of you to follow.
He walked fast, too fast for you to stop to admire the details of the castle. It all passed you in a blur: the painted ceiling, the intricate tapestries, and the stained glass of the windows.
You would glut yourself on the beauty of Summerhall in due time.
The man guided you through brisk corridors and open galleries and then he stopped before a set of heavy wooden doors.
His mouth was set in a line when he turned to you, “these are the princess’s apartments. Your chamber is adjoined to hers.” He pushed the doors and held them open for you.
You ventured inside and Daenora pushed past you to one of the large windows in the antechamber. The ceiling here was vaulted and painted too.
You squinted to make out the patterns; more dragons and more spear-pierced suns. You walked over to one of the windows and the sight stole your breath. It overlooked the gardens just below and the rolling grasslands and green hillocks beyond the palace.
“Supper won’t be set for some hours yet,” he explained. “You are welcome to make yourself at home meanwhile, rest if you must.”
You thanked him and began making your way to the door that would open to your chambers, but Daenora had other plans.
She waited until the door closed after the steward before tugging at your sleeve.
“Let us go see the gardens, please,” she asked.
You did not decline her request for you too wished to see the gardens.
The princess’s apartments were on the second floor, and the princess took the stairs to the ground floor two at a time and you scurried after her trying to keep pace. You found yourself giggling when you reached the foot of the stairs. There was a headiness in letting yourself indulge in small pleasures.
Wind rushed to meet you, kissing your face and making the hem of your robes flutter about your ankles.
You stood at the edge of the courtyard and saw that at the center of it, beside the reflective pool, a dragon had been impressed into the flagstones, crowned with a sun and spewing a spiral flame that extended outward.
Further toward the west side of the palace there were smaller pools and cisterns, and smaller gardens.
Daenora followed you in that direction.
“There's a portrait here of Myriah from when she was a girl, before she wrinkled like a raisin.” Daenora commented offhandedly, as if she'd only just remembered it. Her eyes turned to you and her lips formed a sheepish smile. “I meant to say before she became old.”
You tsked lightly, an attempt to hide that you found her remark amusing, and guided her toward the sept that rose between a maze of sorts made of wild flowers.
The sept at Summerhall was modest in size, large enough to fit near twenty souls at once. It had been built into the western tower, seven-sided with windows that reached high into the ceiling and down nearly six feet off the ground, each window a different shade of stained glass and each depicting a different face of the Seven.
This too was a wonderful place.
Your feet moved you toward the front of the sept from where you were able to take in the whole thing. There were benches lined against the walls and you and Daenora took the one beneath the window of the Mother.
The wind carried the warm breeze from Dorne and the cooler gusts from the stormlands in waves. There was a rhythm to it. A pulse that was enough to lull Daenora until she was half-asleep and slumped against your shoulder.
You hummed something half-remembered from your youth, something you had heard the Orphans sing whenever a healer came to your father’s house and tended to his consumption.
In the end, their treatment only eased his pain before he succumbed to the illness. The image still haunted you, the slack jaw, sunken eyes, the thin man who had once been tall and large and joyous.
What came after would haunt you even more. Every choice had been ripped from you before you even knew you might want something. But want you did, you wanted so much. To live, to see…to love.
Sunlight poured through the painted glass, sending fractured beams of color that danced across the sept and over you.
Daenora played idly with your fingers, then shifted away to get a better look at you. “Septa?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re an orphan like me,” she began. “But I know who my parents are,” she offered you a sympathetic smile, similar to the one you had given her when her Aelor had died. A smile that you’d hoped conveyed things words could not. “Do you truly not know yours?”
“I was given their names once,” you answered calmly and quickly. “But I have forgotten them.”
“Septaaa,” she teased in a singsong voice. “Years ago, you told Lord Brynden the good women of the Starry Sept had not told you who they were. I remember it, I remember!” She giggled at your slip, proud that she had some imagined leverage over you now.
“You are before the Gods, you must speak true. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Do you think the Gods compel septas to speak whenever children demand it?”
“I do!”
She was too clever for her own good, but you did not argue. “I will tell you when you come of age.”
She frowned hard enough that her brows knit deeply, and pouted. “Are you afraid I will speak their names to someone. I won’t, I have no one but you anyway.”
You huffed out a breath and rose to your feet, “come, the supper table must be nearly set now.”
She took your hand without complaint and began to lead the way out the sept.
You walked the gardens slowly, taking in the beauty of the place, the flowers and the fruit trees.
Daenora had slipped from yours and she dashed ahead to the reflective pool, bracing her hands on the edge and staring at the fish darting from one side to the other.
“We should name them all,” she suggested in half-jest when you came to stand beside her.
You braced yourself over the pool as well and looked in. The carp were large and fast. They moved easily through the roots of the lily flowers and occasionally surfaced.
You had been so caught up tracing the movement of the fish that you had not noticed the figure moving behind you two. You only turned when Daenora gripped your hand and pressed herself against your arm.
The man stood some feet away only looking at you two, lips parted as if the words refused to leave him. He was in a disarray, his hair looked as if it had been pulled out of its tie. His doublet had been loosened at the collar and the linen shirt beneath it stained red with what you presumed was wine.
You could not say who this was upon first glance. But the dragon head stitched to his collar marked him as a Targaryen man, and only one prince was famed for being in this state perpetually.
The drunk one, you remembered Daenora’s words.
“Ser–” he interrupted you before you could say more.
“We’ve met before,” he said softly, just loud enough for the words to carry over to you.
Your brows furrowed and Daenora clutched you tighter. “I do not recall, Your Grace.” It was true, the only time he had been in the capital had been when Maekar had been crowned. You were away with Daenora in Oldtown to celebrate Maiden’s Day festivities.
“You were here, walking these gardens,” he looked around as if recalling this imagined meeting. “You were wearing a storm with the Seven dragging from your waist and you were drowning them in this same pool.” His eyes were red rimmed and feverish and he took a few steps forward, perhaps willing you to remember you had been here before.
But that had never happened.
“I have been waiting for you,” he shook his head, hair falling into his eyes. “I dreamed of you,” he said helplessly.
And a bird called out from some unseen branch, a terrible sound to your ears.
Thank you for reading!!
Also there's no descriptions for Summerhall before the fire, so I'm basing it loosely on Partal Palace in Spain.
Pairing: Daeron the drunken/Dreamer x Margella Tyrell (Original Female Chracter)
Sick!Daeron x Caregiver!Margella
Summary: Margella wonders about her feelings of exhaustion and guilt while still caring religiously for her husbands's decaying health.
Warnings: Mentions of chronic illness and pain (physical and mental), themes relating to anticipatory grief but without death of characters, caregiver exhaustion mentioned
Wordcount: 3500 words
Notes: I loved writing this and creating this new OC, it was also the first time writing this heavier sickfic format!
Dear Sister Lena,
218 AC Summerhall
I write to you in despair. I use this ink and this paper as a means to vent, and selfishly so, for I still send these words to you instead of casting them into the sea. Daeron is ill. He has been in poor health for years now, as you already know, but he is getting worse by the second. The maester believes his lungs are infected and his heart is faltering. That can still be treated, they say, but they don't know what to do about his mind. It seems to fight all reason. Some nights ago, he left the bed when I went to pray in the sept, even against the orders of the maesters. He went drinking heavily again. The guards brought him in poor condition, so I spent the night caring for him. When he woke up, he cried and apologized, as he always does, with his poor sad wet eyes that I adore so much. I know it's not his fault, but why does bliss never last? Prince Maekar's worry and shame grow in equal measure, but so do my feelings of loneliness. I sleep by his side every night in his sickbed, I'm scared to leave him alone. Sometimes I wake in terror because he is in so much pain, and sometimes because I dream he is. I ask you, sister, for your guidance and for your presence. If you can, come to Summerhall. These days, I catch myself detaching from reality and thinking about my young years as a novice under your care. I close my eyes and see the ocean before us, but my hope is not as boundless as its water. Please, come to me.
From your Margella, who loves you in faith and life
Sister Lena departed immediately for Summerhall when she received such a missive. When she arrived, Lady Margella hugged her with deep affection and felt comfort for the first time in many moons. The Septa was more of an observer during the first days in the royal place. Her former student was tired beyond description, and so was the prince. Sometimes he resented her care, he was frustrated, understandably. And yet, she also saw the tenderness, the sweet care, and love in Margella’s fingers when she fed him, and read for him. When Daeron was awake and not in deep pain or poor mood, he made her laugh easily and sought to comfort her too.
Lady Margella was a peculiar child when younger. She, from House Tyrell, was endowed with a certain beauty, like the botanicals of Highgarden, perhaps not like flowers but like ivy. She was sent at a young age to serve and study as a septa herself. She claimed to have been touched by the wonders of the gods once when she lost herself in the woods as a young girl. The girl made a vow of silence for six moons until her father agreed to let her go. She was never talkative or affectionate at home, but the total absence of speech made him too depressed to argue.
The life of service was a path of many flavors, as many would not expect. Besides the obvious obligations regarding chastity and faith, there was knowledge open to her, there were choices and duties, and the paths branched in many shapes. Beyond marriage and death, in womanhood, that was a liminal space where one could belong and not belong in society, a treasure for many who went there of their own free will or to escape undesirable unions. Many were the women to advise, inspire, and guide her, and many were the young girls she saw arriving whom she sought to inspire too. There were times when doubt surfaced, of course, about the future, old age, solitude and men, even so, Margella was happy with that life.
On one occasion, when she was visiting her family, she met the princes, the Targaryens themselves. That's where she saw Daeron for the first time. She told Sister Lena, "Sister, I've dreamed of him. I saw parts of who I was and who I ought to be. I am to be married to this man. In the past, I thought this life was my purpose, but now I must submit to another. Forgive me, sister, forgive me! My devotion must now lead in another direction." Sister Lena was speechless. She tried to persuade her pupil to commit to her vows, but to no avail. Daeron and Margella married not long after meeting each other. It was quite an unlikely match that only got approved by the High Septon because it was a demand by the royal house, and Margella was of noble lineage herself. Prince Maekar believed with conviction that a man needed a wife, and his son was no exception. Yet, none would fit him. So, if the septa was the one he wanted, he would move hell if needed, to make it happen. Maybe that could heal him, maybe that could save him, he thought.
"I have sinned, Sister Lena," Margella said to the septa during their daily prayers in solitude. They came to pray alone when Prince Maekar was in the room with Daeron. "Now the gods punish me with the reality of my thoughts," she spoke quietly in a soft voice in the prayer sept.
"What are you saying, girl? You, who have always cared for him so deeply, with so much patience, so much faith... I do not believe the truth in what you say, child."
"But you must, for I have harbored in my heart those feelings, and now they corrupt my soul as they corrupt his body," she wept quietly, just letting the water flow from her sunken eyes to her cheeks, feeding the feelings of shame. "I must tend to him now, I am anxious when I'm not..."
"Wait!" the septa proclaimed . "Unburden yourself, please explain, child, not as a confession. I know you well, I know your soul. I saw you grow since the moment you arrived in the Motherhouse at 10 years of age, and saw you flourish and falter and flourish once again." The elder woman continued, hoping that their past connection could allay her at last.
The younger one faced her with a sad and tender smile. " There 's not much to explain... My husband has shown me the most blissful of moments. I love him as he loves me, and yet, to know of such benediction makes this harder on us all. I have witnessed my husband's mental and physical decay through the years, and through the years I have tried, I have endured, the gods know I have. Nevertheless, the past two moons have proven too hard a trial... and yet, I pray." She started walking, signaling to her elder that she was not yet ready to talk about what she meant by that, by the letter, by her gaze. Margella walked back to where she always stayed in vigilance, beside the sickbed of Prince Daeron Targaryen, her beloved husband.
Prince Daeron lay in their shared chambers, covered in fresh linens and a blue and gold duvet. She made sure he was as comfortable as possible, clean, well cared for, treasured. His eyes were closed, sleeping dreamlessly, alas. The head maester had used an unadvised amount of milk of the poppy and sedative substances from a foreign root to induce a sleep that seemed dreamless enough for him to finally respire. His wife's routine during such days revolved around cleaning him from the fever sweat, brushing his hair, taking him to chamber pots , and making the room as fresh as possible for a sickroom. She sat close to touch his hand, caress his hair, and make sure he was breathing, that he was indeed alive when he was so deeply sedated. When she came back from praying, she took his hand in hers and kissed him, and then caressed her own face with his limp fingers.
"Please do not leave me in this place, husband, take me with you if you must go..." she whispered softly.
Margella brought a calm and tranquility to the prince that he could not completely understand. Their relationship flourished, as did the feelings they harbored for one another right after they met. She made him understand some of his premonitions, and for a while, he could see his peculiarities as a gift from heaven. Yet , his dreams did not stop. It kept happening, her presence just made hell easier to endure when he became delirious. As the years went by, and after the death of Prince Baelor Targaryen and his sons, Prince Daeron's paranoia and mental instability grew like a plague. It spread in all directions. He saw and tasted the beauty and kindness of the world, especially in his wife, and even so, even if she doted on him, he understood that the bliss and tranquility of spring was not meant for him. And that broke him even more. It did not matter how good she was, how kind the world could be, his soul was never going to be truly at peace. And with that came the guilt, in fact, the guilt had been there since the beginning, like a leash that needed time to grow. And so he drank, and dreamed, and cried, and drank even more, and fell ill many times in the process.
The lack of sleep from the fear of nightmares made his waking life a nightmare in itself. Suffice it to say the prince's presence was not a pleasure to endure, much less for himself. Everyone believed the prince had gone truly mad beyond salvation this time. His wife, however, was denying such accusations. She believed he was truly physically ill and that the illness was further harming his frail mental state. And she was indeed correct. Although this was more grievous than the others, he was prone to ailments, and his vices did not help. The prince had been in and out of consciousness for several days now, ultimately, his physical decay made his body too weak to protest being in bed.
"How was he in the afternoon, Lady Margella?" the old maester said while looking at the prince. He entered the room for the evening examination, as ordered.
"He slept," she took a sip of the tea "like he is now. Thankfully , I'm sure he is beyond tired."
He took his time to listen to the prince's chest, feel his skin and temperature. "He seems more comfortable than before, the heart's rhythm sounds and feels more regular, breathing is not so shallow now, so we have good indicators for a recovery..." He lifted the covers further, revealing the prince's legs and feet. "Looks less swollen today.. . that's good."
"I have been massaging his feet and legs. I noticed the swelling too. I don't know if it's the illness or a result of just being in bed for so long, but moving them seems to help , " she said confidently.
"Indeed, you should keep with that. In the moments he is awake, it's crucial, however, to keep him in this state as tranquil as possible and make sure he eats, his body won't be able to fight this without nourishment." He started preparing to leave after finishing the examination.
"Yes, maester, I know that... You know how he is, he will try to refuse everything but wine. I'll make sure he eats."
"I know you will, as always." The certainty in his voice was kind, she felt her actions acknowledged and smiled.
The prince slept deeply still. It was beyond the hour of the wolf when Margella woke up to her husband struggling with breathing. "Daeron!" With haste, she lifted his back with more pillows, easing the pressure in his lungs, and unlaced his chemise to cover his chest in salve and eucalyptus poultice. "My angel, hush, everything will be well . Breathe with me, please, please."
"Everything hurts..." such was the pain that he cried.
"Hush.. . I'll take care of you . Do not cry now, love, it will make it harder on your chest." Margella eased his labored breathing with the salve and her touch, and when he recovered his shallow but regular breathing, her own ribs relaxed again. "Better?"
"Yes... Thank you, my love." He caressed her. " I am so sorry... you should... sleep in the other room. I keep waking you up. You need rest. The maester can watch over me if you want."
"Drink this, love," she ignored his words and gave him an infusion with milk of the poppy and two drops of nightshade. "My angel... all is well. This will help you sleep again." She rearranged the covers and went to bed again by his side. Daeron spent the rest of the night in agony, the only comfort being the arms of his wife that wrapped him. He slept when the effects of the sedation hit. Margella did not sleep after.
The next day, Prince Maekar came to visit his son, as per usual, and Sister Lena convinced Margella to come with her and leave the room for a while. Prince Maekar also insisted on it, he could tell how much the burden was catching up to her. Lena told her to see the gardens, the weather was splendid, but the younger one made her way into the sept. There, under the gods' witness, the two women prayed, but Lena could feel the tension in Margella.
"Margella, what is burdening you? Is it not enough of a burden the illness in your husband? Must you burden yourself with guilt too?"
"Perhaps I must." She looked away.
"Tell me, child, speak frankly. We are under their eyes and ears, and whatever it is, They know the truth already."
She walked a little around and then stopped, kneeling beside her old master. "Daeron has been ill for a long time, but before he became bedridden like he is now, he had been having terrible, monstrous dreams. He would wake up in the middle of the night screaming, and I felt..." Words failed her there. ".. .So powerless to help him. I felt his sanity slipping through my fingers like water, day after day, as the dreams continued and progressed, and with that, the illness in his body progressed in equal measure. He had so many moments like that before, throughout the years, but this...these last ones were of a severity I cannot truly explain to you."
"I know , child... that's why I came to your aid as you wrote to me of the severity of these episodes." Lena grabbed her shaking hand on her lap and signaled her to continue.
"He..." she sighed before continuing, "a fortnight ago, he spoke about atonement, you see, that his family would be purged and slaughtered in fire as an atonement for the things they had done and are yet to do. And he would see figures, people, demons, and dragons... My husband is not mad Sister Lena, you might doubt me, but there is truth in what he dreams. I have seen it time and time again to be proven right, and at times it can be a blessing. But when it becomes like this, it transcends what health and the flesh are capable of enduring. It makes him so ill!" Her voice altered on those last words, almost cursing the gods for their fortune. "After seven nights of this torment, his physical decay caught up with the mental state, and it was an atrocious thing to witness... That seventh night, he was very drunk, fighting sleep. He was being loud, even aggressive."
"To you?!" Sister Lena inquired at once.
"No! Never to me, but to himself... " she quickly explained. "He started feeling and seeing fire, he screamed as I held him in my arms until his heart failed him, and he finally collapsed in my embrace. And in that moment, that simple moment where there was pure silence at last, and he was just laying in my arms, in that second when I checked for his pulse and breathing, there was a part of my soul that wished he was... no longer." She wept, shamefully, and before she could continue, the arms of Sister Lena embraced her as she planted a kiss in her dark hair.
Margella cried in the septa's lap, unable to say much after that. So the elder just continued caressing her and let her cry it out. After a while, she spoke to her. "My dear Margella... there is no sin to that."
"It was but a second, but the idea crossed my mind. His suffering was so enormous, so tormenting that I... I wished for it to end. And now he is in bed for days, and he is not well, Lena, he really isn't. It must be my fault for thinking that! Don't the gods know all things? Even what we don't say?" She cried deeply again before continuing, "He is awake, and I dread every second that I witness him in pain, and yet I cannot live without him, Lena. I simply cannot... Why must life give me such moments of bliss only to take them away from me? Are they punishing me? Is it for my sinful thoughts, or for breaking my vows?" The lady gazed into the ceiling as if seeking an answer from above.
"We have no control over the thoughts that cross our minds ... It is not so difficult to imagine death as a kind of bliss in a moment of despair." She grabbed Margella's face in her palms. "What you truly wish for is that the suffering of your husband could die, that his demons would perish like a fever that has finally broken. Do not punish yourself, for life is punishing you enough for reasons I am yet to understand. But have faith. We believe, without proof, there would be no need for this faith if not for these mysteries. Right now, you are walking through hell, and you don't know when it will end. But you are not alone." She kissed her forehead, and the younger woman felt like a stone had been lifted from her chest after she put into words the nature of her afflictions. She cried again, purging her soul of guilt.
As the next few days developed, Prince Daeron regained his senses. He seemed finally at peace for the first time in several days when he woke up with rays of sunlight. His wife, already awake, was preparing a sweet tea next to him, facing the window.
"Margella..." he spoke softly, extending his hand to reach her.
She turned right away to him and saw in his eyes the signs of the absence of pain. "My angel, you are awake, finally." She grabbed his hand at once to kiss it and sat in the corner of the bed.
"I don't think I resemble much of an angelic creature looking like this."
"You'd be surprised how much you do in my eyes, husband." She brushed the hair out of his face and felt he was free from fever.
"I... I don't recall much of the past fortnight... was I just here?"
"Yes, my love... you've been quite ill, the maester sedated you for some days so that you could fully sleep and recover. You are doing better now, we believe... Do you feel better?"
"I don't remember my dreams. I slept, I can breathe and talk, so... I guess I do. But I feel utterly disgusting. I'm ashamed you witnessed me like this."
His wife kissed him and cupped his face. "No need. I've cleaned you every day, but I'll tell the maids to prepare a bath with warm water and salve."
Daeron smiled, but then it faltered. "You must... cease this, wife."
"What?" She asked right away.
"To look after me like this almost all by yourself. I can understand that sometimes my limitations make me incapable of taking care of myself, but this is not fair, and it's not what I wish for us, for you."
"I've written to Aemon, as you asked. He will come here soon to be your maester and to help. Will that ease your mind?"
"That's... amazing news. Yes, it will, and it will ease yours too." He missed his brother and was tired of the maesters who could not fully understand his afflictions.
After breaking his fast, obliged by his wife to eat even if his appetite was little, she told the maids to prepare a warm bath in the room for the prince. She helped him in and massaged his aching body, then washed his hair of all traces of illness. A part of him felt like a treasure, the other felt like a burden. He was mortified with a sense of shame and impotence. Pain was endless, but fortunately, so was the care and affection of his wife.
"I am so sorry..." he said, finally holding her face in his hands when returning to bed. "I am but torture, pain, and labor in your life, and yet, I am glad that I am not alone in this world. Even when I lose sense of myself, you are what still brings me back." Without saying anything else, the prince wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her frame and placing her head on his chest. Some tears escaped her eyes. Those little tears seemed so heavy that he felt them leaking into his own heart.
"It's not your fault that things are the way they are, that you dream the way you dream... but I love you the way I do, and for all the things that make you you." He wrapped her tighter, letting her scent lift him in that soft ambiance, those fleeting moments of peace, a mirth.
