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Summary: It doesn’t begin with death, but with absence. Fewer births, fewer healthy children, and no clear cause for it. What should be isolated becomes pattern, then expectation. No one names it a plague, but it spreads through the realm all the same.
House Targaryen does not wait for answers.
They treat it as something that can be managed. Controlled. Women are selected, brought in quietly and given a purpose that is not theirs to question, all in the name of preserving what remains.
Pairing: Dark! Commander! Baelor x Handmaid! reader
WC: 10.5k
(please read the warnings!)
Warnings: 18+, slightly proofread, dead dove do not eat: dub-con, non-con, manipulation, drugging, women are treated as objects, possessive behavior, manipulation, jena and dyanna are still alive, betrayal, arguments, council drama, non-canon, an au that still takes place in westeros during the same time period, cigars exist, religious themes, misogyny, complex dynamic, mentions of violence, toxic relationships.
Westeros was never perfect— it had wars, brutality, rebellions, and issues like any other place but it was functional. It was stable and had order.
The Targaryen’s had held the throne since the conquerors with no one except Daemon Blackfyre being idiotic enough to challenge them. They crushed him and everything returned to normal, normal enough.
It was as if one day in the night— the wind shifted, things warped, the stars were no longer as bright. Things in Westeros became far from normal.
At first, it was just odd circumstances— women lost babes all of the time during various stages of pregnancy. It was unfortunate, but still common. Then, it was no longer the loss of babes— but the absence of pregnancy altogether.
Women weren’t getting pregnant and if they were, the children never made it past the halfway mark. It was as if a silent plague had struck the realm.
The Maesters were dumbfounded, unable to find a root to the cause. The women experiencing these issues were mostly healthy, did not drink, did not get sick and yet they could not get pregnant. Noble Houses had already lacked heirs before this and accidents happening, but barren women put the realm in peril.
After the discovery of what was happening, after it was monitored— decisions had to be made.
Within a year, the realm had drastically changed. This was the women’s fault, is what the men said. They were sure in their hearts that it couldn’t have been their fault or them as the cause, it was the women. This was what happened when people reveled in sin and permitted it, instead of speaking against it. The Gods would punish everyone, allowing them to go without unless the realm was restored to its proper holiness. It wasn’t a cruel punishment, but it was a just one after years of darkness and disappointment.
There were several conclaves held to discuss the situation, noblemen traveling from all over to be present. The noblemen sat with King Baelor and gave their opinions, good and bad. It was a discussion that carried on for many moons until a decision was made. None of the whispers and theories could have prepared for the change that King Baelor would make.
With the changes put in place, Westeros went from normal to unrecognizable. It made places like essos look like the holy land, even with the slaves.
Women in Westeros were no longer allowed to read or write, regardless if they knew how to already— that included sending ravens. To be caught in such an act could cost you an eye or a few fingers. The new hierarchy system had no room for homeless, heretics, whores, and gender traitors.
Most noblemen became what they now called Commanders, some ranking higher than others in terms of power and authority— while some were not able to become one at all.
All wives now only wore the color green, it was a deep forest green. There were only certain colors permitted for certain occasions and those colors were not used often. The only house that did not have to abide by the color rule was House Targaryen as they were the noble family.
Despite the change with everything else, the Targaryen’s still ruled. It was different in some ways, but not by much. Baelor was still the king and also a Commander, along with his brothers and his oldest nephews.
Most Septa’s became what they called aunts, aunts had many tasks at hand— but most handled the handmaids. If you weren’t an aunt, then being a servant was an option. Being a servant was also only for select women, women who had the skills and capabilities. Servants were not paid and they took care of households—cooking, cleaning, mending, and more.
If you were not high ranking, you could’ve been what was considered an unmarked person. Unmarked people were smallfolk who were allowed to worship the seven and forced to live in certain quarters. Unmarked people reaped no benefits and were allowed to have certain small jobs like a farmer, seamstress, butcher, or other things. Even then, they were under constant surveillance by the eyes. To be an unmarked person was a form of luck, those positions were only reserved for certain people and families.
As a woman, if you did not fall into any of those categories— you’d be picked to be a handmaid or end up on the wall. Being a handmaid was considered to be a sacred thing and it had two categories— maidens from noble houses who were not wed could do their duty and bring honor to their houses. Those women wore red cloaks. “Ruined women” — poor, whores, widows, and women who had children out of wedlock were handmaids who wore black cloaks. Though the dress was the same for all handmaids, the cloaks were different colors— still a gentle reminder of how everyone saw you even when they needed you.
The lie that the crown fed the realm was that it was an honor to serve families in such a way and that they’d be rewarded immensely. They also told people to never question the things that they saw, punishments included. Everything that happened, happened under the watchful eyes of the gods— nothing was improper.
The children who did not come from noble houses were taken from their own families and given to various noble families. They received a different first name, one fitting for their family and a proper last name. The children would grow up under the new world of Westeros and be taught the regime, taught to never turn their backs on the Gods for this is what would happen.
Noble houses no longer had distinct looks anymore, nor did they care about them— they just needed heirs.
Outside of the Commanders, Aunts were terrifying. They were women themselves upholding a world against their best interest. They delivered punishments with swift brutality and no remorse— feet whippings, hand whippings, take an eye if it offends, a finger, or your tongue.
During your childhood you were quiet, curious, and always had a habit of staring too hard or doing things that you weren’t supposed to. Your home life was peaceful and you were extremely spoiled as you were an only child. An only child and a bastard, a Targaryen bastard to add to matters. You were sired by someone that you did not know, someone who could’ve been anyone from the royal family.
The worst part of being a bastard wasn’t just being a bastard, but an obvious one. Compared to your parents and the rest of your house, you stuck out like a sore thumb— silver hair and violet eyes.
Your mother was an adulterer or had been taken advantage of, a question that you never had a true answer to. Even though it was awful, she was your mother and you loved her no less.
Your father was stern, but fair. He loved you, but deep down you always felt the disappointment that he’d have when he looked at you sometimes. You reminded him of himself in certain ways, but your features did not. You were his daughter by name, but not truly his.
Your father was honorable in the sense that he never shamed your mother for her actions or raised his hand at her. His love always outweighed his anger.
She paid deeply for her mistakes in ways that you’d never learn.
𖤐
When you were younger your family was very close with the royal family, you were often visiting King’s Landing for various things. Everywhere you went, people whispered about you and your mother. It was something that you truly could not escape. Your bastardy was not brought up by the royal family, at least not to you. While your father was always attending to duties during your visits, you played with the children. You were closest with Daeron, he always tried to protect from Aerion and his cruel words.
“If it isn’t our lovely bastard cousin.” Aerion sneered.
Daeron closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.
“Don’t be rude, brother.”
“It is not being rude, if I call her what she is.”
You twirled the flower stem that sat between your fingers.
“Being a bastard does not mean that I’m your cousin.” You reminded him.
“You have a better chance of that being the case than anything else.. someone strayed away from their bed to make you—“
“Perhaps Uncle Baelor, maybe even our odd uncle Rhaegal.. definitely not Aerys.”
“Stop.” Daeron spoke.
Aerion raised his brow, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Unless, it was father and you’re actually our.. sister.”
His comments often overwhelmed you, but you never let it show. He didn’t have to point out the obvious or make conspiracies about your parentage, but he did anyway for fun. Daeron never judged you, neither did Valarr— they instead tried getting to know you. They would be the only two people that you’d ever trust in your life.
When word of what had been going on in the realm spread, everyone whispered about it and found people to blame. Your mother was not interested in the blame game as the women would always lose, it was never a fair game. She kept telling you not to lean on your ideas, but listen to what you’re hearing— what they’re saying is more important than what you’re thinking or feeling.
Fertility crisis. Women being at fault. Sin. Straying away from the Gods.
None of those words used together would ever equal anything good for anyone and it also would mean that those words would catch fire, spreading around— soon everyone would be saying them. When the shift happened, it was if everyone was holding their breath— in fear of the ugliness that would rear its head.
Your mother knew what this change could mean for you and what your life would look like, so she prepared everything and had you sent to Essos.
A place where you could be safe and free of anything at home. You gave her and your father long, teary eyed hugs before you left that night— not knowing if you’d see them again. She never wanted the crown to have the opportunity to call on you for such a thing, even if it meant her actions could be seen as treasonous.
When you arrived in Essos, you cried continuously for the first few days— filled with worry about your family. Eventually, the worry faded and you found your footing.
You liked Essos— the people, vibrant colors, different traditions, vastly different herbs, and the weather.
It wasn’t until one night while you were peacefully asleep that you felt hands yank you out of bed, hidden figures that you couldn’t quite see until they moved closer to the light.
Then you saw it, the seven pointed star on the cloaks of the men and the woman in the light brown uniform— her hair neatly pinned. She was an aunt and they were eyes from Westeros.
“Bring her.” The aunt spoke, walking out of the room.
You kicked and screamed, trying to free yourself from their grip— but it was no use. As you got closer to the ship, the aunt forcefully poured a thick and sour wine down your throat.
After that everything was a blur, only small and distorted memories from your trip back to Westeros.
The eyes reached further than you had expected, because they had called on you to serve— but you were nowhere to be found. They had searched high and low for you, because of your features— something House Targaryen wanted to maintain. You had an obligation to fulfill your duties for the royal family.
When you returned to Westeros— it was quiet, cold, clean, and had seven pointed stars everywhere. You weren’t the only handmaid that they were transporting, they brought all of you to a repurposed inn. The inn was made to hold and teach incoming handmaids, along with handmaids that weren’t new..
The aunt that helped bring you back from Essos was named Aunt Vidala. She seemed to be young, probably around your age and that meant they picked her from elsewhere for this role.
Aunt Vidala was stern, very precise with her words, and quick to correct— she was almost as bad as the head Aunt, Aunt Catelyn.
Aunt Vidala was the one who inspected you and took note of everything. She examined your scalp, how long your hair was, your eyes, your body, your mouth, your teeth, and lastly she made sure that you were still a maiden.
It was a cold, awkward, and humiliating experience.
You stood there in the room, putting your dress back on— your hands shaking.
“It is most sinful to treat women like broodmares, the gods would not be fond of that.” You spoke.
Aunt Vidala did not like your comment, but her facial expression did not change. She just stared at you blankly for a moment, then she backhanded you.
“Mind your manners. To be a handmaid is to serve the gods and their blessed noble families. It is a reward and worth all that comes with it—“
“By the mothers grace.”
You held your face as it stung and touched your now your split lip.
“She will provide.” You replied.
The most ridiculous part about all of it was that they believed what they said, they believed that they were chosen by the gods to punish women. That women were the sin, not the men who tempted women into sin, the men who raged wars, had bastards, drank to their hearts desires, paid for whores— it was the women who couldn’t give them children's fault.
The aunts do not tolerate any form of backtalk or unruliness, all you should be saying is “Yes, Aunt Vidala.” or “No, Aunt Vidala.”
A girl from House Arryn lost her tongue for calling Aunt Selyse a cunt, not inherently kind— but not a big enough deal to lose a tongue over it.
Women weren’t safe before the change, but now they’re not free either. The men had a justification to hurt women all over the realm now and no one would bat an eye.
As the aunts prepared you for meeting the family that you’d be serving, you thought back on your family— wondering if they were safe or if they were punished. The Aunts would never answer those questions for any of the women as those things no longer mattered.
They had all of you stand around, your hands in front of you— your eyes focused on them. The room was dimly lit, the breeze from the window ruffling the bottom of your dress.
“The ceremony is the holiest ceremony.” Aunt Catelyn spoke as she circled the handmaids.
“It is a ceremony that takes place once a month, on the day that prepares your womb for a babe in your monthly cycle—“
“It is watched in the presence of the gods and the lady of the house.” Aunt Vidala reminded everyone.
“You will lay on the edge of the bed with your head in the lap of the wife, she will hold your wrists and the Commander will penetrate you until release.” Aunt Catelyn followed up.
Aunt Catelyn’s words made you shudder, made your stomach turn with disgust. Some man would be on top of you, rutting into you once a month to make an heir for him and his wife. The child wouldn’t be yours and afterwards you’d just be moved around to another posting, another man to try giving a child to.
The Aunts also mentioned that to show any form of pleasure during such a serious event would be disrespectful, but also that it would make you a whore. It is whorish to feel such things for another woman’s husband. It would be an insult to the gods and the family that you’re supposed to serve.
You were meant to serve, not be fucked by a lustful man and if they were lustful— it was your fault.
𖤐
After that Aunt Vidala had a bath prepared for you and while you waited, your mind raced on whose handmaid you’d be.
Hopefully, not Aerion’s— if there was even a possibility of that, you’d much rather throw yourself out of a window in the red keep. It’d be an easier and much more fair fate.
Maybe, it’d be Valarr. He’s understanding and kind, but you still did not want him to fuck you.
Your mind continued to obsess over the idea, waiting to be called for your bath— picking at your nails. Aunt Vidala called your name and signaled for you to get ready.
You slowly unlaced your dress, allowing it to fall off of your shoulders and pool onto the floor. You then pulled the pins out of your hair and unbraided it, releasing the tension that you felt all day.
The room smelled of honey and rose as you approached the tub, you stepped into the tub and slowly sank into the hot water. Aunt Vidala sat by the tub and scrubbed your skin, almost felt as if she was scrubbing it off.
She scrubbed you all over and under your finger nails, your scalp, along with your feet. You needed to be completely clean and presentable to the royal family.
“Remember to be respectful when talking to the Commander tomorrow, do not shame us.” Aunt Vidala spoke.
“Yes, Aunt Vidala.”
“You are to treat the wife of the home with the utmost respect at all times.” Aunt Vidala added as she scrubbed your fingers.
You winced, the roughness causing pain.
“Yes, Aunt Vidala.”
“You are to keep your chambers tidied and to only leave them when it is permitted.”
“Yes, Aunt Vidala.”
“This position is a blessing, for any woman— but especially you given your status. You will serve them with pride and give them a babe.” She reminded you.
“Yes, Aunt Vidala. It is the highest honor.”
She brushed your hair, yanking your head as she untangled a knot. A heavy silence lingered in the room and tears pooled in the corner of your eye.
Aunt Vidala set down the brush and stood up beside the tub.
“Dry yourself off and prepare for bed, you have a long day ahead of you—“
“By the mothers grace.”
“She will provide.” You muttered, your voice shaky.
You stayed in the tub a little bit longer, a feeling of sadness overcoming you. Your life had changed into something that was completely unrecognizable, something from a nightmare and you were alone.
There was no one coming to save you.
After your bath, you dried off and put on your nightgown— walking into your shared chambers. You shared a bedchamber with a girl from House Tully, she seemed a bit older than you.
The candlelight flickered in the windowsill, your shadow being cast on the wall near you.
You climbed into the cold bed, pulling the covers over your body.
“Have you found out which family you’ll serve?” She whispered.
“I will be serving the royal family, I have not been told which Commander.” You spoke, staring at the ceiling.
“I will be OfAerion.” She admitted.
Your head shifted, turning your glance to her— your eyes wide.
“Oh.” You mumbled.
The poor girl had no idea what would be in store for her, no one deserved Aerion’s cruelty.
“What house are you from?” She asked, her words came with genuine confusion and curiosity.
You turned your head back towards the ceiling.
“Houses no longer matter, we are handmaids now.”
She nodded, the sound of her blanket rustling as she laid onto her back.
“This might very well be the last time that you see me alive.”
Her words fell into your stomach like a pit, your stomach turning at the idea.
“Don’t say that. We will both do our duty and make it out of this.”
She sniffled and wiped her tears.
“We both know that this situation doesn’t truly work that way. Being a handmaid is a cruel fate… being passed from man to man as they rape you and hoping that they are still merciful—“
“It’s lunacy.” She muttered, her voice shaky.
You agreed with her, a painful truth that you didn’t want to accept. You wanted to believe that this was not what the realm had succumbed to, that most men wouldn’t stand by and watch this idly— but you were wrong.
There was a deep silence in the room after her words, a silence that carried on until the both of you were asleep.
That morning, it was dark outside— the clouded skies covering the sun. The wind blew and rattled the shutters, almost scaring you half to death.
You stood there, taking in the space and what this day would mean for your life.
“What is your name?” You spoke.
She glanced at you putting on her handmaids dress. “Lysa.”
You stared out the window, watching as the clouds shifted in the sky— how angry they looked.
“If I ever escape this place—I will find you, Lysa. I will bring you with me.” You admitted.
She ran over and hugged you, which caught you by surprise.
“I pray that you do. I pray that even if you can’t find me, that you flee to Essos and never look back here.”
Your eyes watered, because the goal was to escape— but who knew how long that would take, how much you would’ve already lost.
You got dressed, lacing up your dress before putting on your white bonnet and gathering with the other handmaids.
Your hands shook uncontrollably as you waited for the carriage that would separate you from everyone else, the one that would take you and Lysa to the keep.
The carriage was a bright red, but otherwise plain— stripped of all the things that would once make you stop and look. You, Aunt Vidala, and Lysa sat in the carriage. The windows were covered mostly so that you couldn’t see out, but you didn’t need to— there was nothing to see.
Westeros had been completely stripped of its identity. There was no one roaming the streets, not even drunkards— only the eyes that worked for the commanders.
Eyes were former knights that had a strict allegiance to the commanders, they were still knights— but knights with no honor. Knights who no longer protected the innocents, but the men who would harm them.
The entire ride to the keep, you felt like you were going to be ill. The urge to gag gnawing at the back of your throat.
The ride was silent, there was no room for talking as they told you that loose tongues were bound to sin. Aunt Vidala would occasionally peak out of the window as you and Lysa stared down at your feet.
Eventually, the carriage came to a stop and in that moment you felt like your heart did too.
“Remember girls, use your manners and speak when spoken to only.” Aunt Vidala reminded both of you.
“Yes, Aunt Vidala.” Both of you spoke in unison.
The door opened, the eyes helping all three of you step out. You took a deep breath, glancing back at Lysa— both of your eyes saying things that your mouths could not.
The eyes walked both of you to the courtyard, where you saw four people standing.
“By the mother’s grace, Commander Targaryen.” Aunt Vidala muttered.
Baelor, his wife Jena, along with his nephew Aerion and his wife stood there waiting.
“She will provide.” He replied, his hand coming out to shake Aunt Vidala’s and a half smile on his face— the kind that didn’t fully reach his eyes.
Both you and Lysa stood behind Aunt Vidala, your heads down looking at the stone.
“Girls, will you look up at me?” Baelor softly asked.
You and Lysa slowly rose your heads, almost too scared to even respond to his command.
You stared at him in his Commander uniform, his completely black doublet and the red aiguillette that circled his shoulder with a seven pointed star in center. There was a small, gold, three headed dragon pin that was on the cuff of his doublet— just merely a reminder of who he was.
Aerion was dressed the same way, but his cockiness was still palpable.
Their wives stood there in their green gowns, their hair neatly pinned back— being the dutiful wife to their awful husbands.
“Which one is mine?” Aerion questioned.
Baelor cut him a look for his rudeness, Aunt Vidala had a slight scowl on her face.
She grabbed Lysa’s hand and brought her forward.
“She will be your new handmaid.”
Aerion stepped closer, grabbing her face and examining it as if she were an animal.
He stepped back with an unreadable facial expression.
“Hmm.. she will do—“
“Let’s go.” He added, pointing to Lysa as he and his wife started walking away.
“Aerion, you must—“
“I have things to attend to, uncle. Perhaps some other time.” Aerion replied, walking out of the courtyard.
You watched as they walked out of the courtyard, your mind saying a silent prayer for Lysa and her safety.
“Can you pull your bonnet off for me?” Baelor questioned.
You glanced at Aunt Vidala for approval and she nodded. You pulled off your bonnet, your silver locks bright to the eyes even when it was gloomy outside.
Baelor clasped his fingers in front of him.
“You will be Jena and I’s handmaid.”
Your heart sank and you figured that your face showed it. The king already had two sons who were up in age, you never figured that he’d be trying for another child.
“It.. it is an honor, Commander Targaryen.”
“Yes, it truly is. May the gods bless this family.” Aunt Vidala added.
Jena stared at you, it wasn’t with disdain— but it was obvious that she did not like you. You weren’t sure if it was your hair or if she never wanted a handmaid to begin with, but you were nervous.
“Jena will show you to your chambers, while I have a conversation with Aunt Vidala.”
You nodded and followed behind Jena as she walked up the steps.
Baelor was never known for his cruelty, at least before this. He was always regarded as a good king— one who was kind and gentle. The king that would leave the realm in good standing for generations to come, but that changed— now you’ll serve the man who’s the architect of this system, the reason that handmaids exist.
You finally reached your chambers with Jena as she opened the door to the room.
The room was bare— a bed, a table, and a chair. There were tapestries on the wall that made your skin warm, depicting acts that were far from appropriate for a handmaid to see. The room also still kept the House Targaryen colors as they were still the ruling family and high level Commanders.
You walked into the room and stood at the center of it.
“I will have your supper and a bath arranged.” Jena mentioned.
You gave a fake smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Targaryen.”
The hours had raged on, the moon settling into the sky. You ate your supper in your room and for once enjoyed your peace, despite the situation— life was much easier when you didn’t have an Aunt in your ear correcting you.
You had taken your bath and put on your shift, preparing to go to sleep. It had been a long day and you were sure that the days here would feel infinitely longer than they were.
As you stood up from the chair in deep thought, there was a knock at the door.
An eye opened the door, averting his gaze because you were only in a shift.
“The Commander has requested your presence.”
You were at a loss for words, the commander requested your presence now? at such a late hour?
You nodded anyway and put on your robe, following the eye to his chambers.
When you reached his chambers there were two eyes present outside of it, one of them opening the heavy oak door for you and shutting it after you stepped in.
Baelor sat at his desk, still dressed from earlier.
His solar was dim with only a small amount of candlelight, the smell of tobacco and cherry in the air.
Baelor leaned back in his chair, the cigar in his mouth and his eyes leaving the scroll that was in front of him.
This was wrong, it was against what the Aunt’s had trained you on and told you about. If you were caught, you would be punished— not him.
You nervously and absentmindedly picked at your fingers, waiting on him to speak.
He exhaled smoke, pointing towards your hand.
“Nervous?”
You stopped instantly, shaking your head. “No, Commander— I”
He waved you off, “it’s alright if you are.”
“Are you a maiden?” He questioned, the smoke from his cigar swarming him.
Your skin warmed at his question, not out of embarrassment— but because he knew you were. You wore the red cloak for a reason.
“Yes, Commander.”
“Ah—“
“Your ceremony will be coming up soon and with you being a maiden, it will be quite painful.. the ceremony is holy— but I will do my best to make sure that I do not hurt you too much.” He admitted.
Your lips opened and then closed again, you weren’t sure what to say. Thank him for not being rough? Thank him for being considerate?
It didn’t help that Baelor wasn't an unattractive man, it in fact made things worse as your eyes raked over him. Your stomach was in a knot as you thought about him inside you, even when you didn’t want to. You didn’t want to have sex with him, but for some reason your mind was having thoughts about him.
“Thank.. thank you, Commander.” You muttered, picking at your fingers again.
“Do not thank me, sweet girl. It is what is right.”
He called you sweet girl and you needed to take a deep breath. Was this a test put forth by him and the aunts? A test to see if you were a whore? Unworthy?
“I see that you have the hair and eyes of a Targaryen— you are from Westeros, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Who is your father?” He pried, his question a mix of care and an even bigger mix of nosiness.
“That I am unsure of, Commander. I was never told.” You responded.
He exhaled a cloud of smoke and set down his cigar on the glass tray in front of him.
“I plan to be fair to you, as fair as I can be to a handmaid. I do not intend to stress you or cause you harm.”
He stood from his chair and walked over to you, circling you like a hawk does its prey. He stopped in front of you, looking down at you as you tried to avoid looking up.
His fingers found your chin, lifting it.
“You remind me of an innocent little dove, soft and fragile. Something that isn’t meant for cruelty.” He whispered.
He looked into your violet eyes, his mismatched eyes taking in your face and features.
“You won’t be of any trouble, will you?”
You shook your head, your heart pounding in your chest.
“Good.” He replied, letting go of your face and walking back to his desk.
“You are free to go—“
“Tell no one about this conversation.”
“Yes, Commander.” You replied, walking to the door and opening it.
The eye escorted you back to your chambers and you felt as if you could finally breathe when you were in there. It was as if his mere presence had sucked the life out of you. He controlled you in every aspect of the word, you were his little dove.
The next morning after breaking your fast in your chambers and getting dressed, everyone was summoned to the courtyard. You, all of the commanders, their wives, and their handmaids— everyone of importance that was in King’s Landing.
When you gathered in the courtyard, you stood next to Baelor and Jena as you stared at the wooden fixtures that had been created.
Aunt Catelyn and Aunt Vidala stood on it, behind two people who had their hands tied and bags over their heads.
“You’ve been summoned here to discuss an unsavory situation, a treachery that’s been uncovered—“
They took the bags off of their heads and you saw OfLeo, Leo Tyrell’s handmaid and an eye beside her.
“These two took it upon themselves to engage in unholy and sinful sexual relations. They were selfish and they betrayed the gods, the gods who gave them a second chance.” Aunt Catelyn spoke.
OfLeo sobbed, her tears staining her cheeks as she tried to speak but she was gagged.
“They were ungrateful! They were deceptive!” Aunt Catelyn shouted.
“My precious girls, explain to them what happens when they commit an act like this.”
You and the other handmaids shouted in unison as you had been taught.
“Death!”
Aunt Catelyn grinned, proud of her precious girls— proud that they still have stuck to doing their duty.
“That’s right, girls!—“
“For death could be the only thing that could cleanse such sin.”
The eyes came behind the two of them, standing them up and putting a noose around their necks. Even through the heavy winds that swept through the area and ruffled dresses, you could still hear the pleas of the two of them— the broken promises on their lips.
The eyes walked off of the platform and Aunt Catelyn stood near the lever.
“May the gods grant you the mercy that you do not deserve and the comfort that you squandered.” She continued.
Within a split second the platform from underneath them fell and you watched as they moved about in the air, trying so hard to fight for air. OfLeo even pissed herself in the process as her face changed colors.
Tears fell from your eyes as you watched in horror, watching both of them take their last breath for something so trivial— something that humans do.
Baelor glanced over and saw your wet cheeks.
“Stop crying this instant.” He commanded in a whisper.
You wiped your eyes and clenched your fists by your side, trying so hard to mask the anger that now brewed in your veins.
Just leaving with Lysa wasn’t a good option anymore, they needed to die— all of the commanders, their wives who agreed, the Aunts, and the eyes.
They smiled and wanted you to cheer for death, they were corrupting all of you— bringing you to their level.
Within a few minutes, all of you started to walk away — you followed Baelor and Jena as you walked up the steps, the Commanders talking amongst themselves.
At the last step you saw it, your mother and father. Your father dressed as a Commander and your mother like a wife— you almost didn’t recognize them.
You stopped in your tracks, “mother?”
She saw you and you could see the despair in her eyes as she realized that she could not save you or go to you.
Baelor grabbed your arm, his grip tight as he brought you closer.
“You are a handmaid now, she is no longer your mother in that capacity.”
Tears welled in your eyes.
“This outburst should not happen again.”
“Yes, Commander Targaryen.” You stammered through your tears.
On your walk, you saw a few people hanging along the wall— crows picking at them. All of them were marked as sinners and traitors.
Once you got back to your chambers, you shut the door and your tears started flowing down your face and neck. You yanked off your bonnet, throwing it across the room as you slid down the door. Your sobs caught in your throat as you struggled to breathe.
This was fucking stupid, all of it was. It hadn’t even been that long and you don’t remember yourself. They stripped your identity from you and you were struggling to hold onto it, to remember it.
There was a knock at your door that startled you to your feet. You stumbled away from the door, wiping your eyes.
The door opened with Commander Targaryen walking in and shutting the door behind him.
“Commander, I—“
He stepped closer to you, his lips pursed and his hands behind his back.
“You are a handmaid, are you not?”
“Yes, Commander Targaryen.”
“Baelor—“
“You can call me Baelor.” He corrected you.
He closed the gap in between the two of you, his hand reaching out to touch your face.
You flinched, his warm hand against your face— gentle like a feather.
“You are mine, you know that? My handmaid to help continue my house.”
“Yes, Comma—“
“Yes, Baelor.” You muttered.
“We do not cry for sinners, for people who’ve turned their backs on the gods.. besides you are too pretty to cry.”
You nodded, closing your eyes as if he’d disappear when you opened them.
He pulled his hand away, his eyes scanning your face.
A few moments later, he left you in the room— standing there with just your thoughts.
𖤐
You sat in your chambers and picked over your supper, your appetite coming in waves. The fire in the fireplace crackled, embers from the fire dying in the air.
You re-braided your hair as it was almost time, almost time to lose the last shred of dignity that you had.
You kept thinking about your mother and father, how they were part of this— part of the same thing that got you in this position.
What did they threaten them with? How could they justify this?
Just as you finished your braid, there was a knock at the door— Aunt Vidala walking in.
“We are ready for you.”
The knot in your stomach grew, your fists clenching as you stood up from the chair.
“Yes, Aunt Vidala.”
You put your bonnet on and made your way out of the door in step with Aunt Vidala.
The two of you walked the hall, passing the eyes— a walk that felt like it lasted an eternity before you reached Baelor’s solar. Aunt Vidala pushed open the doors, a heavy thud behind them.
The candlelight in his solar was bright, brighter than it was the night before— bright so that everything could be properly watched.
Jena and Baelor stood near the center on the rug as they waited for your appearance. You walked over and knelt in front of them like you were supposed to.
“Mother above, grant your mercy and make her womb fruitful—“
“Father, judge this act as just and in accordance with your will. Let what is done here be done in your sight.” Baelor spoke.
“The gods will bless both of you.” Aunt Vidala smiled.
Baelor nodded, a small smile on his face.
Aunt Vidala walked towards the door, glancing back at you.
“You know what to do.”
Aunt Vidala left the room, leaving you with Jena and Baelor. Baelor offered his hand, helping you stand up as Jena positioned herself on the bed properly.
Your hands shook as you held his, the walk to the bed felt impossible— but you did it.
You climbed onto the bed and laid your head in Jena’s lap, your lower half dangling off the bed. Jena grabbed your wrists, her grip was tighter than it should’ve been— making you wince.
She turned her head in disgust and what felt like jealousy as she didn’t want to watch.
Baelor came between your legs, propping them up and undoing his laces.
During the ceremony, you remain covered— he technically doesn’t get to see what your body looks like, he leads by touch and experience.
While Jena turned her head, she did not notice how Baelor’s hands caressed your bare thigh or how he pretended to still be untying his laces, but his thumb was actually circling your clit— making sure that you were ready for him.
He was enjoying every bit of touching you and wanted you to enjoy it too. He wanted you to accidentally moan or break an obvious rule in front of his wife.
You closed your eyes, the heat between your legs betraying you as he rubbed your clit— a moan was crawling its way up your throat.
He pulled his hand away, leaving your body aching for more when it shouldn’t have. His hands grabbed your thighs as he lined himself up with your entrance, a small smirk on his face.
Jena still looked away and that annoyed you, they wanted a handmaid— so, she should be able to watch. She should watch what her husband is capable of doing and even enjoying.
With a gentle thrust, he slowly pushed inside of you— a faint gasp leaving your throat and a groan hung in his. You couldn’t see his cock, but it felt huge— the way it stretched you so effortlessly and made you mold to him.
He was so deep inside you, your stomach felt full of him.
His cool rings pressed against your thighs as he gripped them, the bed creaking under his thrusts.
He was disgusting, this was disgusting. You clenched around him, your eyes welling with tears because part of you did not want this, the other half of you wanted to enjoy this. Part of you wished his wife was not here so that the king could properly fuck you and give you all of him.
You felt sick, sick that you could cave to a man who gave you no choice.
He loved fucking you, feeling how undeniably tight you were around him, claiming your cunt as his, fucking you and knowing that you won’t stop thinking of him— he loved being your first.
There was pressure that was building in your stomach, a pressure so intense that you wanted to cry out in pleasure. The pressure almost made you squirm from Jena’s grasp.
His grip on your thighs tightened as he felt it, you could hear a hum come from his lips.
You bit your lip, bit it so hard that blood came into your mouth as you reached your peak. It was a feeling that you had never felt before and a feeling that left you wanting more, it was wrong.
A muffled groan from him could be heard from him as his cock slammed into you one last time.
You could feel the warmth of his seed as the heat spread throughout your cunt. He slowly pulled out of you and dropped your thighs, tucking himself back into his breeches.
Jena let go of your wrist, climbing off of the bed. Within a few moments, her and Baelor both left the chambers.
You still laid on the bed as you were instructed, the aunts said that you had to lay on your back for five minutes after. It increased the chances of having a babe, not that you wanted to.
A few days later— you, Baelor and Jena would be visiting House Lannister as Lord Lannister's handmaid was due to give birth. You didn’t quite understand why it was necessary for all the handmaids to be there, but it was.
During your travels, you rode in a carriage that was separate from Jena and Baelor. You sat in yours by yourself, thankful for the quiet and peace that you had. You were also thankful that you could look out of the window without being scolded or being told that you were unruly.
While the carriage and horses trekked on, you took off your bonnet and unpinned your hair. The pins were irritating your scalp and so was having your hair braided every day, it was painful— sometimes causing headaches.
It would take a few days before all of you reached Casterly Rock, which you did not mind— if it meant that you had time to yourself.
Time to think about getting out of this situation, because the gods themselves only knew how badly that you wanted out. You wanted to be free of them, of this slow torture.
The minutes stretched into hours during the ride, causing you to doze off occasionally. You propped your leg against the other bench, raising your dress to let in some air because you felt warm.
Your carriage stopped, along with the horses and you could hear some talking from the eyes in front. The kind of talking that made you nervous, because too much conversation was always a bad sign.
As you waited for things to start moving again, the conversation ceased and the door to your carriage opened.
It was Commander Targaryen who stepped in and shut the door behind him.
Your brows began to furrow as the nervousness creeped into your bones.
He sat on the bench across from you, where your leg was once propped up.
“I see you’ve made yourself comfortable in here.” He mentioned, taking note of your hair being down and your dress pulled higher than it should be.
“I was only just—“
“No need to explain, dove. I want you to be comfortable.” He interrupted.
You started to pin your hair back up.
“Leave it down, I like it that way.” Baelor commanded softly.
You dropped your arms into your lap, your eyes looking everywhere but at him.
“This is inappropriate. We are not allowed to be alone in closed spaces like this, the Aunts would not appreciate it.”
He chuckled, low and laced with amusement.
“Is there anything those miserable women do appreciate?”
Your eyes flickered over to him, shocked that he’d say such a thing— but also shocked that he found it funny.
“Are you adjusting well?” He questioned.
You clasped your hands together, pressing as hard as you could— hoping to suppress how he made you feel, how he got under your skin like a disease.
“Yes, Commander Targaryen.”
He pursed his lips, his eyes scanning over your figure.
“Baelor, as I told you.”
“That is inappropriate. You are my Commander, not my friend.” You replied.
He twisted his rings, leaning back against the padding on the bench.
“Life does not have to be so black and white, it can have color in it too— If you allow that.”
You looked down at your fingers, holding back the bitter laugh that wanted to escape you.
Baelor moved from his bench over to yours, the space between you closing.
He pushed the hair from your face, his thumb swiping the bottom of your lip.
“You tempt me.”
You stared at him through your eyelashes, your chest rising and falling fast.
“I do no such thing.” You stammered.
His lips curved in a gentle smirk, “but you do. I saw the way that you had your dress up.. the way your legs and thighs were exposed—“
“It made my mouth water.” He admitted.
He pressed his lips against yours, a soft kiss— a test. You closed your eyes, your fingers pressed into the palm of your hand as you didn’t want to kiss him back.
“You can do better than that, dove. I know that you can.” He breathed.
You kissed him back, your lips pressed softly against his. He grabbed your face, pulling you into something deeper and hungrier.
His tongue slipped past your teeth, the taste of his cigar and pomegranate on his lips.
Kissing him like this was so wrong, but it felt so good. It felt so good to be kissed by the handsome King. You hated him and yourself for feeling this way, what was wrong with you?
“You are my pretty girl, all mine.” He groaned into your mouth.
You sucked on his tongue, a moan leaving his mouth.
“Let me taste you, taste what’s mine.”
You pulled away, a string of spit connecting your lips— your reality and what you engaged in coming back to you.
“No—“
“We’ve already done too much. You are my Commander.. this is wrong, you are married.” You fretted.
He turned your face to him. “Those are none of your concerns, only mine.”
“I am not your whore.” You reminded him.
“Correct, you are my handmaid— my sweet dove.”
Before anything else could be said, Baelor slipped onto his knees in front of you— pushing your legs apart. He pushed your dress up, exposing yourself to him.
His eyes raked over your thighs, your glistening cunt, how you looked down at him with such need— your eyes saying what you wouldn’t allow yourself to say.
He wrapped his arms around your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the bench.
“Commander—“
Your words were halted as he pressed his warm mouth against your cunt. The way his tongue flicked against your clit made you want to cry, your fingers gripped the bench.
He chuckled as ate you out, his eyes glancing up to see your mouth wide open from shock and pleasure.
He sucked your clit, making your eyes flutter and pulling moans from your mouth.
“Baelor.. we shouldn’t..” You breathed.
He pulled his face away from you, your slick coating his chin and mouth.
“You taste divine, better than anything I’ve ever tasted.”
He kept his eyes locked on your face—watching as you struggled to hide the way that he had you breathing, the way that you liked him eating your cunt.
You watched as his spit dripped from his mouth onto your pussy, almost unraveling right there in that moment.
He brought his mouth back to you, his tongue flicking against your clit— your whines getting louder. Baelor adjusted you, pressing his finger against your entrance.
“You want to take a finger for me, pretty girl?”
He made sure his finger was coated, pushing into you and causing you to gasp.
“That’s it, sweetling—“
“You take it so well, clenching around me.”
He sucked on your clit, pumping his finger in and out of you.
“Gods.” You moaned.
He pressed another finger inside of you, stretching you even more as it was the finger he had his ring on.
You were so full, your peak approaching quickly.
“Baelor, I’m—“
“I know, pretty girl. I want you to cum for me.”
“Fuck.” You breathed.
You were barely able to keep your eyes open as you reached your peak, your fingers hurting from gripping the bench.
He slowly pulled his fingers from you as you collected yourself.
“You did well.” He mentioned, licking his fingers.
You pulled your dress down, unable to even look at him. He sat back down on the bench on the opposite side.
The two of you sat in silence afterwards, both of you returning to the painful reality that you allowed yourself to be intentionally blind to. Shortly after, the carriages came to a stop again— Baelor exiting yours without a word.
When he stepped out of the carriage, you felt like there was another piece of yourself that you allowed to be stripped away— another piece of control that you had given him.
𖤐
Eventually, you finally reached Casterly Rock and when you did, you were happy. Happy to not be left alone with your thoughts anymore, happy to escape the way that you judged yourself within your own mind.
You made sure your dress looked as neat as possible when you followed behind Baelor and Jena.
Inside Casterly Rock, it had been cleaned and prepped with precision. There was nothing out of place, everything was cleaned, shined, and perfect overall. The wives and Commanders had their own areas where they mingled separately.
Aunt Vidala found you.
“Come, you must help with this birthing process.”
You followed her, looking around as they treated this like a formal event— like celebrating taking someone’s babe was normal.
Aunt Vidala brought you to the chambers for the handmaid, where the screams of agony could be heard in the hallway.
You walked into the chambers, all the other handmaids along with Aunt Catelyn gathered around the bed.
“OfDamon, you must breathe through the pain. Breathe in and out, deep breaths—“
“Help her, girls.” Aunt Catelyn demanded.
The wind blew outside, creating a nice cool breeze in the room.
You moved closer to the bed, taking in the sight of OfDamon’s shift being drenched in sweat, her brown hair clinging to her face, and tears of exhaustion sliding down her cheeks.
All of you practiced taking deep breaths as Aunt Catelyn instructed, trying to help OfDaemon.
This was the fate that awaited you, if Baelor got you pregnant. A bunch of people that you can’t stand in the room while you labored, waiting to take the babe after it was born. A special form of hell.
Lady Lannister took a sip of water and made her way back to the bed, her silk white nightgown clinging to her. She climbed into the bed and positioned herself behind OfDamon, mimicking her pain and contractions— pretending as if they were her own.
A truly disturbing sight in your opinion.
You couldn’t understand why it disturbed you so, but the entire situation made you uncomfortable— made you unable to think straight.
OfDamon cried out, her legs propped up and blood staining the white sheets.
“I can’t.. I can’t.” She fretted.
Aunt Catelyn walked towards the bed, a cool cloth in her hand. She dabbed away some of the sweat on OfDamon’s forehead.
“You must, dear—“
“You are so close, so close to bringing the blessing that gods have bestowed upon this family.”
OfDamon took deep breaths, preparing to start pushing again.
The Maesters came back into the room, trying to guide the labor as easy as they could— hoping that they would not have to cut.
“Mother above, be merciful in this hour. Bring forth the child whole and strength to the handmaid. Let no life be lost this day.” Aunt Catelyn spoke.
“You have one more push.” The Maester mentioned.
“One more, dear and the babe will be here.” Aunt Catelyn reminded her.
You watched as OfDamom mustered up what strength she had to push, Lady Lannister screaming behind her like she was also pushing.
A few seconds later the babe came out into the Maester’s hands, a loud cry following.
Everyone sighed with relief while Lady Lannister left the bed to see the babe.
“It’s a boy!” The Maester shouted.
“Wonderful news.” Aunt Vidala smiled.
Now that the babe was born, all the attention was on Lady Lannister and the babe. The only ones still by OfDamon’s side were the handmaids.
Cheers erupted from the halls while OfDamon began to cry, all of that hard work and she didn’t even get to see the child— the child that she had to suffer for. She could’ve died and it would’ve been for nothing, for someone else’s wish.
You brought water to her as the other women talked to her. You didn’t have much to say, nothing that would be deemed appropriate anyways.
In the time that followed after the birth, they cleaned up the room and got OfDamon situated in her own chambers for rest.
The Commanders and wives wrapped up their conversations as everyone prepared to leave, allowing the family to have time alone.
You departed shortly after, weeping alone in your carriage.
Weeping for the mothers that would lose their children, the mothers that would die before seeing them again, the children that would die without their mothers, the fathers that could not protect their children.
You weeped because of what this place would turn you into, what you might have to lose in the process.
It was almost time for your next ceremony, but that would not be happening— not this time. You were to accompany Baelor on the summit being held for the Commanders in Winterfell. This summit was to discuss how successful things had been, the growing conflict with Dorne over the change and how they treated women, and to get Baelor’s approval on some matters.
You weren’t sure why you needed to attend with him, not only was it unnecessary— but a bad look.
One night you could hear him and Jena arguing in the hall over you attending the summit, but Baelor assured her that it was not what she thought — that you would be with the Aunts and other handmaids.
It was a lie, an obvious lie.
She had her own intuition and before you took off for Winterfell, she assigned two eyes to watch you and stand guard near your carriage. She wanted to make sure that you were never out of their sight and that nothing deceitful was happening.
The journey was long and grueling as you did not talk to anyone the entire time, you were merely just trapped with your own thoughts— thoughts that weren’t the best.
When you finally arrived at Winterfell and stepped out of your carriage, you smiled for the first time in forever. The snow and ice covered the ground, the cool air brushing against your skin, the small flakes of snow that fell into your hair.
Baelor walked to you, a smile on his face.
“I can tell by your smile that you must’ve missed this place.”
You didn’t respond, just gave a half smile.
Before you started to walk alongside, he pulled the two eyes that had been assigned to you to the side. You couldn’t hear what was being said, but you saw his hand placed on one of their shoulders and they both left after the conversation.
Baelor brought you to an inn, the inn was no longer functional and turned into something else. As things had changed, who knows what happened to the man that owned it.
Baelor opened the door to the bright inn— Commanders were sitting around drinking, handmaids without their bonnets, whores, and music.
The sight of this inn was truly something, the same very things they preached against— they were over indulging in. They had women who did not fit the standards of any role as their own personal whores, but scrutinized the women for not giving them children.
You stared around the room— the smell of cigars, ale, fruits, and meats overwhelming it.
“I’m glad that you could make it, uncle.” Aerion smiled, placing his arm on his shoulder.
“Ah, I didn’t think you’d make it either.” Baelor responded, pulling his gloves off.
You kept your head down around Aerion, you really did not need his attention on you— now or later.
Baelor got distracted in a small conversation with another Commander, Aerion walked over to you— his fingers lifting your chin.
“Cousin, he brought you. I am shocked.” He taunted.
You just stared at him, your nails digging into your palms again.
“I am not your cousin.” You replied.
His hand rubbed your face, his words laced with amusement.
“Are you not? You came from somewhere, certainly not from a bastard in Lys.”
You smacked his hand from your face, making him chuckle.
“You are fierce, I like that. Fierce is exactly what I need.”
Baelor turned his attention back to the two of you and it was obvious by the grimace on your face that Aerion had done something.
“Leave her alone, she is not yours to torment—“
“Did you bring your own handmaid?”
Aerion rolled his eyes, “I did.”
“Okay, well then— stick with her or the other women that are around.” Baelor spoke.
Baelor grabbed your hand, taking you to the assigned room for you and him.
The room was spacious and fancy, reminding you of his solar. The heat from the fireplace warmed your face instantly as Baelor shut the door.
He pulled off his cloak, placing it neatly on the back of a chair— while you still stood by the door.
“Why am I here?” You finally asked.
“What do you mean, sweet girl?” He questioned, placing a cigar in his mouth as he sat in the chair at the desk.
“This is not a place for handmaids.. it is sinful. It is a disgrace.”
He chuckled, lighting the cigar and taking a puff.
“Sinful, is it?”
You took a deep breath, trying not to overwork yourself and your nerves.
He inhaled, staring at you.
“How about this, I’ll allow you to give me your unsolicited opinion— give it to me. You will not be punished.”
You stood there, your fingers once again digging into your palms as you tried to calm yourself.
“I have nothing to say.”
He blew smoke out of his nostrils.
“Handmaids, Aunts, whores, and women in general— they always have something to say.”
You pulled your bonnet off, placing it on the table beside the door— allowing yourself to do anything other than pay attention to him.
He repulsed you.
“You are a pig.” You gritted under your breath.
His brows raised and came back down quickly, surprised that you’d uttered such words to a Commander — let alone a king. He set his cigar down in the glass tray that was on his desk, the smoke swirling in the air.
He stood up from his chair and in two strides walked across the room, standing in front of you— his body pressed against yours and your body pressed against the cool wall.
“A pig, am I?” He asked, staring at you as you kept your eyes closed.
“The pigs are the men that are out there, I’m far gentler. They would rip you into two, but I will not do that. I will be kind to you, I will take care of you—“ He whispered, rubbing your face.
You smacked his hand away, moving from him.
“Is that it!?!—“
“You think that you’re some saint because you don’t beat me? You are worse than the men out there, because you orchestrated this whole thing!” You spat, pacing the room.
“You and those rotten fools that you call Commanders, you’re the worst of the worst. The gods have forsaken this place, because of all of you! The men are the reason that we do not have children, not the fucking women!” You continued.
You walked away, taking a deep breath and covering your mouth as you realized what you had said.
Baelor watched with a smirk, crossing the room in slow strides.
“There she is, I knew there was a fire that brewed in you.”
He grabbed your hand, his fingers becoming wet with blood from your hand and the deep marks that your fingernails left.
You tried to pull it back, but he held it up.
“You mutilate yourself?” He questioned.
“Better myself than you, I suppose.” You mumbled.
His warm fingers held your hand, bringing it to his face for closer examination you had thought— until you felt his tongue swirl around your palm. His mismatched eyes watched you, as his tongue was coated in your blood— his lips pressed to your palm.
He brought his face to your cheek, pressing a gentle kiss amongst your warm tears.
“You are mine, regardless of your thoughts. Your thoughts do not matter here, sweetling— that you must know. I have so much in store for us.”
He brought his lips to yours pressing a gentle kiss. The kiss made your heart race and your knees feel weak, you felt things for this man that you shouldn’t.
Maybe, it was truly naive to think that you’d ever escape this
summary : you survive a plane crash — only to wake up in a world that isn’t yours. they call it Westeros. lost and alone, you try to survive… until a joust goes terribly wrong and you save the heir to the Iron Throne, changing the fate of the realm.
words : 30K ( 13K cause Tumblr is being annoying )
warnings: Baelor in dreamland, Maekar and Aerion being annoying, blood and graphic violence, sexism and misogyny, medieval-typical attitudes, political intrigue, power imbalance, and other classic ASOIAF themes ect ect…
a/n : I feel so nervous abt this part
part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5 ( you are here )
[ masterlist ]
Four days passed.
Slow days that seemed to drag across the stone walls of the keep like wounded animals refusing to die. The camp outside had vanish.
Inside the chamber, however, nothing had changed.
Baelor was still alive, and somehow, that fact alone seemed to unsettle everyone.
Word had reached the Citadel faster than you expected. A few grey-robed maesters arrived not long after the surgery, drawn by the story of what had happened in the prince's chamber. They came with the stiff curiosity of scholars and the guarded expressions of men who already believed the tale exaggerated.
They examined the wound, studied the bandages, asked questions. You tried, and tried, to explain what you had done.
You told them about pressure inside the skull. About how blood trapped between bone and brain could crush delicate tissue if it had nowhere to escape. You tried to describe how opening the skull allowed that pressure to release, how draining the blood could give the brain room to recover.
They listened, well... Technically. But you could see it in their faces : the doubt and discomfort.
One of them muttered that trepanation had been used before to "release humors." Another nodded solemnly as if that explanation was enough. When you tried to explain further (about trauma, swelling, compression) they exchanged looks that said quite clearly they thought you were either mistaken or dangerously imaginative.
Or perhaps simply a woman speaking beyond her station.
You couldn't tell which annoyed you more. In the end they stopped asking questions. Not because they understood, but because they had decided they didn't want to. So you let them leave with their confusion and their quiet skepticism. You had more important things to worry about... Like the man still breathing in the bed.
You hadn't left his side. Not once.
Your white gown (once clean when you had begun the operation) was now stained a deep brownish red where Baelor's blood had soaked into the fabric. You were aware of it every time you glanced down, but you hadn't changed it.
Partly because you hadn't had the energy, partly because leaving the room felt... wrong.
Your small chamber down the hall suddenly felt far less safe than this one. Strange, really. If anyone wished you harm, this room would be the first place they would come.
Yet somehow, sitting beside Baelor's bed with the rhythm of his breathing in your ears made the knot of fear in your chest loosen just a little.
Maybe because if he died, you suspected your own life might not be worth much anyway. So you stayed, watching, listening, waiting.
Sometimes Valarr came.
The boy would slip quietly into the chamber and walk straight to the bedside, never announcing himself. He would stand there for long stretches of time simply staring at his father's face, his expression tight and unreadable.
He rarely spoke, but sometimes he brought a book.
The pages were filled with strange curling letters you didn't recognize. When he read aloud, the words sounded sharp and flowing all at once, like something halfway between a chant and a poem.
You listened to it once for several minutes before your curiosity got the better of you.
"What language is that?" you asked finally, voice rough from lack of sleep.
Valarr didn't answer at first. You assumed he would ignore the question.
Then, after a long moment, he said quietly, "High Valyrian."
Their language, he explained. You tilted your head slightly, listening again as he continued reading.
It sounded... familiar.
Not the words themselves, but the rhythm. The structure. Certain syllables that echoed strangely against things you remembered from another life.
Greek, or maybe latin? Your mind caught fragments that felt almost recognizable, like hearing a distant cousin of a language you once studied.
You considered mentioning it, then decided not to. Instead you simply nodded faintly and let him read.
When he wasn't there, the chamber felt quieter. Your time filled with small tasks that had become routine. You changed Baelor's bandages when they soaked through. You carefully lifted his head when he needed repositioning.
You massaged his arms and legs, slow firm movements to keep blood flowing through muscles that had not moved in days. You remembered too well what happened to patients who lay immobile for too long : clots, muscle wasting, bodies slowly betraying themselves.
You weren't about to let that happen if you could help it. The maesters came and went throughout the day. They monitored his breathing, checked his pulse. Sometimes they helped with feeding, carefully spooning thin broth or soup between his lips while you supported his head.
Most of it dribbled out again.
But some went down, and that was enough for now.
Through it all, Baelor never woke. He simply breathed. Which, given everything that had happened, still felt like something dangerously close to a miracle.
Maekar did not come often.
In fact, most days you did not see him at all.
When he did appear, it was always late — well after the sun had gone down and the castle had grown quiet. He would step into the chamber without announcement, his boots heavy against the stone floor, the smell of cold night air clinging faintly to his cloak. Sometimes he brought food with him, though he rarely touched much of it. A plate would sit half-finished on the table while he stood beside the bed.
And he never spoke, not to you, not to the maesters, not even to his brother.
He simply stood there, looking down at Baelor with an expression so rigid it might as well have been carved from stone. His hands usually rested on the bedframe or hung stiffly at his sides, fingers flexing occasionally like a man holding back something violent or desperate.
Then, after a time, he would leave again. No words. Just silence and the echo of his footsteps fading down the corridor.
You didn't mind.
Truthfully, you preferred it that way. As long as he didn't open his mouth to question your work (or worse, blame you for the outcome, again ) you were perfectly content to let him haunt the room like a ghost and vanish again.
The only person you really spoke to was Maester Yormwell.
The old man had become a strangely presence in the chaos surrounding Baelor's recovery. Grim, quiet, and perpetually tired, yes — but he listened when you spoke, and more importantly, he helped without arguing every second breath.
Which was far more than you could say about the arrogant grey-robes from the Citadel.
Those men walked around the chamber like they were inspecting some bizarre curiosity rather than assisting with the care of a living patient. Every time you tried to explain something, they responded with polite nods and the unmistakable air of scholars tolerating nonsense.
So you avoided them whenever possible.
Yormwell, at least, had the decency to admit when he didn't understand something. Even if he was also the same grim bastard who had been reciting prayers over you when they were about to cut your damn head off.
Life was funny that way.
One evening, while the two of you were working together to feed Baelor a thin broth (Yormwell carefully tipping the spoon while you supported the prince's head you finally asked the question that had been nagging at the back of your mind.
"Where does Maekar spend his days?"
The maester paused slightly, watching to make sure Baelor swallowed the small mouthful before answering.
"With his son."
You frowned.
"Which one?" you asked.
"Aerion."
The name meant little to you at first, though when Maester Yormwell spoke it, memory rose slowly from the back of your mind. You barely knew the lad, truth be told...
You had crossed paths with him only once before everything fell apart at Ashford. It had been in one of the castle corridors during the bustle of the tourney, when servants and nobles alike moved through the halls in a constant tide of silks, armor, and shouted orders. You had been carrying a tray at the time, carefully balancing a flagon of wine and several cups meant for Prince Baelor.
Aerion had appeared around the corner with two companions trailing behind him like obedient shadows.
You had stepped aside immediately, lowering your gaze the way the servants did, but the prince had walked straight into you anyway. The tray tilted, and wine spilled across the stone floor in a dark red splash.
You thought it had been an accident, then you looked up and saw the faint curl of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Clean it," he had said coolly, glancing down at the mess as though you were no more than a stray dog that had wandered into his path.
He had not waited for your answer. You knelt to wipe the wine from the stones while he and his companions walked away laughing.
Yes, you remembered him now.
A spoiled princeling with silver hair and violet eyes, handsome in the way all Targaryens seemed to be, yet carrying himself with the careless cruelty of someone who had never been told no in his life. It had been a pity, you thought at the time. A handsome boy like that should have been married already. A noble house somewhere would surely have leapt at the chance to bind themselves to a prince of the blood.
But later you learned why he was not.
Lady Siena Ashford had been the one to enlighten you on the matter. The eldest daughter of Lord Ashford possessed both a sharp tongue and a sharper eye — traits she shared with her younger sister, though Siena carried them with a far more thoughtful air. Very little happened beneath her father's roof without her noticing it sooner or later.
You had not been assigned to her service, not truly; your duties lay with the younger Lady Gwyn, who required far more watching and guiding. Yet Siena had always treated you kindly, speaking to you with an easy familiarity that many highborn ladies would never have bothered with. She was, in truth, a lovely girl in her own peculiar way — spirited, a little wild, and possessed of habits that would have horrified her father had he known the half of them. More than once you had seen her slip quietly from the castle toward the meadows beyond the walls, bow slung over her shoulder like some young huntress from an old tale.
The first time you stumbled upon her there, she had been standing alone at the edge of the meadow, bow in hand, loosing arrows into a straw target with a fierce and almost stubborn concentration. Her hair, pale brown and thick, had been drawn back into one of those perfect braids Claryss always managed to weave so effortlessly — though the maid had tried more than once to teach you the trick, and each time you had failed miserably, your fingers hopelessly clumsy with the strands.
Siena's braid hung neatly down her back even as the rest of her appearance betrayed her little rebellion; the sleeves of her gown had been rolled up to the elbows like some stablehand's, and the hem was already brushed with grass and dirt from the field. She had looked so startled when she noticed you watching that you had nearly laughed, but you said nothing of it then and never did afterward. The secret seemed harmless enough, and besides, there had been something admirable in the stubborn determination with which she practiced.
For all her noble birth, Siena showed a warmth toward the castle servants that you rarely saw among the highborn. She came often to the kitchens not to scold or command but simply to talk, or to watch the cooks at their work with bright curiosity. Sometimes she even tried her own hand at baking, dusting herself in flour and laughing when the dough refused to behave as she wished.
It was a striking contrast to Lord Ashford himself, who carried his minor lordship like a suit of armor and rarely spoke to anyone beneath his station without reminding them of it. Siena, by comparison, seemed almost awkward in her kindness at times, unsure whether the courtesy she offered would be welcomed or misunderstood. Yet she had a quick wit and a laugh that came easily, and you had found her company unexpectedly pleasant on more than one occasion.
From what you had observed during the days of the tourney, she also seemed to harbor a certain... fascination with Prince Valarr.
It was subtle enough that someone less attentive might have missed it entirely, but once you noticed it, the signs became impossible to ignore. Ever since the Targaryens had arrived at Ashford Castle, Siena's gaze had developed the curious habit of drifting toward the prince whenever he entered a room, as though drawn by some invisible thread. And, if you were not mistaken, Valarr's eyes sometimes found her as well — brief glances across crowded halls or feasting tables, quickly withdrawn the moment either of them realized they had been caught looking. Yet Siena tried very hard to pretend otherwise, maintaining a careful composure whenever anyone spoke of him.
It was the sort of innocent infatuation that made you smile to yourself whenever you noticed it unfolding: the shy glances, the awkward silences, the faint color that sometimes crept into her cheeks. Harmless, hopeful... and perhaps a little doomed, in the way such youthful feelings often were.
For Prince Valarr, as you had heard whispered more than once among the ladies and servants alike, was already betrothed to another noble lady somewhere. The marriage had not yet been celebrated, but the promise had been made, and in a world like this promises of that sort rarely went unfulfilled. Still, Siena was young enough to indulge the fantasy for a while longer, to pretend that perhaps fate might bend differently than expected.
Not that her situation was any more doomed than your own quiet absurdities, you thought dryly. At least she was a lady. You, on the other hand, were a peasant who had somehow ended up elbow-deep in the skull of a prince.
And it was not as though you thought romantically about Baelor, anyway.
Right? Right.
It certainly wasn't as if your traitorous mind had conjured up the occasional foolish little dream in the quiet hours of the night — nothing scandalous, nothing truly improper, just those strange, fleeting imaginings where he was awake again, speaking to you with that calm voice of his, perhaps even smiling in that rare, gentle way you had seen once or twice before the trial.
No. Of course not. Not at all.
It had been one evening while you were helping her dress that the subject of Prince Aerion first arose. Her usual maid, Claryss, had taken ill that day, leaving Siena to struggle with the intricate fastenings of her gown. You had stepped in to help, fingers working patiently at the tiny clasps that ran along the back of the garment while she stood before the mirror.
For a while she had spoken lightly of the coming feast, of her sister's endless chatter and the visiting knights parading about the courtyard like peacocks. But when the conversation drifted to the Targaryen princes, something in her tone changed. She mentioned Aerion then, not with the playful curiosity she showed when speaking of Valarr, but with a note of weary disgust, as though the name itself left a bitter taste in her mouth.
When she finally explained why, her voice carried both anger and resignation, the sound of someone who had seen enough of the prince to know exactly what sort of man he truly was.
"They call him monstrous," she had said.
And after the puppeteer., you understood why.
How Aerion had tormented that poor woman, and snapped her finger in a half. Dunk was the one to step in, to which caused him misfortune after.
In front of his father, they said, Aerion played the part of the perfect son : polite, disciplined. A proper prince of House Targaryen.
But once Prince Maekar was out of earshot... He became something else entirely.
Lusia had told you as much one afternoon while the two of you folded linens in the servants' hall. A middle aged woman who adored gossip the way sailors adored wine, and she spoke of the prince with a mix of fascination and dread.
"He's the perfect example," she had whispered dramatically, "of the madness the Targaryens are known for."
You had almost corrected her.
The words had almost risen to your tongue then and there, the reflex of your former education pushing forward before you could stop it. In the world you had come from, madness was not some mystical curse carried neatly in a family name, nor the punishment of gods whispered about by frightened peasants. It had causes, real ones, tangled and complex.
Illness of the mind, like illness of the body, grew from a thousand different roots: trauma, imbalance, circumstance, things far more complicated than the simple tales people liked to tell. A cruel man was not always a mad one, and a mad one was not always cruel. That was the mantra you learned in med school.
Still... you could not entirely dismiss the thought that lingered uneasily in the back of your mind.
The Targaryens had been marrying brother to sister, uncle to nieces, cousin and cousin for generations, from what read and heard about them, that is.
In your own world, such a thing would have sent every physician and geneticist you had ever studied under into fits of horrified disbelief. Generations of brother marrying sister, uncle wedding niece, blood folded endlessly back upon itself ... it was the very sort of lineage that filled medical journals with case studies and warnings, such a thing would have set every physician and geneticist you had ever studied under tearing their hair out in horror.
Too much inbreeding, repeated over centuries, always left its mark somewhere. Most often the body betrayed it first: weakness of constitution, strange deformities, fragile health passed from parent to child like an unwanted heirloom.
You had seen it yourself in history.
The royal houses of Europe had been infamous for it. The English dynasties especially (though they were hardly alone) had tangled their bloodlines in much the same way, until the consequences became impossible to ignore. The most famous example that came to mind was that peculiar jutting jaw so often mocked in portraits of the old royal families, what historians liked to call the Habsburg jaw. It appeared again and again in painting after painting, generation after generation, the face slowly warping under the quiet pressure of too many shared ancestors.
That was how such things usually manifested. But the Targaryens... They seemed strangely untouched by it.
If anything, they appeared almost improved by their tangled bloodline. Their silver hair, their violet eyes, their otherworldly beauty — there was something almost unnaturally perfect about the Targaryens, as if centuries of incest had somehow distilled their features rather than damaged them. It was the sort of beauty that made people stare, the sort that seemed less entirely human and more like something drawn from legend.
And it was not as though the people of Westeros were fond of incest either.
You knew that much from your reading. During those quiet evenings when you had little to do, you had pored over whatever books you could find in the castle — histories, religious texts, half-dusty chronicles written by long-dead maesters. From them, and from the endless chatter of gossip, you had pieced together the uneasy relationship between the Faith of the Seven and House Targaryen.
The Faith did not approved, not truly. In fact, it had once nearly torn the realm apart.
You remembered reading about the great compromise forged during the reign of King Jaehaerys, the so-called Doctrine of Exceptionalism. Before that, the dragonlords of old Valyria had practiced both incest and polygamy without hesitation, taking multiple wives and marrying brother to sister as easily as any other union. But the Faith had fought fiercely against such customs once the Targaryens came to rule Westeros.
Jaehaerys, clever as the histories always claimed he was, had found a middle path.
The polygamy was abandoned. The incest... was not.
Instead, it was wrapped in careful doctrine and solemn words until it sounded almost holy. The Targaryens, the argument went, were not like other men. Their blood was different, touched by the ancient magic of Valyria and bound to dragons. And because of that, the old rule must remain: the blood of the dragon must remain pure.
You supposed it had something to do with riding dragons. At least, that seemed to be the justification repeated often enough in the books.
Still, if anything, they looked almost unreal in their perfection: pale hair like silver thread, eyes the color of amethysts, features so striking they seemed carved rather than born. Otherworldly, people often called them.
Which meant, you sometimes wondered, that if there were consequences to all that careful incest, perhaps they simply appeared elsewhere.
In the mind. It was a grim thought — but one that would explain a great deal.
And yet, even that theory felt uncertain the longer you lived in this strange world. After all, this was a land where dragons had once ruled the skies and burned armies to ash. A place where ancient bloodlines carried powers your old textbooks had never dreamed of explaining.
Perhaps the rules here did not follow the neat logic of modern genetics. Perhaps centuries of dragonlord blood changed things in ways no science from your old life could truly predict.
You had learned quickly that trying to apply the strict reasoning of your former world to Westeros was often like trying to measure the wind with a ruler. So in the end, you had simply held your tongue.
Because attempting to explain modern psychiatry (or genetics, for that matter) to a gossiping castle maid in the Reach would have been about as useful as explaining electricity to a goat.
Still, you remembered thinking that Lusia had one thing right : people should not be fooled by Prince Aerion's beauty.
He had the pale, striking features of the dragonlords : silver hair like spun moonlight, violet eyes, a face that would have looked noble on a statue. Yet beneath that surface lay something uglier than any scar, a cruelty that made the skin crawl. You suspected most women who truly saw that side of him would rather flee than ever share his bed.
Or else they would have to be just as mad as he was.
The thought made you glance at Baelor's still form.
Strange, you mused, how different the two brothers' sons seemed to be.
You had noticed it more clearly during the quiet hours when Prince Valarr sat beside the bed reading to his father in that flowing, unfamiliar language of High Valyrian. The boy's voice was patient, the cadence of the ancient words rising and falling softly in the dim light of the chamber.
Valarr... and Aerion. They were like two halves of some strange balance.
Yin and yang, your mind supplied automatically.
Opposites bound together.
From what you had gathered in passing conversations between the Ashford sisters, Valarr was widely considered the model prince — the sort of heir the realm expected. Dutiful, intelligent, well-trained in both sword and statecraft.
Lady Siena had once described him as "insufferably proper and arrogant." But even their teasing carried no real malice.
For all his pride, Valarr seemed to possess something Aerion lacked entirely: a conscience.
Valarr could be arrogant, certainly (he was a prince of the blood, raised among courtiers and flatterers) but there was restraint in him, a sort of inward check that Aerion did not seem to possess at all. Where Aerion's temper burned quick and cruel, Valarr's anger cooled before it spilled over. Where Aerion delighted in humiliation, Valarr often looked faintly uncomfortable with it.
And now, with Baelor lying broken and silent in the bed between them, duty was settling slowly onto Valarr's shoulders whether he wished it or not.
You found your gaze drifting back to your prince again.
The blankets had slipped low during the long hours of the afternoon, leaving his chest bare as he lay there breathing slowly beneath the dim candlelight. His body rose and fell with the rhythm of sleep, or something close enough to it. He had the build of a man accustomed to armor and swordplay: broad across the shoulders, his chest strong and well-kept despite the terrible stillness that had claimed him these past weeks. Beaty marks and scars crossed his skin in pale lines, some thin and faded, others jagged enough to suggest battles long past.
Sometimes, without quite meaning to, your fingers traced those marks. Lightly, absentmindedly. You wondered where he had earned them. A tourney lance, perhaps? A sword stroke that had nearly found its mark. Some skirmish fought on a dusty border years before you had ever heard his name.
The gesture was intimate in a way that startled you the moment you became aware of it.
Your hand pulled back at once, as if the skin beneath your fingers had suddenly burned you. Yet somehow, sooner or later, it always drifted back again. Your prince — though he did not look entirely like a Targaryen prince at all.
Baelor Breakspear had inherited far more from his Dornish mother than from the pale dragonlords of old Valyria. Where the rest of his family carried silver hair and violet eyes, Baelor's coloring was darker, warmer. His features held the lines of Dorne rather than the otherworldly beauty of the dragonlords. Beside Aerion (or even beside his own brother Maekar) he looked almost like a Dornish prince who had wandered accidentally into a Targaryen court.
Perhaps that was why he seemed... different, almost kinder. Or perhaps that was simply the illusion he allowed the world to see.
After all, Baelor's eyes were closed now, his face slack with the heavy stillness of unconsciousness, and it was easy, too easy, to imagine gentleness in a man who could not presently speak or move. But you had seen his eyes open before. You remembered them clearly.
One violet. One blue.
Striking enough on their own, yet it was not their color that lingered most in your memory, but the strange intensity within them. When Baelor looked at someone, he did so with a steadiness that could feel almost unnerving, as though he were weighing more than just the words being spoken. There had been something deeper there, something watchful and controlled, like a fire banked carefully beneath layers of ash.
A dragon sleeping, perhaps. Dormant — but not gone.
The thought made you wonder if the calm composure he carried was not merely kindness, but discipline. The careful restraint of a man who understood exactly what lived inside him and chose, again and again, not to let it rule him.
You had never once seen him lose his temper.
Not during the chaos of the trial, not when knights shouted and tempers flared, not even when his own kin had nearly come to blows.
Where other men barked orders or raised their voices, Baelor simply spoke — and somehow people listened. It was a different kind of strength than the loud, brutal sort many knights favored, but no less formidable.
You had wondered more than once whether that gentleness came from the blood of his mother, Queen Myriah Martell. From what you remembered reading, his generation had not tangled itself in the same tight knots of incest that earlier Targaryens had favored. His father had married into Dorne, and many of the brothers had been wed across the great houses of the realm to strengthen alliances.
Only one of them (though the name escaped you now) had taken a cousin to wife. But that was hardly unusual among noble houses. Cousin marriages were common enough, far less scandalous than the brother-sister unions that had once defined the dragonlords of old Valyria.
You adjusted Baelor's head gently as Maester Yormwell leaned forward with the spoon.
The old maester worked patiently, his lined hands steady as he coaxed the broth between the prince's lips. You supported Baelor carefully, ensuring he swallowed rather than choked, wiping away the thin trail of soup that escaped the corner of his mouth with a small cloth.
For a moment the only sound in the chamber was the clink of the spoon against the bowl. Then Yormwell sighed softly.
"His wounds are rather ugly," the maester muttered, stirring the soup absently before offering another spoonful. "Aerion's, I mean."
You hadn't paid much attention during the trial after the chaos had begun. Your eyes had been on Baelor most of the time while the world seemed determined to collapse around you. But you did remember the fight... Dunk. The enormous hedge knight who had stepped into the trial by seven.
Apparently he had not been gentle.
"The boy is recovering from his wounds as well," he continued. "Not as grave as Prince Baelor's injuries, but severe enough."
"How bad?" you asked.
"Bad enough that he remains bedridden."
You hummed quietly. Apparently Dunk had hit him hard.
"Pain?" you asked.
The maester nodded grimly. "We have found little that eases it."
That made you pause.
Your mind began working through possibilities automatically, the way it always did when faced with a medical problem. Pain relief? Limited resources? Medieval medicine?
And then — something surfaced in your memory. A flower. You blinked.
Of course! You had seen it before.
Not in any textbook or pharmacy, but in practice. In the kitchens. In the servants' quarters. Whenever one of the cooks sliced their hand open or a butcher split a finger or some poor stableboy got beaten half to death by an angry lord.
There had been an old woman who sold bundles of dried flowers and herbs that eased pain remarkably well when brewed or crushed into poultices.
You had tried it once out of curiosity. It worked... Not perfectly, but well enough to dull the worst of it. You straightened slightly, your mind racing now.
God. Why hadn't you thought of that earlier? Stress, probably.
Four days without proper sleep while performing medieval brain surgery had a way of scrambling your priorities.
Yormwell noticed the shift in your expression. "What is it?"
"There's something that might help," you said slowly.
"For pain."
He raised an eyebrow.
"From where?"
You hesitated only a moment.
"The forest." Specifically, from the strange old woman who lived near the edges of the woods outside Ashford lands.
You knew her, everyone did.
She wandered the forest gathering herbs and roots, always appearing with bundles of strange plants tied in cloth. Some people called her a seer. Others called her a witch.
Apparently Lady Ashford herself sometimes summoned the woman to read cards and tell fortunes, which told you all you needed to know about the noblewoman's taste in entertainment. But strange or not — her remedies worked... if the flowers dulled pain for servants with broken bones and butchered hands, they might help Aerion. Most importantly, Baelor.
The realization made you curse quietly under your breath.
"God, why didn't I think of that sooner..."
Yormwell watched you carefully but said nothing. By the time night had fully fallen, your mind was already made up. The castle had grown quiet, torches flickered low in the corridors. Most of the servants had long since retreated to their quarters.
You made certain of Baelor's bandages one last time, tightening the linen where it had begun to loosen and smoothing the edges carefully so they would not rub against the wounds beneath. The blankets were drawn up again across his chest, tucked around his sides to keep out the creeping chill that always seemed to settle into the stone chambers after nightfall.
"Don't die while I'm gone," you murmured under your breath, the words barely louder than the whisper of the candles.
Then you turned away before you could think too much about what you had said.
You slipped from the chamber, easing the heavy door closed behind you so it would not creak. The corridor beyond was dim, lit only by a scattering of torches set into the stone walls. Their flames sputtered softly in the draft that moved through the castle at night. You pulled a cloak around your shoulders as you walked, fastening it quickly at the throat before making your way toward the stairwell that led down to the lower passages.
Outside, the night air struck your face like cold water.
Ashford Castle slept uneasily after the chaos of the trial, but not entirely. Somewhere in the yard below you heard the unmistakable voice of Dunk — the deep, awkward rumble of it carrying easily across the quiet courtyard. He seemed to be speaking with one of the Kingsguard near the stables, their silhouettes faint against the torchlight.
The hedge knight had not left.
From what you had overheard among the servants, Dunk had refused to ride away after the trial, guilt weighing on him like a chain around his neck. The blow that had felled Baelor Breakspear had been meant for another man, but accidents did little to soften a conscience. Prince Maekar, it was said, had offered him a place in service to House Targaryen — an offer Dunk had accepted with visible reluctance.
On one condition : only if Baelor woke.
Keeping close to the shadows, you slipped along the outer wall of the castle toward the quieter rear paths where servants sometimes came and went unseen. The forest stretched beyond the walls in a dark mass of tangled branches and whispering leaves. Somewhere out there lived the old woman who sold her strange little bundles of flowers and powders, the ones the cooks sometimes bought when a kitchen boy burned himself or a butcher cut too deep into his hand.
If those flowers could dull pain for them... Perhaps they could help Aerion, perhaps even Baelor.
Gods, why had you not thought of it sooner?
You had just reached the narrow passage that led out beyond the back of the castle when a hand suddenly clamped down around your arm. Hard.
"Just where the fuck do you think you're going?" You froze, for you knew that voice.
Slowly you turned your head, and of course, because the gods delighted in their little jests, it was Prince Maekar.
His hand had closed about your arm like a smith's vise. The grip hurt. Even through the thick wool of your cloak you could feel the strength in it, fingers digging in hard enough that you were certain bruises would flower there by morning. Up close he looked worse than you had ever seen him.
The prince's pox-scarred skin seemed paler than usual, the marks upon his cheeks standing out in the torchlight. His silver hair, so often kept in soldierly order, had fallen somewhat loose, as if he had run a weary hand through it a dozen times already that night.
He looked spent. Not merely tired, but worn thin.
"You're hurting me — "
"I care not."
"Unhand me — "
"When you tell me what you're about, creeping from the castle like some thief in the night." His eyes narrowed, hard as flint. "Is it to work your queer little sorceries? Or have you some rebels waiting for you in the trees?"
"You are mad," you snapped. "Truly mad."
Maekar's mouth twisted.
"I should have heeded my gods-damned uncle," he muttered darkly.
That made you pause.
"I had a letter from Bloodraven two days past," he said. "A warning. He wrote that I should never have stayed the headsman's sword where you were concerned."
Bloodraven.
The name rang unpleasantly in your thoughts. You had seen it once, scrawled across the brittle pages of some history. Brynden Rivers — the king's bastard brother. The pale one with the red eye. The man who had slain another royal brother in the king's name.
How many eyes does Bloodraven have? A thousand... and one.
They said he trafficked in dark arts besides.
"Your Grace," you said tightly, forcing the words past clenched teeth, "with all the courtesy I can muster for you at this moment — I do not give a fuck what your queer uncle says of me."
His gaze hardened, but you pressed on before he could speak.
"I was going to see a merchant woman who dwells in the forest," you said. "She sells herbs. Remedies. Things that might ease your son... and Prince Baelor."
At the mention of his son, Maekar stiffened. Then you heard your own words again and realized how they must sound.
A woman in the woods. Selling herbs. God. That did sound like a hedge witch.
"Everyone in the castle knows her," you added quickly. "Servants go to her when they're hurt. Stableboys, scullions, half the kitchens besides. She sells dried flowers and powders that dull pain. Like poppy, but better."
You folded your arms.
"It might help your son. And your brother."
Maekar regarded you for a long moment.
"And you meant to go there," he said slowly, "at this hour. Alone."
"Well... yes," you muttered, frowning. "Why would I not?"
"A woman," he said flatly. "Alone in a forest." He made a low sound of disapproval in his throat. "We do not know what prowls those woods come nightfall."
You gave a dismissive shake of your head and started off again. "As though you care what becomes of me."
"I do not," he said at once, striding after you. "But I have need of your hands if my brother is to live."
He caught you again, though this time the grip was less bruising, and steered you toward a horse standing half-hidden in the dark. You had not even seen the beast before now.
"Mount."
You blinked at him. "What?"
Maekar dragged a hand down his face, as though summoning what little patience remained to him.
"Up," he said. "On the horse, woman." His voice hardened. "I will not say it thrice."
And so you found yourself upon the horse after all.
You sat before him in the saddle, stiff as a board, while Prince Maekar swung up behind you with the easy familiarity of a man long accustomed to riding to war. His arm reached past you to take the reins, the leather creaking softly as he gathered them into his hands.
"Point the way," he said curtly.
You did.
The horse moved at once, hooves crunching over the frost-hardened ground as you left the faint lights of Ashford Castle behind. The great stone walls soon vanished into the dark, swallowed by the night as the trees of the forest closed in around you.
It was... improper. Wildly so.
A prince of the realm riding alone through the woods with a peasant girl wedged before him in the saddle would have sent half the court into scandalized whispers by morning — had there been anyone there to witness it. Yet neither of you seemed particularly concerned with propriety just now.
Maekar certainly was not.
Every time the horse shifted beneath you and forced you to adjust your seat, his voice followed close behind, sharp and irritated.
"Sit still."
"I am sitting still."
"You are wriggling like a worm on a hook."
"I am not wriggling — "
"You just did it again."
"Gods forbid the horse moves under me."
"If you fall," he muttered, "I will leave you for the wolves."
"You dragged me out here!"
"And I am beginning to regret it."
You bit back the retort that sprang to your tongue. Truth be told... he had not been entirely wrong. The forest was a different creature at night.
During the day the paths seemed harmless enough, just another stretch of green woodland beyond the castle lands. But now the trees loomed tall and skeletal above you, their branches clawing at the sky like crooked fingers. The deeper you rode, the darker it became, until even the moonlight struggled to reach the forest floor.
Strange sounds carried through the undergrowth.
The distant howl of something unseen, the rustle of leaves where no wind stirred.
The horse snorted uneasily once or twice, its ears flicking back as if it too sensed the unseen life moving between the trunks.
And there was a smell to the woods as well : damp earth, rotting leaves, cold moss.
You found yourself sitting a little straighter in the saddle without meaning to.
Behind you, Maekar noticed. "Told you," he said dryly.
You huffed. "I'm not afraid."
"You are."
"I am not."
"You have not stopped clutching the saddle since we entered the trees."
You glanced down. Your fingers were indeed gripping the front of the saddle rather tightly.
"...Shut up." You twisted in the saddle just enough to glare over your shoulder at him, anger curling tight in your chest.
"You know," you said, "I haven't forgiven you for the way you let me be dragged through that hell. The threats, the beheading, the torture at the hands of your bloody Kingsguard... the burning of my hand — do you think I can just forget that?"
Maekar's hand tightened slightly on the reins.
"Your forgiveness means little to me."
What a cunt.
His silver hair glinted faintly in the moonlight as he leaned closer, the cold steel of his resolve clear even without anger in his tone.
"If I must risk another hand, another life, to save my brother, or any of my blood, I would do it again. Without hesitation, nor regret. Every oath I swore, every command I gave, every blow I struck... I would strike it all again, if it meant he lives."
Your jaw tightened, your teeth biting into your lip. "And you'd do the same to me?"
"If it must be so," he said simply, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "If it saves Baelor, I'd watch you burned alive without flinching. You're nothing to me."
You wanted to shout at him, to spit at him, to strike him for his cold pragmatism, but you stayed silent. Instead, your hands clenched the saddle even tighter, and the forest around you felt darker, as though it mirrored the steel in his gaze.
"You don't care who suffers, so long as your family lives," you whispered, more to yourself than him.
"I care," he said, "more than you can imagine. But duty is a cruel mistress, and mercy often costs more than blood."
The horse shied slightly at a branch scraping its side, but neither of you faltered. The tension between you hummed like the storm in the trees, and for a moment the only sound was the horse's steady hooves and the distant howl of some unseen creature in the night.
You swallowed, chest tight, and looked forward again, knowing that, in Maekar's mind, nothing ( not fear, anger, not even your suffering) could outweigh the life of his brother.
"You are but a peasant," the prince continued, the words rolling off gruffly at his tongue like stones tossed into a river. "And yet you speak to me as if we were equals. If it were mine to command, I would have you strung upon the highest gallows ere the dawn broke, and there would be little complaint from me. Alas — "
"Alas what?" you spat back, jerking the horse hard through the uneven forest floor, the leather of the saddle biting into your thighs. The wind whipped your hair across your eyes, but you paid it no mind. "I wonder, truly, what your brother will make of it, when he learns the woman who kept him from the edge of death was tortured, burned, and put to shame while serving him."
Maekar laughed then, a sound devoid of mirth.
"What makes you think my ever-noble brother would care a whit for a wench like you?"
The words struck deep, gnawing at some small part of your heart you had tried so hard to shield from this cruel land. Of course he was right.
If Baelor woke, if he opened those eyes you had fought so hard to preserve, what would he see? what then? Not the woman who had nursed him through sleepless nights, not the hands that had pressed bandages against broken flesh, not the warmth of someone who had cared while the court fumed and whispered.
Only a stranger. Only a servant. And you — disposable, forgotten, swept aside in the tide of crowns and crownsmen. You didn't even know if he had a lover, probably did, you thought bitterly, maybe someone back in King's Landing, tucked away in some fine velvet bedchamber, waiting for him to return from courtly duties or war.
A man like him (handsome, commanding, impossibly perfect in the way Targaryens always seemed to be) surely had options, and as a widower, surely would marry again, a highborn lady whose blood could tie kingdoms together.
The thought made your chest ache, ridiculous and unfair, and your eyes stung for reasons you couldn't quite name, tears prickling despite yourself.
So you said nothing, letting the horse navigate over a fallen branch with cautious steps.
Your hands were white-knuckled on the reins, fingers rigid with tension, knuckles like ivory carved from worry and exhaustion.
The wind clawed at your cloak, tugged at your hair, carried the smell of damp earth and pine, and you felt it all, as though the forest itself were judging you. One misstep, one wrong word, one fall from the horse, and everything would crumble. But you forced yourself forward, silent and grim, because the prince's life (Baelor's fragile, broken body lying back at the castle) rested on your courage, your wits, your hands. And if you faltered, if you allowed your thoughts of love and loss to distract you, there would be no saving him.
The horse creaked beneath you, the sound almost unbearably loud in the hush of the night. You exhaled slowly, forcing your heart to slow, your mind to focus, and you kept moving forward, one careful step at a time, gripping the reins as though the life of a prince (or the weight of your own) depended on it. And in some small, stubborn part of yourself, it did.
Maekar's grip was iron on the back of your saddle, guiding the horse as if it were an extension of himself.
"Why does my brother even know of you?" he asked, voice calm now.
"He asked," you said carefully, throat dry, "what I thought of what your son did to that poor puppeteer before the trial, and we had other small conversations."
"And because you spoke with him," Maekar said, the slightest edge of exasperation threading his measured tone, "you put yourself in peril and took it upon yourself to save him?"
"He was kind to me," you answered simply, though your chest tightened. Kinder than most in this godless world, kinder than any lord, any knight, any Targaryen you had known. That kindness, that mercy, had been enough to push you forward into danger, enough to make you defy every rule, every blade, every oath sworn against you.
Stupid, you know.
"Pathetic," he muttered, as If reading your mind.
Unlike him, unlike the sons of dragons and the heirs of iron and fire, Baelor cared. He cared, in ways that even Maekar, hardened and cutting as Valyria's steel, could recognize but would not admit.
Maekar leaned closer, the tang of horse sweat and night air clinging to him, eyes sharp beneath the pale silver sweep of his brow.
"Yet you are reckless," he continued. "Blind with courage or foolishness — I care not which. Should aught befall you, the blame lies upon your head and no other. And yet... you bear a measure of honor I scarce expected from one of such low birth."
"I thought such ideals were proven wrong by Ser Duncan," you shot back, eyes fixed ahead, avoiding his gaze.
He only hummed, a faint, almost dismissive sound, and for a long moment the forest swallowed the space between you.
Then he spoke again : "You mentioned my son — "
You cut him off before the words could fall fully. You knew it was improper, insolent even; a prince's patience was not lightly tested.
"No need to worry, my prince," you said. "I will not poison him, nor bring him harm. I meant what I said — the plant will only soften his wounds, ease Prince Baelor's suffering."
"Why would you help my son?" he asked, eyes narrowing as the wind whipped through the forest around you.
You let out a tired breath, pressing your lips together for a moment before answering. Truth, if spoken, would have sounded too brazen: I swore to help any who suffer. The Hippocratic oath. Instead, you let the sigh carry your meaning.
"I don't rightly know," you finally said, almost reluctant. "Truth be told... I hate seeing others in pain. So I heal when I can."
He said nothing after that, and for once you welcomed the silence.
Soon enough, the forest opened onto a small clearing, and there before you sat a desolate wooden house, its windows glowing with the warm flicker of candlelight.
You waited only a heartbeat once Maekar dismounted, then swung yourself down as best you could, skirt bunching awkwardly around you. The little wooden house stood crooked, paint flaking and timbers groaning under the night wind. Warm light spilled from the tiny windows, promising life within, though the place looked as if it hadn't seen proper care in years.
"This place is a fucking shithole," Maekar muttered, stepping beside you, boots crunching on the frozen earth.
You rolled your eyes, tugging your skirts neatly to keep them from dragging in the mud. "Aye, and yet it houses the only woman who might have what we need. Stop complaining," you said, raising your fist to rap against the door. The sound echoed hollowly, the wood trembling under your knock.
Maekar said nothing, shifting his weight from one boot to the other, one hand lingering on the hilt of his sword as if ready for any misstep. It was only then that it struck you — the Kingsguard were not with you, not even a single shadow trailing behind. Surely someone would notice their prince gone, wouldn't they?
You ignored him, focusing on the task.
The air smelled of damp pine and rot, and your nerves tightened, but the thought of Baelor, still trapped in pain and near death, pressed you forward. Another knock, harder this time, and the door creaked open just enough for a shadow to peer out.
You were about to knock again when the door swung open fully, revealing an old woman draped in dark cloth from head to toe, her face hidden in shadow beneath a hood. She paused, regarding you with knowing eyes.
"I — " you began, bowing your head slightly, " I'm sorry to disturb you so late, but I'm only here for the nightshade bloom. The one I always come to you for —"
She cut you off with a thin, dry chuckle.
"I knew you were coming," she said raspy but firm, like a bee. "Enter, child. But leave the dragon outside."
You froze. Behind you, Maekar's silver hair glinted faintly in the lantern light, and his jaw tensed.
"Leave me out of it?" he spat. "You would deny a prince of the realm entry?"
The old woman's head tilted, unafraid. "I do not like reptiles," she said simply.
You whirled back to him, raising your hands in warning. "If anything happens in here, I scream. You do not follow."
Maekar ground his teeth but said nothing further.
With a wary glance at him, you stepped inside the dim, cluttered cottage, the warm light washing over the room and the scent of herbs and dried flowers filling your nose. Maekar stayed rooted to the doorframe, arms folded, scowling but obedient.
The old woman moved aside, letting you pass, and the door creaked shut behind you.
You stepped fully into what passed for the living room, taking in the dim, flickering light and the heavy scent of herbs that clung to every surface. Rosemary, sage, and some bitter plants whose names you did not know mingled with the smoke from a small hearth, creating a heady, almost choking aroma.
The room was simple: a rough-hewn table, chairs scarred and worn from decades of use, and an open doorway leading to what must have been the kitchen. Outside, the wind rattled the eaves, and the mournful howls of some creature — wolf, you guessed — carried through the night.
The old woman moved with surprising speed, her gnarled hands already busy among the bundles of herbs and small stoppered bottles that cluttered the table. She set to the preparation of the nightshade cream without ceremony, crushing dark leaves beneath a small stone pestle, mixing them with thick oils that smelled sharp and bitter.
For a moment, the only sounds in the hut were the grinding of herbs and the faint crackle of the fire. Then she stopped. Her hands stilled mid-motion.
The pestle remained suspended above the bowl as she tilted her head slightly to the side, as though straining to hear something carried on the wind. A faint murmur slipped from her lips, words too low for you to catch, spoken not to you but to something unseen.
"Oh... my dear child." Her eyes lifted to you then, wide and glistening in the dim light. It looked as though tears might fall from them. She shook her head slowly, almost helplessly, like someone arguing with voices only she could hear.
"Oh," she whispered again, softer this time. "You are in terrible, terrible danger."
"What?" you asked, the word escaping you before you could stop it.
But she did not answer. Just as suddenly as it had begun, the moment passed. The old woman blinked once, twice, and lowered her gaze back to the bowl as though nothing unusual had occurred.
Her hands resumed their work, grinding and stirring with quiet precision while she continued muttering under her breath, the words slipping between half-finished phrases and old, forgotten tongues.
It was as if the warning had never been spoken at all.
You stayed rooted in the kitchen, her words echoing, eyes locked on her hands as they moved over the dark, viscous pomade, grinding leaves and petals into a thick, almost black paste. The smell was pungent, minty but sour, the kind that clawed at the back of your throat. The firelight danced across her lined face, the hood of her dark cloak casting deep shadows over eyes that glittered with uncanny certainty.
"Your prince will not survive," she said then, and the words struck like ice.
You froze, your mouth opening before closing again, the breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. Did she truly just say that? You simply stared at her.
In truth, the old woman had always been... strange.
You had grown used to her muttering half-words to herself while she worked, to the sudden little remarks spoken to no one at all, as though some invisible companion lingered just beyond the walls of her crooked hut. More than once she had startled you with an abrupt comment or some wandering prophecy that made little sense. It had become part of her nature in your mind — another quirk of the forest crone who sold herbs to the castle servants.
Perhaps that was why you did not recoil in shock as another might have.
But this... This was different.
This had come too suddenly, too knowing. There had been no muttered prelude, no drifting thought spoken into the air. Just the flat certainty of it.
Your prince will not survive. And that was not the sort of thing one said idly, specially to their prince.
"Excuse me?" you managed, heart hammering.
"The heir of the Iron Throne is balanced between life and death," she repeated, as though pronouncing a sentence, "I fear he will not see the week's end."
"No," you shot forward, stepping into the open kitchen where she worked, anger and disbelief roiling inside you.
"I tell you now: the boy lies in death's shadow. Your skill, your medicines, your herbs... they will not awaken him. Only blood will." She shrugs lazily.
"I did what needed to be done! He will live. He has been stable for over a week! More than a week! I — "
She did not flinch. Her eyes dark eyes pinned you in place. "I know where you come from, girl. Do not play the fool with me."
Your stomach knotted so tightly it felt as if your ribs might snap. How could she know? It was impossible — madness, pure and unrelenting.
"I... I don't know what you mean," you croaked, voice barely more than a whisper, your throat dry as parchment.
She didn't move, didn't blink. The silence stretched, and then, slowly, deliberately, she fixed you with those shadowed eyes. "Do you?"
You wer about to scream to alert Maekar but then thought better of it.
"I am just a servant of Ashford Castle, nothing more. I work with what skill I have. I am not — "
"Are you?" she interrupted, her hands moving as if the very air obeyed them. She mixed the dark, viscous cream with the leaves and petals, murmuring under her breath. "You can save him, but not with medicine, nor knowledge. Not with herbs, not with leeches, not with anything your world teaches. Only by blood, and only by magic."
You took a step back, disbelief clawing at you. "Magic? I... I don't know what you're talking about. I — this is nonsense. He's alive, he can be healed — by proper care, by careful hands, not... not witchcraft."
She ignored your protest, shaking her head slowly.
"Tired, child," she murmured, not looking up from her work. "You are tired. You come too late, and the hour is wrong, yet still... it can be done. But understand this : he will awaken only through the power that runs through his blood already, from the dragon. What you have done, what you know, all your skill and knowledge, will not wake him. Only this."
You blinked at her, feeling your stomach twist in protest.
"You speak in riddles," you said. "I do not understand a word of the nonsense you prattle, and... you frighten me."
She hummed softly, the sound low and unconcerned, absorbed entirely in the dark, pungent nightshade she crushed between her fingers.
The scent of mint and something fouler filled your nose. You swallowed hard, a cold shiver crawling along your spine. Your hands curled at your sides, fists white with tension. Deep down, you had to admit : she was right.
His chances had always been slim.
Even with every ounce of training, every hand and careful calculation, the skull had been crushed, the fracture severe, the bleeding relentless. You had done everything in your power, and yet the truth sat heavy in your chest: he might still die. And here, in this dark, crooked cabin of forest herbs and shadows, this old woman promised a way. A way beyond the laws of medicine, beyond reason, into something older, darker, and incomprehensible. Magic.
Witchcraft, the very thing Prince Maekar and his guards had accused you of. A bitter twist, considering how you had insisted on science, knowledge, the skill of hands and mind alone. And now the only chance to save the prince lay in the thing you had sworn never existed.
You hugged yourself, arms crossed tight, trying to shove down the unease crawling up your spine.
"Magic doesn't exist," you said sharper than you intended, though even as the words left your lips, a part of your mind — the part trained to think, trained to measure risk and reality — whispered that you were wrong.
Every odd, impossible thing you'd seen in Westeros had chipped away at the certainties you carried from home.
The old woman didn't reply immediately.
Then she said softly, "And yet... dragons flew fifty years past, and the world holds far stranger things than your narrow sciences can account for. You have seen them yourself, have you not? Things that bend what men call reason."
You blinked, crossing your arms tighter. It was infuriating, maddening even, how she could speak of impossibilities as if they were facts.
"That... that's different," you muttered, though you knew it wasn't.
Deep down, you knew she was right. You had fought against the impossible your whole life in hospitals and operating rooms, yet here it was, staring at you in the eyes of a dying prince. You let out a long breath, hating the tremor in it, and pressed your hands against your ribs.
"Explain it then," you said finally, voice low and wary. "If it's the only way to save him, if it's—whatever this is — then tell me what must be done. I'll do it. But speak plainly."
The old woman's lips curved faintly, just a shadow of a smile. "Plainly, child? You will give him life through what courses in your veins, through a gift born from your own blood. He will awaken, yes, but the price is no small thing. You will not return to the life you once knew. Your soul, your path, your place among the living as you have known it — all will be forfeit. You will remain here, tethered to this world and to him, bound by what you do tonight."
You felt the words twist inside your chest, coiling like a serpent around your heart. Your blood ran cold.
"No," you whispered at first, disbelief clawing at your throat. "I... I can't—"
"Do not speak hastily," the old woman said, her voice firm, laced with the authority of decades that had outlasted kings and wars. There was something almost motherly in it, though the warmth was buried under a bedrock of steel. "This is no choice for the faint of heart. You may refuse, and he dies. You may consent, and he lives... but you, child, will be changed. Forever. There is no turning back. None. Do you understand the gravity of what I offer?"
You swallowed hard, words sticking in your throat. "I... I won't be able to go back to the life I knew? To the world I had before all this—beside this one I've been thrust into?"
"No," she said simply. No elaboration. No comfort.
"And if I refuse?" you asked, your voice trembling, though you tried to steady it with logic, with reason, with all the training and science in your bones.
Her gnarled hands found yours, closing around them like iron in leather. The nails were dark, twisted, worn by decades no one counted. Her eyes, pale as winter fire, bored into yours.
"Refuse, and perhaps you shalt wander as a shadow, neither living nor wholly gone, trapped betwixt one world and another. Perhaps you are swept away entirely, perhaps stuck here, bound to this world by a chain of your own making. I cannot say, for the ways of blood and magic are older than any man's knowledge." Her grip tightened, just enough to make the weight of her words physical. "But know this, child: the Targaryen line will not fall if he lives. If he dies..." She hesitated, and her voice dropped to a whisper that seemed to echo in the room, though it carried as if through the forests themselves. "...if he dies, my dear child, they are in deep, deep trouble. The realm itself — the people of Westeros — will pay the price. The cost will be unspeakable."
Her fingers curled around yours, drawing you close, pressing the reality of it into your bones.
"Do you see now? The power is not a gift, nor a tool, nor mercy. It is debt. It is blood in your veins that will consume what you were. And yet... he will live, if you dare to take it."
You swallowed, hands trembling inside hers, your mind a whirlwind. He could live. Baelor could still draw breath. But at what cost? Your life, your freedom, your past... all for a king you barely knew. Ended up into a world that would never care what you gave.
Her grip tightened, and the pressure of it, the inevitability of her words, made your knees weak.
"Mark me well," she said, voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to gather the night around it, "he shall draw breath if you consent. But his life shall be bought with a coin thou may never repay. Understand, child... this is not mercy, this is the reckoning of blood, the bargain of the dragon's line."
You pulled your hands back, clenching them so tightly that the nails bit into your palms, knuckles blanching white.
"Why me?" The question came ragged, fractured by a sob you barely held at bay, though streaks of salt and grief already ran down your cheeks. "Why did I end up here? I am no hero. No witch, no savior. My blood... it cannot mean anything. And if they knew — if anyone knew I dare to dabble in such dark arts to save their prince — I would be dragged before the Kingsguard again. Tortured, burned, this time for good. And what would it matter then? What would it matter?" You spat the words, the anger biting sharper than the fear, each syllable shaking in the cold night air.
The old woman did not answer at once. She only rubbed her weathered hands together, the skin rough and creased with age, her knotted joints creaking softly like the timbers of an old ship long forgotten at sea.
At last she sighed.
"The gods are cruel," she said simply.
You lowered your gaze, staring at the rough wooden floor, and a bitter laugh escaped you.
"I hate them," you muttered. "I hate them and this wretched world."
"They did not ask for your worship," she replied calmly.
Your head snapped up.
"And I did not ask to be thrown into it," you shot back, anger rising in your chest like fire. "I did not ask to be here. And I certainly did not ask to spill my blood in some damned ritual for a Targaryen prince of all people." You shook your head, breath trembling with fury and disbelief. "This is madness."
Then she spoke. "And how do you think the Valyrians did it, in old Valyria? Bloodmages, sorcery, power taken from life itself. The gods cursed them for their greed, yes, but the knowledge remained... and here, in this world, it is your blood they seek. Not mine. Not of the old line. Yours, pure because it is not of this place. Yours, because the strands of your soul were never entangled with theirs, or this land, never tainted by dragonfire or the madness of generationsk. It is rare. Coveted."
Her eyes bore into yours, unflinching, and her voice dropped. "In exchange, whatever you wish—anything your heart desires — can be yours. And yet... there is a price. Always a price. Not gold, not land, not coin, but your other self. Your old life, your world, the part of you that once was... it is gone. Never to return. Simple as that."
You laughed then, bitterly, a sound harsh and jagged against the shadows of the hut.
"Simple as that," you echoed, letting the words fall like stones between you. The absurdity of it (this cruel calculus of magic and life) twisted your stomach, made your chest ache. And yet, beneath the despair, a flicker of understanding stirred. The prince could live. But at what cost?
The room was silent except for the crackle of the hearth and the faint whisper of herbs in the old woman's hands. You realized, with a terrible clarity, that she was right — this was no longer a matter of medicine. This was older, darker, far beyond your world of scalpel and sutures.
Finally, your voice broke the silence, small and steady against the weight of it all.
"Tell me what to do."
Her smile widened, a shadowed curve of teeth in the lamplight. "Then listen well, child. You will bleed for him. And from that blood... he will rise."
"How?" you asked, voice barely more than a rasp, the words clawing out of your throat as if afraid to hear the answer.
The old woman's eyes, dark and fathomless beneath the hood, did not waver.
"A mixture must be prepared," she said, deliberate, as though each syllable were a hammer striking iron. "You will give it to him. He will awaken — wearied, weak, but alive. The body will mend, the mind return to what it was before the trial. But, as I have said... there is a price."
Cold dread pooled in your stomach, a leaden weight that dragged your thoughts downward. You blinked, trying to clear the fog of disbelief. Alive... yes. But at what cost?
Her gaze bore into you, unblinking, like a hawk fixed on prey. "Every life taken or saved by this magic carries a toll," she said. "Be it yours, his, or the world's. But this man will live."
You exhaled shakily, your fingers curling into fists, nails biting into your palms. Alive... yes. But could you endure the reckoning? Could you hand over the very essence of yourself to a world that had demanded so much already? Your mind spun, conjuring the faces of Baelor, of all the blood and fear and fire you had survived to get here.
Alive... at what price?
Finally, your voice cracked as you asked, "What toll would it be, here?"
Without a word, she placed two small vials before you. Dark liquid swirled within, an oily sheen that gleamed even in the dim lamplight. The smell was faintly acrid, the sharp tang of the nightshade biting at your nose.
"Yours," she said, simple, final, the single word cutting through the room like a knife.
You stepped back, instinctively, heart hammering against your ribs. But she advanced, slow as a shadow across the floor. Her hands rested on the table now, fingers long and gnarled, each joint like knotted wood.
"Your soul is the key, child," she said. "It is the ancestors' claim upon the saving of your prince. The soul from your other world — the one you left behind — must be given. Sacrificed. Gone. You will be trapped in this realm. You will never return. No matter what you remember, no matter what you yearn for... it will be lost. Your life will continue, yes, but your other life... your world... it will be no more."
You looked down at the vials, the liquid dark as night, trembling as it caught the candlelight.
The thought clawed at you, gnawing at the edges of your reason. You could save him. But at what cost? And could you bear it? Could you truly accept a life that was yours only in body, while the rest (the memories, the world, the life you had known) was swallowed by this place?
Her eyes met yours again. "So... do you accept?"
"What took you so long, woman? It is near to dawn."
Prince Maekar's voice cut through the quiet as you stepped out of the crooked little hut. He had taken his place beneath a leaning oak, one shoulder braced against the trunk, the horse's reins looped loosely around his hand.
Even in the dim gray of the dying night you could see the strain etched into his pox-scarred face, the pale lines of exhaustion beneath his eyes.
You forced your breathing to steady.
"The nightshade takes hours to prepare," you said, the lie leaving your mouth smoother than you expected.
Your hands trembled slightly as you adjusted the cloth wrapped about them. The bandage was already damp beneath the linen, where you had sliced open your palm hours earlier to let the blood run freely into the old woman's vial. The sting still pulsed faintly, though the pain had dulled to a distant throb.
Beneath your cloak, hidden close against your chest, the small glass vial rested within your bodice. You could feel its cool shape against your skin, heavy with more than just liquid. Heavy with consequence.
Maekar pushed himself off the tree, groaning, boots grinding softly against the frost-hardened earth. His pale eyes lingered on you for a moment, suspicious as ever, though he said nothing of the bandage, thinking it was the same one you had for your burned hand.
"Come, then," he said.
You stepped toward the horse before he could question you further, gathering your skirts with one hand.
Your hand drifted briefly to your chest, fingers brushing the hidden vial. "We must go and heal your family."
You went to Aerion first, with Prince Maekar close behind you.
When you returned to the castle, the gates had already begun to stir with the pale gray of approaching dawn. Two Kingsguard waited in the courtyard, their white cloaks ghostly in the dim light. They stepped forward at once when they saw Maekar, offering respectful bows.
"My prince."
Not a single glance was spared for you.
You ignored them just as thoroughly.
"Your son," you said to Maekar, already moving past them into the keep. "Take me to him."
The prince said nothing, only turned and led the way through the corridors. The castle felt colder now. Servants scattered from your path as Maekar strode forward, his presence enough to clear the halls.
When you entered the chamber, the smell of blood and stale sweat greeted you at once.
Aerion lay upon the bed where you had left him, pale beneath the lamplight, his silver hair tangled against the pillow. Without his armor and pride he looked younger, almost boyish, but the bruises told a different story.
Purple shadows marred his ribs and shoulders, and the ugly swelling at his head made your stomach twist. The bandages around his chest had darkened where the wounds beneath them wept.
You did not waste time speaking.
Pulling the two small vials from within your cloak, you set them carefully on the table beside the bed. Then you turned back to the prince sprawled across the mattress.
You reached out to examine the wound near his temple, and suddenly his hand shot up and seized your wrist.
His grip was surprisingly strong for a man so battered.
Prince Maekar stepped forward at once,. "Aerion. Let her do her work."
Aerion's eyes cracked open, dull with pain and fury both. His lip curled.
"Lowborn hands," he muttered thickly. "Filthy — "
You ignored him entirely. With practiced patience you freed your wrist and dipped your fingers into the thick, dark nightshade cream. The smell rose at once : bitter, and almost mintlike, though heavier, fouler.
You began applying it carefully along the bruised flesh of his face and chest, working the ointment into the skin.
Aerion hissed through his teeth. When you pressed near one of the deeper bruises he groaned outright, his body jerking against the mattress.
"Hold him," you told Maekar without looking up.
The prince obeyed at once, gripping his son's shoulders and forcing him still.
Aerion struggled weakly beneath him.
"Gods," Maekar muttered after a moment, his nose wrinkling. "This cream smells like horse dung."
You continued working the salve into Aerion's ribs.
"Then stop breathing through your nose," you said flatly. "Or stop complaining."
Maekar snorted softly at that, though he did not release his hold.
Aerion twisted once beneath him, wincing when the movement pulled at his bruised ribs. "Get your hands off me," he muttered hoarsely, though the fight had little strength behind it.
"You'll keep still," his father said, pressing him back against the pillows with one hand braced firm against his shoulder. "Or I'll have you tied down like a rabid dog."
Aerion glared at him through half-lidded eyes, but the pain seemed to win the argument. He sank back with a hiss, breathing shallow and uneven.
You continued your work.
The cream spread thick and dark across the mottled porcelain skin of his chest and collarbone, your fingers moving carefully along the worst of the bruising. Up close the damage was worse than it had appeared earlier. Deep purple shadows bloomed across his ribs, and there were places where the skin had broken faintly beneath the blows he had taken during the trial.
No wonder he could barely move.
"This will sting," you said, though you doubted he cared much for the warning.
Aerion let out a rough laugh that turned quickly into a cough. "If you think a little peasant salve will — "
His breath caught as you pressed the ointment into a particularly ugly bruise near his side.
"There," you said calmly. "Now you can complain properly."
You finished with the bruises on his chest before moving back to the swelling along his temple. Aerion's hair clung damply to the wound, and you brushed it aside with more care than he probably deserved.
He watched you then, eyes narrowed slightly, as though trying to decide whether you were worth insulting again.
"Strange creature," he murmured after a moment. "You speak to princes as if they were stable boys."
You dabbed more cream along the bruised edge of his jaw.
"And yet you're still alive," you said. "Curious, isn't it?"
Aerion huffed, though the effort seemed to cost him.
The nightshade cream would dull the pain, ease the swelling, help him sleep without agony tearing through his ribs every time he breathed.
Your fingers paused briefly over the second vial hidden inside your sleeve — the one meant for Baelor.
That one was magic. You forced yourself not to think about it.
Aerion exhaled slowly as the salve began to numb the worst of the throbbing bruises. His body finally relaxed back into the bed.
"Hmph," he muttered. "Perhaps you are not entirely useless."
"High praise," you said dryly, wiping your hands on a cloth.
Behind you, Maekar finally released his son's shoulders.
"Finish what you must," the prince said, crossing the chamber and lowering himself heavily into a chair beside the bed where his son lay sprawled in uneasy sleep.
The wooden legs creaked under his weight as he settled, one elbow braced against the armrest, his hand rising to rub slowly at his temple. The exhaustion clung to him now in a way it had not before — the hard edge of command dulled by sleepless nights and the endless strain of watching one son broken and another hovering near death. Even so, his eyes never strayed far from Aerion.
You finished securing the last of the salve across the bruised ribs before stepping away.
Quietly, and unnoticed, and for that you were grateful, because when you turned toward the door, Maekar did not rise to follow you, did not question you, did not ask where you were going.
For the first time that night, something close to relief settled in your chest.
You needed to be alone, truly alone, to do what you must do. Baelor could not drink that vial with his brother watching over your shoulder.
You did not even know what the mixture truly was. You only had the old woman's word for it, and a promise carved from riddles and ancient things you barely understood. You slipped from the chamber and made your way down the quiet corridor, your footsteps soft against the cold stone floor.
You pushed open the door to his chamber, the hinges gave a soft groan as the door parted and inside, no maester. The room stood empty.
In another moment, in another life, you might have shouted for someone immediately. You might have demanded to know why the heir to the Iron Throne had been left unattended, why no one stood watch over the man whose life hung by such a fragile thread.
But now... Now you only felt relief.
The door closed behind you with a muted thud. You stood there, letting your eyes adjust to the dimness. The curtains had been drawn partly back, allowing the faint grey light of the moon to spill across the chamber. The fire in the hearth had burned low, leaving the air cool and heavy with the faint scent of ash.
You crossed the room slowly. On the far wall, a tall mirror caught the pale light and reflected your passing shape.
You did not look at it. You did not want to see what stared back. Not the pale face hollowed by exhaustion, not the blood-stained bandage wrapped clumsily around your palm, not the eyes that had seen far too much in too little time.
So you kept your gaze fixed ahead, on him. Baelor lay exactly as you had left him.
Still, too still and pale.
In the quiet light he looked almost peaceful, like a man sleeping after a long day rather than one standing on the threshold between life and death.
You pulled the chair closer and sat beside the bed.
For a moment you simply watched him breathe, one breath, then another, still alive.
Your hand moved automatically toward the small jar tucked inside your cloak. You set the nightshade cream on the bedside table and began with that, dipping your fingers into the thick, dark salve. The smell rose immediately; carefully, you began spreading the ointment along the bruises and swelling across his chest and shoulders, working it gently into the skin the way you had done countless times before with other wounded men.
That part was easy....
But when you finished, your hand stilled, because the second vial still waited.
Your fingers slipped inside your cloak again, searching the hidden pocket sewn into the lining.
The glass felt cool when you pulled it free. The mixture inside was darker than the nightshade cream — thicker too, the liquid catching the faint candlelight as it shifted within the small vial.
Blood. Your blood. Mixed with whatever strange herbs and ancient knowledge the old crone had whispered into it.
You turned the vial slowly between your fingers... to think you were trusting the word of some half-mad woman who lived alone in the forest. The thought would have seemed ridiculous once, laughable, even.
But the truth sat heavy in your chest, you had done everything you could. Every stitch, every bandage, every careful decision drawn from years of training and knowledge.
You had stabilized him when any other man would have died, you had fought death with every tool medicine had given you.
And still... Still you knew the truth : his chances had always been thin.
Too thin. You looked down at the vial again. Science had brought him this far, but it might not be enough to bring him back. Magic (if such a thing truly existed) might be the only chance left.
And so you began.
Just as you had done with Aerion, you started with the nightshade cream. You pulled the sheets down carefully to his hips, exposing his chest to the dim light filtering through the curtains. The movement revealed the full map of his injuries : old scars crossing his skin like pale threads from battles long past, and the newer wounds layered over them, angry and swollen.
You dipped your fingers into the thick salve and began to spread it slowly across his chest.
Unlike Aerion, he did not complain, he did not flinch, he did not shift away from your touch.
Baelor lay completely still beneath your hands.
In a strange way, that made the work easier... and far more unsettling.
You worked the ointment carefully into the bruised flesh, pressing gently where the swelling was worst. The bitter scent of the herbs filled the air around you as your fingers moved across the broad plane of his chest and shoulders.
When you finished there, you wiped your hands lightly against a cloth and moved closer to the head of the bed.
This part always required the most care.
You slid one arm beneath his neck and lifted his head as delicately as you could manage. The bandages around his skull were thick, wrapped layer upon layer to keep the wound sealed and the pressure steady. Slowly, you unwound them just enough to expose the stitched gash along the side of his head.
The sight of it still made your stomach tighten.
Carefully, you pushed aside the blood-stiffened cloth and began applying the cream along the edges of the wound, avoiding the stitches as best you could. Your fingers moved with the practiced steadiness of someone who had done this far too many times.
Still, a thin smear of fresh blood slipped against your skin as you worked. You ignored it.
That part of his head always felt wrong beneath your touch. Too soft, too ... yielding, squishy even.
The fracture had split his skull and driven inward, pressing dangerously against the brain beneath. Only a few days ago you had opened the wound again yourself, carefully relieving the pressure that threatened to crush the life from him. It had been the most dangerous procedure you had ever attempted, and yet somehow your hands had held steady long enough to finish it.
You had hoped that would stop the seizures, that it would ease the pain. But even that desperate gamble had not brought him back.
Once the cream was applied, you wrapped the bandages back into place, tightening them firmly but not enough to cause harm. When you were finished, you wiped your fingers clean on the cloth beside the bed.
For a moment you simply sat there, then your hand slipped beneath your cloak.
The vial rested where you had hidden it against your chest. You pulled it free slowly, and this time didn't look at long.
The voice of the old woman returned to you then, as clearly as if she stood beside you again.
"You will tilt his head back," she had said, pressing the vial into your hand. "Make him drink the whole of it. Every drop, and say Valyrian words that I will tell you to say."
You had shaken your head immediately.
"I'm not -- " you had protested.
She had cut you off before you could finish.
"It does not matter."
Her eyes had gleamed strangely in the candlelight.
"His blood is from Old Valyria. It will recognize the words. Magic remembers its own tongue. His blood will hear it, it will sing to it."
You had stared at the vial then, dread curling in your stomach.
"The donor offers blood," she continued, almost softly. "And in return... they may give him back his life."
You had bitten your lip before asking the question that lingered on your tongue.
"What do I say?"
She had leaned closer then, her voice lowering as she spoke the words slowly, carefully, forcing you to repeat them until your tongue could shape the strange syllables.
"Āeksio iā dāriorys hen ñuha jorrāelagon. Hen kesīr īlva dārilaros."
When you asked what it meant, she only smiled faintly.
"I offer blood for the life I seek. Let death release him."
The memory faded as you blinked and returned to the present.
Baelor lay before you exactly as before : silent and unmoving.
Beyond the window, the sky had begun to pale. Maekar had been right : dawn was coming.
Your fingers tightened around the vial. If this failed... if it poisoned him instead... No. You forced the thought away. Carefully, you slipped one arm behind Baelor's shoulders and lifted him just enough to tilt his head back against your arm. His body was heavy and unresponsive, his breath shallow against your neck and the quiet of the room.
You pressed the rim of the vial to his lips.
Then, steadying your voice as best you could, you spoke the words exactly as the old woman had taught you, that you-'ve repeating over and over again since you left her home.
"Āeksio iā dāriorys hen ñuha jorrāelagon. Hen kesīr īlva dārilaros."
Slowly, carefully, you finished the last of it.
His throat moved once beneath your fingers as the final drops slid past his lips, a faint reflex more than anything resembling life. You held him there a moment longer, uncertain, watching his mouth as if the liquid might suddenly spill back out, as if the body might reject what you had forced into it. But nothing happened. No coughing, or choking. No miracle either.
The chamber remained exactly as it had been before : suspended in that strange stillness that clings to rooms where someone lies too close to death.
At last you eased him back against the pillows, guiding his head carefully so the bandages around his skull would not shift. Your movements were slow, the motions of someone who had tended the same wounded body for days and had memorized every fragile place that could break beneath careless hands.
Once he was settled again, you reached inside your cloak and slipped the empty vial back where it had rested before, pressing it flat against the warmth of your chest as if hiding the evidence of what you had just done.
For a moment your hands lingered above him.
Almost without thinking, you smoothed the tight lines from his face, brushing a hair away from his brow. The gesture felt strangely intimate, something done for comfort rather than medicine. When you finished, you pulled the sheet back up to his chest, tucking it lightly around his shoulders as though he might wake cold.
The smell in the room had changed.
Nightshade hung heavy in the air now, bitter and thick, its sharp herbal scent clinging to your fingers and clothes. Yet beneath it lingered another smell : the metallic tang of iron. Not his blood this time, but yours.
You sank slowly into the chair beside the bed, your body suddenly heavy with exhaustion. The wood creaked softly beneath your weight, the sound loud in the silence of the chamber. Your eyes remained fixed on him, searching his face for the smallest sign of change — any twitch, any breath deeper than the last.
Tears gathered in your eyes before you realized they were there.
What had you just done? The thought came cold. Had you committed treason? Probably.
If the maesters discovered what you had poured down the prince's throat... if the Kingsguard learned that you had forced some strange blood-bound mixture into the body of a royal heir — god, you would not even make it to a trial. They would call it poison before hearing a single word from your mouth.
Your stomach twisted. And what if it did nothing?
Your burned hand throbbed in your lap, wrapped tightly in linen already stained through in places. Even through the bandages you could feel the phantom echo of the blade biting into your palm. You remembered the moment too clearly : the cold steel, the sting, the sudden rush of warmth as blood spilled into the waiting vial while the old woman murmured those terrible words over it.
You tried to curl your fingers, they barely moved. Pain flared up your arm and forced you to let them fall still again. A bitter realization settled slowly into your chest.
You were a hypocrite.
Only a week ago you would have sworn that you would never touch witchcraft. You would have mocked anyone foolish enough to believe in spells and blood rituals and old crones whispering to unseen things in the dark.
And yet here you were... you had cut your own flesh, had given your blood, had spoken words from a dead tongue and forced a prince of the realm to swallow whatever strange magic that woman had bound into that vial. Whether you believed in gods or not, you knew enough stories to understand the truth that lived in all of them.
Magic never came without a cost.
Every tale, every myth, every whispered warning said the same thing: power demanded payment. And you had already given yours. Your soul in the other world.
That was the price she had named so calmly, as if speaking of something small and trivial. You would not die here, she had said. You would live. But the life you once had (the world you came from, the people you knew, the chance to ever return) Gone, and severed.
You would remain here instead, trapped in this place and this time until the end of your days. You, who only wanted to go back. You, who had spent every waking hour searching for a way home.
And yet when the choice came... you had traded that hope away for a man lying silent before you... A prince you barely knew.
You had sacrificed everything.
The thought did not come all at once, but slowly, like cold water seeping through cracks in stone until the whole foundation was soaked with it. Your family, and friends. The familiar rhythm of your old life. The world where hospitals smelled of disinfectant instead of herbs and rot, where wounds were stitched under bright lights instead of candle flames, where death was fought with machines and medicine instead of whispered prayers and desperate hope.
All of it was gone now.
You had traded it away for this place, this brutal, backward world of kings and swords and bloodlines, where lives bent around power and cruelty like grass beneath a storm.
For him.
Your gaze drifted back to Baelor's still face, pale beneath the bandages and the dim morning light creeping slowly through the shutters.
Any sane person would have refused. Any sane person would have laughed in that old woman's face and walked away. The price she had named was madness — your soul tied to this world forever, your old life sealed behind a door that would never open again. No return, no second chance, no waking up from this nightmare.
And yet you had said yes.
You foolish girl. You did not even remember saying it clearly. Only the certainty that had settled in your chest when the moment came.
Why? The question drifted through your mind. Was it him?
Perhaps some part of you could not bear the thought of watching another person slip away while you stood helpless beside. Perhaps it was simply the stubborn, foolish instinct of a doctor who refused to surrender a life while even the smallest chance remained.
Or perhaps it was not Baelor at all. Perhaps it had been Valarr. You remembered the boy's red-rimmed eyes, the way his small hands had clutched the edge of the doorway as he watched his father lie unmoving. The silent tears he tried so desperately to hide.
Or little Egg, stubborn and bright and far too brave for someone so young. Maybe it had been them. Maybe it had been all of them. Or maybe, you realized with a tired sort of honesty, you simply did not know.
Exhaustion finally pulled at you then, the night had stretched too long, filled with too many decisions and too much fear. Your body sagged deeper into the chair, your head leaning against the edge of the mattress as your eyes slowly closed despite your attempts to keep them open.
Sleep came quickly after that. In your dreams, you were somewhere else.
The hospital corridors stretched long and white around you, the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing softly overhead. Nurses moved past you in familiar scrubs, charts tucked under their arms. Someone called your name from down the hall. The scent of antiseptic filled the air, clean and sharp.
You walked toward the sound automatically, as you had done a thousand times before, your shoes echoing against the polished floor.
It felt normal, and safe, like a life that had once belonged to someone else. Then warmth touched your face.
At first it blended into the dream, a soft brightness that made you turn your head slightly in your sleep. But the warmth grew stronger, pressing gently against your closed eyelids until the dream began to fade, the white corridors dissolving into shapeless light.
Your eyes opened slowly, everything felt familiar in the wrong way. Sunlight rested across your face, pale gold and warm. Your neck ached from the awkward angle you had slept in, and the faint smell of nightshade still clung stubbornly to the air.
You lifted your head, blinking away the last fog of sleep.
The sight before you should have been the same as every other morning : Prince Baelor lying exactly where you had left him, still trapped in that silent, unmoving coma.
But he wasn't.
No, instead, a pair of eyes were looking back at you. Blue and purple. Clear and awake.
They blinked slowly, as though the light itself was new to them, the lashes lowering and rising again with sluggish uncertainty. Your mind refused to understand what you were seeing. The world seemed to stall, suspended in a fragile moment between disbelief and reality.
Then recognition began to surface in those eyes, slowly, gradually... and they focused on you.
Fuck, it worked.
Prince Baelor was now wide awake.
A/N : soooo… what do we think? 👀
listen, i went back and forth a lot about the magic part. but after reading some threads about whether or not baelor could realistically survive the blow, i started thinking that a bit of magic might actually make more sense within westerosi standards. even with modern medical knowledge, saving him from something like that would be nearly impossible…
also yes, lady siena ashford is the OC of my valarr fic...
and the “oh, my dear child… you are in terrible, terrible danger” was inspired by the movie coraline lol
i really hope you guys like it though!! plz leave comments, I love reading them <33
I just found out Oscar Morgan who plays Valarr Targaryen is gay and once again men won. This is giving me flashbacks to when I discovered that Jonathan Bailey and Lee Pace are gay like…men keep winning and I keep acting surprised 😔 Thank you universe
(just to be clear: zero judgment here, only love. love them exactly as they are 🫶)
Everyone’s fine with Targcest if it’s Uncle/Niece, Cousin/Cousin, Brother/Sister, but the fun police draw the line at Father/Daughter. Where is Baelor x Daughter!Reader, Aerion x Maekar x Baelor x Sister!Daughter!Niece!Reader foursome?? The self proclaimed freaks are suddenly silent.. Wake it up!!!
on a serious note, where are the wlw thalia fanfics right now? like i’m not playing, i can’t survive off of breadcrumbs alone! again, big shoutout to the minimal thalia fic writers rn!
Guys!! I have some exciting news to offer especially to my Greek viewers! My Dionysus and Ariadne retelling is finally here to purchase!
It'll be of course in Greek however if all goes well i hope it gets translated in English! I am very excited and emotional that my book is finally here !
50 "feminist" Greek mythology tiktok-style romance retelling with girlboss characters vs 1 Euripedes. Who would win, and why would it be Euripedes? /Jk
Couldn't help it
One one hand you have: books promoting modern ideologies out of the expense of downgrading an ancient civilization with tropes and labels, claiming they are "fixing" those myths they exploit
On the other: ancient Greek author that was called "modern" for his time, writing plays with multiple female protagonists, complex characters with well written backgrounds, not forcing any ideology but showing pieces of his own culture at that time not afraid to show it's bad side instead of glamourising it
Of course it's not about gatekeeping but a recent observation of how media prefers adaptations over the original material. In a way it feels like people have forgotten Homer, the creator himself ,who brought these two epics into existence. It's a shame i don't see the same enthusiasm over his works and treat modern adaptations as "faithful" just because they are more appealing.
All this enthusiasm over modern adaptations needs to be toned down especially when i see people not caring to read his works, spread misinformation online, erasing in the process the whole meaning of preserving historical literature based on one culture.
What it needs is balance, what it needs is people understand the issues some modern interpretations can cause to one's work and legacy. Respect, and do proper research
