given as a gift — what was forgotten — what was taken
Warning: Aerion
Baelor
Annular brooch
A simple pattern on the outside. You gave it to him, one of many gifts. Carefully, you pinned it to his garment, smoothing the fabric. Smiled faintly. He accepted it with a low nod and his lips at your knuckles. Just a brooch. Just a dragon with a pin.
But the days stretch on, and not everything is seen at first glance. The sun had long since vanished, and only then did he return to you. He entered quietly, called for no servants. His gaze softened at the sight of you sleeping, and his hands reached to pull off his formal garments. The brooch first, straight into the box. A movement of his thumb, and his hand froze.
Turning the piece over, there were no dragons on the other side. A phrase. The one he had once said to you, in the silence, when you were alone. His eyes closed. The pads of his fingers slid over the letters, and his lips silently echoed them. For the first time that day, his chest stopped feeling tight.
Word on wax
He did not find it on his desk right away. First you came in, in the evening, tense with your whole body and with a frowning face. You spoke much of the day you had spent apart, and in the end left the wax tablet on the desk. “I will take it later,” your lips said before you went to your chambers.
But then a day passed, then two, and it still lay there, untouched. He opened it one of those days. He himself had forgotten it was yours. Marks from the stylus, some words softened by the sun. Your handwriting. But in the corner, a clear word: “Idiots.” He let out a faint chuckle, looking at the door, as if you might walk in.
A letter opener in hand, and part of the wax was already no longer on the wood. “Idiots.” He smiled again, putting the little piece into his seal case, and only then returned the rest to you.
A bookmark
You had embroidered it at the beginning of your marriage. Careful, somewhat clumsy patterns of your House and his. Back then, he thought it was for him and kept waiting and waiting. But you did not give it. The strip of embroidery had long since frayed, and you still kept it, using it as a bookmark for books.
Only once did he ask you about it, and you laughed warmly in answer, saying something about it being too simple and unprofessional for a prince. But your skill grew, and many bookmarks were gifted to him in the future. Yet Baelor’s gaze caught on the first one.
Having finished the book, you set the fabric aside and went to the library. You did not return right away. In the capital, it is difficult to return to ordinary things right away. He saw the bookmark in the daytime. Looked at it for a long time. His hand reached out on its own. You never saw it again and, for some time, walked with your head lowered. He saw it; there was a light bitterness in his chest. But in solitude and on heavy days, he holds the bookmark in his hands, pressing it to his cheek and feeling the softness of your hands on the cloth.
Maekar
The key to the casket
The wood was framed in metal. The little box, the casket, stood open on the table while you put small things inside. Letters, a pair of rings, some pebbles, perhaps flowers, strange little gifts from him that he had not called gifts. The lid closed, and a small key clicked in the keyhole.
You found Maekar in the courtyard that same day and held out the second key to him. “Keep it from me.” The key seemed smaller than it was in his large hand. His eyes stared intently at the patterns on the bow of the key, and then at you. “It is from the casket. Secrets. If I lose mine, I will know for certain that they are under guard,” you explained, and left.
He did not open the casket. Not even when you lost your own key and asked him to give his back. Maekar refused, saying it was a key to a secret. You blinked and huffed, called him stubborn, but did not argue. He kept it, as he kept all the ones that followed, the ones you gave him. And every time, you lost the keys. But only the first was on his neck. Under his clothes. Cold in the morning, warm by evening, lying flat at his chest, where his fingers sometimes found it.
A belt cord
He raised an eyebrow when he saw the strange cord on the chair, but walked past. The cord lay where it had lain. No matter how many hours passed. And the servants did not touch it. Maekar himself picked it up. Maekar himself asked. It turned out to be your belt cord. What it was doing in his solar was a mystery.
You did not take it, perhaps you had forgotten. He would return it. Himself. His fingers squeezed the cord while his steps echoed heavily against the pale walls. He was distracted. He fastened it to his belt and continued the day. But by evening, his eye was already twitching from everything. The doublet was off, lying on a crate by the training yard.
The whistle of a weapon cuts the air. Maekar stops. Adjusts the shirt sleeves that have slid down again. Another swing. Another stop. A low growl in his chest, the desire to tear the sleeves off. He takes your belt cord and ties it around his shoulders, fastening the fabric, and only then continues the training. Only at the end does he look at the bound sleeves, when sweat is already running down his temples. Calloused fingers touch the fabric of the cord usually tied at your waist. Now sometimes on his shoulders too.
A broken piece of a comb
The day was windy, your hair disheveled. Your fingers struggle to untangle the locks, pulling out pins and small leaves that had come from somewhere. Your hand reaches for the comb. An old thing, you had brought it with you from home. The wood already smelled of you and your scented oils.
The first pass of the teeth through your hair, and they snag at once. You frown, cursing under your breath. Try to pull the comb free, but it only tangles more. Maekar sees this from the bed. Looks for a long time. Gets up. He moves your wrists aside and tries himself. One hand presses the roots of your hair to your head, the other pulls at the comb, gripping it tightly. A crack.
The comb breaks. You freeze. Part of the wooden thing in his hand, part in your hair. The servants had to be called. You look at the memories in your hands, and he takes them, promising to fix it. After some time, he gives you a new comb, the same pattern, but not yours. “It could not be restored, but they were able to make a new one.” With that, he looks away. The old comb, repaired by his own hands, lies among his things, still with the remains of your hair and your smell. Sometimes you see your own hairs on his head and gently remove them.
Duncan
An embroidered pouch
Dunk’s coin pouch resembled a body with scars. All covered in patches, and it was no longer clear what the original fabric had been. But he always sewed on new patches, stitched up holes. Coins must not be lost, not even by accident.
“Ser, you dropped this!” the squire declared proudly at the camp by the tree. The hedge knight let out a heavy breath, and your gaze slid over the pouch, where a hole had formed again. You shook your head. You had torn fabric, a skirt that could no longer be worn. Only torn into rags. But there was enough fabric, and it was thick. A few days later, you brought him a new pouch.
He blinked, looking at your gift, and parted his lips. You huffed, saying something about how it was better than nothing, and better than losing coins along the way. He accepted it. Large hands held the cloth pouch carefully, fingers stroked the patterns...a star and an elm. The giant’s heart skipped a beat.
A scrap of a sleeve
A sword is not a toy. A blade is not a toy. A weapon that should serve for protection. But metal can grow dull; it needs care. A small whetstone slides along the edges of the blade. An even sound. Dunk lifts it, judging it, runs a rag over it. Your calling voice, and his head turns. He flinches.
You freeze, looking at his palm, where scarlet liquid seeps out. It goes cold inside. A flood of apologies from you, his words that everything is fine, that he was inattentive. There is not much blood, but it is unpleasant. He winces when you wash the wound. A tear of fabric, and you rip off part of your sleeve, binding his palm. The bandage soaks through with blood while his wide-open eyes look at you and your hands, carefully holding his palm.
The wound heals, there is not even a scar. But the piece of your sleeve was washed, though the stain remained. He tied it to the handle of his shield, because the hilt of a sword is for a blessing before a tourney. And this is a gift of protection.
A spoon
The stew simmered slowly over the fire, and the smell mixed with the smell of the grass around you. You stirred it, tasted it, and nodded. Three portions, for Dunk, Egg, and you. Warm food, the crackle of the fire, and talk. You were already finishing when the squire dropped his spoon and accidentally stepped on it. The wood split.
You sighed, already about to offer your own, but the man was faster than you. The boy muttered that he would eat quickly and return it, and you looked into Dunk’s bowl. Almost full. Without thinking, you gave him your spoon, because if he simply drank it, he might spill, and that meant washing and an extra stop. He refused at first, but in the end accepted, lowering his head slightly.
Of course, he carved a new spoon from wood. Beautiful, not too neat like the others, but similar to yours. He gave it to you, and you smiled. His smile echoed yours, but seemed awkward, and his cheekbones turned pink. After that, his portions were eaten even more slowly and, for some reason, tasted like your lips.
Daeron
Hair
His face ends up in your hair again and again. The back of your head. Your temple. The crown of your head. Fingers that tremble, miss, but still sort through the strands. He often tangles them while trying to braid and presses them under his nose. You only sigh and shake your head, leaning back against him.
One day, you lean over the table, reaching for a quill, and the candle singes a lock of hair in the middle. You flinch back. Part of a small strand was lying on the table. Running your fingers over your head, you sighed and gathered the cut-off hair into your hand, tied it with a ribbon, and moved the candle, cleaning up the mess, when Daeron came in.
He looked at the hair on the table and at you. His fingers carefully touched the singed strands by your face, and you sighed, closing your eyelids. But he looked at the table again. You noticed. “You can take it.” you said, half-joking, quietly, and he huffed, lifting the tied hair from the wood. From that day, part of it was hidden under his hair in a small braid, and the other he hid in his pillow.
A dried flower
He brought them by accident. Fell into the flowers after stumbling. Well, since he fell, he had to pluck them and bring them to you. You had said something about flowers once, or about how you could not embroider flowers, or about a floral scent. But the word was there. Flowers.
When he appeared to you from around the corner, you blinked. His hair was in pollen, his cheek too, and there they were in the man’s hands. Washing, that was the first thing you said, taking the flowers. The second was thank you, with a faint smile, when you smelled them. You put the large ones in a vase, and the wildflowers he did not see. “Do not touch my books.” you said, and he only shrugged.
Some time later, he had forgotten. Lying around on the bed while you brushed your hair. Daeron’s hand reached for one of the books on the floor on his side, and he opened it above his head. Something fell onto the prince’s face, and he winced, picking it up. A small wildflower, flat, dry. His eyes widened, and he looked at you while you did not see. His fingers hid the flower back in the book. He gave this book to no one.
A torn piece of a letter
You were writing a letter home, to your family. About life here, about your husband, about the weather, asking how they were, but the words lay strangely after a long day. Your eyes ran over the written lines again, and you set the parchment aside, frowning.
You were not in the room, Daeron was. He threw his head back in the chair and looked at the table, noticing the written sheet. The body slowly rose with a low exhale and moved toward the table. He leaned on the edge, bending down, and raised the hand with the goblet. Already bringing it to his lips, he froze, reading into certain lines. His gaze caught on the words about him. The candlelight on the table trembled.
Later, you searched for this letter, even if you would not send it, but at least would copy part of it onto a clean sheet. Daeron did not stay silent, of course, only muttered that the wind might have carried it away, or it was under the table. But in solitude, when you are far away and the room is dark, he sits on the floor and pulls your letter from behind the fireplace and rereads the lines about him. His fingers always squeeze tight, and his shoulders tremble weakly.
Valarr
Cloak clasp
You brought him a small box before the tourney, into your pavilion. They were already fastening his armor when he jerked his head in your direction. You waited until you were left alone.
Valarr came up to you, and you fixed his hair, touching the white strand, and then opened the small box. Small cloak clasps, dark in color, darker in the muted light of the pavilion. He raised an eyebrow. “And what about the favor?” and froze, pressing his lips together at his own words. You lifted your gaze to him. He swallowed, and you only laughed warmly. “Both the clasps and the favor, my prince.” A blush flared on the young prince’s cheeks.
He won and returned to the pavilion. With your favor, of course. A gift to a knight from his lady. Taking off his helm, he looked at the casket and took out the cloak clasps, bringing them to the light. His eyes opened wider. A dragon’s head, but with a pale line. He had not seen it. Afterward, he thanked you, and apologized many more times, trying always to wear them, even without a cloak.
The ribbon
You were leaving for some time. A forced separation. He spoke of how he could go with you, would try to finish everything in time, but you shook your head. On the day of departure, he walked you to the carriage. His back straight, but still his shoulder was closer to you than it should have been. Before getting into the carriage, you put a note into his hand. He did not have time to answer before you disappeared inside.
Only in the evening, in the solitude of your shared chambers, was he able to examine it. A small square parchment, folded and tied with a ribbon. A barely visible postscript: “Forgive me. I did not have time to set a seal.” He smiled, carefully untying the knot and not letting the ribbon out of his fingers, running his fingertips along it. Soft. In the note, simple words, about seeing each other soon, about how you already missed him. Valarr exhales weakly, lowering his head, and presses the ribbon to his forehead.
You no longer remembered the ribbon when you returned, only hugged him, stroking his cheeks and smiling. But he now always tied his hair with it when you were apart. A ribbon of promises.
The bead
You worried the beads at your neck while the servants arranged your hair. Your gaze now and then slid over the reflection in the mirror. He stood by the window, moving his lips and repeating the speech he had to deliver. But his head turned to you at the end of the speech. A finger quietly beat a rhythm against the stone of the wall. Your lips parted, but instead of words, a hiss escaped.
Your hand jerked sharply, tearing the poor beads at your neck. The servant flinched and at once began apologizing for the hair, crouching down to gather the small balls. You rushed down too, it was a gift, a gift from your prince. Valarr blinked, looking at an especially large bead that rolled toward him, and bent down, picking it up. Warm. Warm from your skin. He shook his head, continuing to help gather them.
Later, during the speech, he spoke evenly. The words slipped off almost naturally. The eyes of the hall were directed at him, cold sweat appeared on his back, and his hand slid into his pocket. His fingers trembled. Your bead. He had forgotten to return it. His shoulders relaxed strangely, and his voice became more certain. After that, he could not make himself return the bead. He would give you a new necklace. And another. With the same stones, with the same clasp, with the same color. But not one bead would be so warm in his hand.
Lyonel
The gloves
Your hands trembled. Cold. While Lyonel’s palms always gave off warmth. He warmed your hands with his own, kissed them smiling, pressed them to his chest, rambling that you were wrong and that your hands were the warmest.
But he could not always be near, and you ordered gloves. They were sewn rather quickly. Warm fur lining, the colors of your house, with Baratheon-colored edging, and you showed them to him. A smile appeared on his face and then dimmed for a moment. “And what about me?” You raised an eyebrow and sighed.
More gloves were ordered, the same as yours, but for his large hand. You presented them to him, and he snorted proudly. However, since then, you no longer put on your own gloves. Now he often wore his and put them on you when he left, leaving you alone. They really did keep his warmth.
The hunting horn
He gave you a hunting horn at the very beginning. That time, you frowned and scoffed, smiling at him, because it really was a beautiful horn. Sometimes you even rode out hunting with Lyonel, and his face lit up when you blew into the gifted horn with all your strength.
You left the hunting horn in his solar after the hunt. He did not notice right away, but when he found it, he held it in his hand for a long time and forgot to return it by evening. He came that evening to your chambers and stopped at the threshold, looking at you. You looked back, raising an eyebrow. Silence. He shook his head and came inside.
You did not go on the next hunt, but he took your horn. When it was time to blow it, he did. Only when returning to you did he look at the mouthpiece of the horn and lick his lips. You had touched it. He did not return your gift to you and allowed no one else to use it. But the sound of your hunting horn during the hunt became one of his favorites, especially when he himself breathed that sound into it.
The bent coin
Once, you accidentally bent a coin, a silver stag, by stepping on it. Before Lyonel, long before. And you simply carried it and moved it with you. A funny reminder that rarely surfaced when sorting through things.
You were rummaging through a chest toward evening while that big Baratheon was sprawled on the bed, speaking at the top of his voice. As you found the shawl and straightened up, the coin fell out of the folds. You picked it up and snorted. Lyonel fell silent, looking at you. Taking another silver stag, you went up to the bed and showed him. A deft movement of your fingers, an unnoticed switch, and the ordinary coin became bent. His eyes rounded, and a laugh of delight burst from his throat.
You smiled and threw the bent coin into the chest with the fabrics, and the whole one, without his knowledge, you put back on the table while his eyes were still fixed on the chest. He took out the bent silver stag when you did not see and, since then, carried it with him, boasting to everyone that you had bent a silver coin with two fingers in front of him.
Raymun
A needle case
It is not an obligation. Just a needle and thread. Just his clothes, the clothes of someone trying for the good of a new house and for the good of the two of you. But there are too many holes, especially after his sparring. You rubbed your forehead.
One day you held out a small case for needles and thread to him. Made by you, with the green apple sigil. His fingers trembled slightly, and his lips parted when he lifted his gaze to you. “Do not sew it up completely. Just when you see a tear in the fabric, fix it a little.” He blinked, twice, and let out a half-ashamed chuckle, kissing your cheek and warming it with his breath.
Now he fixed them, just as you had asked. Clumsily, but as you had shown him, so that the hole in the fabric would not become bigger before evening. And each time he brought his things to you with his head lowered and his gaze turned away, and you shook your head and softly soothed him with a kiss and a smile.
An apple seed
Warm weather, a soft wind, and the sun that beckons you to lie under a tree. The apples have filled out on the branches, only waiting to fall on a random passerby or a careless animal.
You were sitting with Raymun, eating one of the apples while he peeled his own and spoke of the future and of how the day had gone. His hands were relaxed, and his eyes shone when he sent another piece into his mouth, but at one moment he froze, looking at you. You had eaten almost the whole apple. Noticing his gaze, you smiled, giving him the small black seeds and trying to take his apple from him.
A few days later, he reached into the pocket of his doublet and raised an eyebrow, pulling out the seeds you had given him. He had even forgotten about them, and you had not even thought of them. Your smile appeared before the man’s eyes, and he exhaled. His hands became dirty when he planted them, carefully and gently pressing the earth down with his feet. Your first tree.
A small tag you signed
The quill held in your fingers drew inscriptions on the tags for the crates. You had volunteered to do this yourself. Carefully measuring each letter, but on one certain tag, the handwriting became softer by itself.
Raymun pasted them on later, checking every crate and basket himself. But at one moment he stopped. Green Apple. He looked carefully at the lines. A sweeping flourish, soft “e”s, and a large “A”. An exhale escaped his lips, and he sniffed. You heard it, turning, and he hurriedly shook his head, secretly hiding the tag in his pocket. You had to rewrite it.
Later, he took a small board, nailed it to a stake, and pasted your tag onto it, softly smoothing it along the sides with his finger. He stuck the little sign into the ground beside the seeds he had planted earlier and looked at it for a long time. When the sprout grows, he will bring you here, but for now, it is his, and secretly yours.
Aerion
The handkerchief
Your fingers often trembled, but during embroidery, they seemed to tremble less. Your head would switch off, there were no thoughts, only the needle and thread, only the fabric and you. You embroidered patterns on handkerchiefs, many of them, bright and motley, like him.
The sun blinded. You sat in the stands in a covered dress that hid Aerion’s marks on you. Taking out a handkerchief, you wiped the sweat away, grimacing when you touched your neck under your hair. The sound of your name, and you lifted your head. He rode up to the stands, smiling with his lips and raising his tourney lance. You stood and tied your handkerchief on his arm under his intent gaze, and wished him victory.
After the tournament, you never saw your handkerchief again. It was like this every time. They were never yours anymore, neither before being given nor after. He kept it with him, running the nail of his thumb between the threads of the pattern, pressing now harder, now softer. His breathing was slow. The smell of the tourney had not yet had time to settle on the fabric.
The broken hairpin
A new hairpin in your hair, one of the many things he gave you. It had survived several feasts and tourneys, even a couple of nights, and had managed to become shinier from the constant polishing by your hair.
But nothing is eternal. Aerion tore it out of your hair one night, and it broke, falling to the floor when he stepped on it. The quiet ring of its fall was drowned out by the rustle of the blanket and fabrics, and also by the prince’s voice as he pressed you to the bed. In the morning, you did not look for the hairpin, did not even remember it. You were led to your chambers to be put in order.
He found it himself later. Slowly, he picked up the broken pieces with the tips of his fingers when he was alone and carried them to a chest with a lock. Opening it with the key, he put the hairpin inside, beside other broken things. Bracelets. Necklaces. Earrings. Everything you had not looked at in the morning after him. He narrowed his eyes and looked at it for a long time. His fingers clenched on the lid. Only after a knock at the door did he lock the chest, hide the key, and continue his day.
The torn trimming of a dress
This dress was beautiful, even magnificent in its simplicity. Light and not constricting. One of the few in your wardrobe. The trimming did not prick, your favorite pattern that gently slid over your skin when you walked and in the wind. So gently that you smiled without meaning to.
You did not wear it when you were led to Aerion or when he was in the castle. But today he was not here. The garden was quiet and smelled not of the stench of the capital, but of morning and dew. You relaxed in solitude. A grip on your shoulder, and there you are between the bushes, pressed by his body. He returned earlier. You did not recognize him and tried to break free, because of which his fingers tore off the trimming and part of the dress. He twisted his face and threw his travel cloak at you.
You ran away, covering yourself with it. The trimming remained clenched in the prince’s hand. He took a couple of steps in the direction where you had disappeared and stopped. His eyes looked at the scraps in his hand, again and again running his fingers over them. The pattern that had often been on your dresses when you had only just been brought here. His jaw clenched, but with effort he relaxed his face and, straightening, hid the trimming under his travel doublet and went to the fortress.
Thanks for reading!
Sorry I haven’t posted sooner, I’ve had zero free time lately. I’m hoping to clear my schedule soon so I can start posting regularly again. Chapter 3 is in the works, though it's coming along slowly. So many ideas, yet so little energy.
Also, a huge thank you to the 150 people following me! I never thought anyone would be interested in my writing, but I’m so glad you’re enjoying it.
I’m not saying anything, but…why does his armor look like it’s made of plastic? He looks like Alicent dressed him up for a school play. Very sweet, sure, but it feels so weird👁👄🧿
This is my first time including Aerion in a headcanon post. His characterization here is very specific, so I’d be grateful for any feedback on how he feels to you, and whether he resonates with your vision of him.
Warning: Aerion
Baelor
You were already lying in bed beside Baelor. Candlelight fell across his profile, bent over a book even at this late hour. His hands turned the page slowly, almost lazily. His neck was relaxed after the long day, and his nightrobe, despite the expensive fabric, stripped away the last traces of royalty.
Your hand slipped from beneath the covers, and your fingers touched his knuckles. He lowered his head, marked the line, and looked at you. You smiled, nodding. He smiled back and sighed. He slipped a bookmark into the book, set it on the shelf by the bed, and let his head fall back onto the pillow. His fingers intertwined with yours. Your hands lay between you on the pillow as you fell asleep facing each other. Sleep came softly.
The sound of the Blackwater Bay waves outside the window. A sound that lulled you. He shifted in his sleep. Your hands were still intertwined, but your heads were closer now. His warm breath could be felt even through sleep, first on your forehead, then at your temple. The man’s nose pressed close to your cheekbone, and he breathed out unevenly. You shifted toward him on your own. You turned your head slightly, and his nose followed your temple.
The noise of the waking fortress wove itself into the sound of the waves. Servants. The changing of the guard. But a strong shoulder was beside you. Touching. A sleepy movement. Not an attempt to pull away. To come closer. You still reached for him through the veil of sleep, closer with your whole body. Even when your eyes opened drowsily and the world already demanded him for the realm, he had woken before you — watching you, and not pulling away.
Maekar
The mirror reflected your silhouette as you prepared for sleep. Maekar was already sitting on the edge of your bed, rubbing his neck and grumbling about the day, while you only nodded and answered from time to time. Once you were done with your preparations, you approached the bed, and it received you with the readiness of a long wait. The prince finished his monologue and lay down beside you.
The man’s calloused fingers found your shoulders and pulled you closer to him. His arms closed around you as he lay on his back. You chuckled quietly, settling into his arms as best you could. Another grumble slipped from his lips when your elbow pressed unpleasantly into his side. You only huffed, placing your hand on his shoulder. Your eyes closed. The warmth beside you dragged you into dreams.
In your sleep, at night, you turned onto your side, facing the edge of the bed. Abruptly, as if after a dream. His eyelids opened slightly, and he shifted after you. Maekar’s jaw tightened as he turned, never unclasping his arms from around you. His chest to your back. One arm like a pillow for your head, the other wrapped firmly over your waist, almost tucking you beneath him. He did not sleep for some time. He looked at the door over your head. Then at the crown of your head. Only when your shoulders sank did he close his eyes again.
Your hair had spread across the pillow, and a few curls had found their way into your mouth. Your eyelids fluttered. You were lying on your stomach, but it was not only the blanket covering you. His cheek was pressed into your back, his arms around your waist and hips. His back rose and fell slowly. You lifted yourself slightly, and he went still at once, frowning. His grip tightened, but he did not wake. This time, he did not wake.
Duncan
The crackle of the campfire in the night silence as you spread the bedroll on the ground. Egg had already fallen asleep and sprawled out on the other side. Dunk was poking at the dying embers with a stick, leveling them out. He had gone to the horses, checked on them, and by the time he returned, the travelling pallet was already laid out, and you were sitting beside it. Waiting.
The tall man lowered himself carefully beside you and shifted to the edge of the mattress. You raised an eyebrow and rolled your eyes, smiling. Your hand closed around his shoulder and pulled him toward the center. He raised an eyebrow, going a little still, but did not crawl away. Your palms pressed against his shoulders, and he turned onto his back. You lay down on top of him at once. The muscles of his torso and chest tightened, and his breath broke off. Not from the weight. Another quiet chuckle slipped from your lips, and you settled against his chest. He blinked, looking at you, and smiled foolishly, placing a large hand on your back.
The fire had burned down. Aegon stirred somewhere nearby. The horses snorted. Dunk slowly turned onto his stomach in his sleep, and you fell from his chest without waking. Your arms caught around his back on their own, moving you back onto him. Your warmth warmed his back, and he mumbled something in his sleep, flinching at your breath by his ear, but settled again at once. His hand found your thigh.
The sounds of morning were as if from far away. Barely audible, muffled. Dunk was lying on his back again, and someone nearby was laughing quietly under his breath. One eye opened slightly, seeing the boy bent over him. You were wrapped around the man’s head: a thigh beneath his chin, an arm embracing his face, your nose right by his ear, your chest pressed to the crown of his head. He went still, waking fully, and his hand jerked toward you, but froze at once when you breathed out in your sleep. The young squire had to make breakfast while the hedge knight remained in the cage of your body, barely breathing.
Daeron
The white light of the rising moon through the window, and a faint warm breeze drifting through your chambers. Daeron lay with you on the bed, drunkenly smirking as he read the lines from the collection on your lap together with you. The softness of the featherbed, the silence around you, and weariness. The cup was drained.
The prince’s eyes closed halfway, but scraps of phrases still slipped from his lips, impossible to make out. His shoulders relaxed along with his neck, and his head slipped from your shoulder, his face buried in your neck. You froze for a moment but exhaled at once. Closing the collection of poems and setting it aside, you slid lower in the bed and leaned back onto the pillow. The man’s nose remained pressed to your neck, warming it with his breath. Your eyelids lowered.
Pain. An unpleasant sensation, as if bone were being pressed into bone. Your eyes flew open in an attempt to breathe, your irises darting. Your face was pressed to the mattress, and around you was a body thrashing, a familiar scent. Slender arms held you, tucking you beneath him. Broken breathing. Words, unclear by your ear. His name tore from your lips. He did not hear. Another attempt. Daeron went still, his head jerking up, and loosened his arms. He did not let go. You turned in his grip and looked at him, running your palm over his cheek. Violet eyes blinked and closed again. His breathing grew quieter.
Early morning light fell across the bed. The sounds of birds in the garden below the window. Warmth low in your stomach. You rubbed your eyes and stretched, blinking yourself awake. Your head turned drowsily, searching for the familiar face. It was not there. Your brows furrowed on their own. Propping yourself up on one elbow, finally awake, you understood. Your hand lifted the blanket. Daeron’s face, still asleep, was pressed into your stomach. Your thigh was thrown over his shoulder, and his arms held your waist. Warm breath heated your lower stomach. He shivered from the chill, and you exhaled, slipping your fingers into his disheveled hair.
Valarr
A light streak in his dark hair shone in the firelight. The young prince watched the fire, listening to your day as you brushed your hair, but his thoughts were far away. He started and turned around. You were already standing beside him and smiling at him, drawing him toward the bed. A sigh slipped from his lips, and he followed you, smiling.
In bed, you settled down at once, but now you listened to him. About his day, his training, his lessons, his hopes, the advice he had been given. Face to face. Valarr’s words grew quieter and quieter. He almost fell asleep. But he blinked, feeling warmth at his legs. Your leg smoothly intertwined with his, gently stroking muscles tense after the long day. Your gaze did not leave his eyes. He breathed out sleepily, drawing closer, and closed his eyelids.
The fire had gone out, and the young man’s body turned onto its back. A straight posture. But still sleep. You moved closer, and your palm lay on his chest, clutching his nightshirt. Even breathing through sleep, and he pressed more calmly into the soft bed beneath him. His fingers covered your hand, not squeezing, only not letting you pull away.
Toward morning, you lay face to face again. But closer. The salty, slightly heavy morning air of Dragonstone. Two bodies close beneath the blanket. You opened your eyes with difficulty and met his gaze. He was not asleep. His forehead was pressed to yours, no longer pulling away as before. He only studied you, your morning face. The corners of your lips twitched, and his twitched in answer. His forehead rubbed softly against yours, not calling you to rise.
Lyonel
Your fingers gently rubbed fragrant oils into your wrists and hands as you sat in bed. The warm light of the candle by the bed trembled from the open door. Lyonel entered your chambers with flourish, with a smile, and at once searched for you with his eyes. You only raised an eyebrow, smiling back.
His clothes flew to the floor, past the chair, past the sofa, while his feet carried him to you. You had already thrown back the blanket for him, settled on your pillow. He did not lie down. He ran his tongue over his upper teeth, and your body went still. Before you could open your mouth, the man’s giant body fell over you, pressing you to the mattress with all his weight. A weak breath broke from your lungs as Lyonel’s laughter tickled the crown of your head, and he fell asleep almost at once. Throwing off the large body was difficult, but you managed to free yourself halfway and breathed fully again, closing your eyes.
The moon was still high in the sky, but your eyes opened faintly at the sounds of snoring. Nothing was pressing you down. You lifted yourself on your hands, rubbing your eyes, and squinted into the half-dark. Lord Baratheon lay across the bed, his legs thrown over you and his arms spread wide. The blanket had slipped from his broad chest, and you sighed, adjusting the furs over him. A broken snorting sound broke from his mouth, but he did not wake, only bent his legs, pressing your thighs to his. Leaning back onto the pillow, you fell into sleep again under the lullaby of thunder in your bed.
Warmth on your face, faint snuffling nearby, light behind your eyelids. Morning. You turned your head, lying onto your back. Your eyes opened slowly. A large palm lay on your face. Your gaze slid to the side. The man’s sleeping body had moved closer and now lay beside you on its stomach. His lips were parted, and dark curls had spread across the pillow. Something ached quietly beneath your ribs, and your eyelids lowered while your face pressed back into the palm lying on your face.
Raymun
The Green Apple rolled into your chambers with a tired gait. You looked away from the needle with which you were mending a hole in one of his shirts. He nodded weakly to you, smiling, and, kicking the boots from his feet, lay down in bed, muttering apologies. You blinked, looking at him, raising an eyebrow, but there were no more words. He was simply breathing deeper.
Once you had sewn the tear in the fabric, you joined the young man in bed. Raymun was already lying on his side, not even covered by the blanket. Climbing in carefully beside him, you covered the two of you with the blanket and wrapped your arms around him from behind. His back tensed through sleep. You pressed your face into the hair at the nape of his neck, carefully kissing him with your lips. He muttered something about tomorrow or about his dream and melted in your arms. You fell asleep after him.
In the middle of the night, he opened his eyes, blinking faintly. The bedroom. Your shared bedroom. He breathed out in half-sleep and turned to face you. You grumbled, trying to remain in your sleepy fortress, and he answered with a hum. His eyelids closed as he fell asleep facing you. His body moved closer. His nose touched your nose, gently passed over it, and stopped by your lips. Breath mingled in the night.
First, your scent. Towards morning, Raymun’s face had ended up higher, right in the hair at the crown of your head. Deep breathing, even part of your hair in his mouth. He woke first. He did not pull away, but tried to remove your strands from his mouth. You groaned faintly, lifting your head, and saw him press his face to the crown of your head again, not letting you get up, nor himself either.
Aerion
The muscles beneath your skin twitched faintly. Your body lay on the bed. Softness. But the marks on your shoulders and neck ached. A weak cramp seized your thighs, and your fingers clenched the sheets. It was dark, despite the few candles around the bed.
Your eyelids twitched. You could not close them. Behind your back was a body whose hair gleamed with silver and gold. The man’s palm held one of your breasts tightly, and his breath stirred the hair at the nape of your neck. Cold gooseflesh ran down your back. You breathed almost imperceptibly. You did not move. You stared ahead at the dragon tapestry on the wall. The flame was burning down. You exhaled sharply when the stranger’s chest pressed into your back. Consciousness slipped away, and you finally fell into the abyss of sleep.
A sharp shove, and a weak breath from your chest. Your eyes opened at once, and you sat up, wincing. You adjusted to the darkness. Aerion lay on the other side of the bed. Asleep. Turned away from you, having pushed you off. You rubbed your side, an aching feeling in your ribs, but you could breathe. Finally, you could breathe. You reached for the little jar by the bed and opened it, releasing the smell of herbs into the air. Trembling fingers rubbed the ointment into your body, where the dark patterns and prints were. A sound from the man’s side. You went still. He did not move. Measured breathing. You continued rubbing the ointment in more quietly and blacked out again.
The first sensation was a stranger’s touch. Consciousness returned slowly, in waves. The fingers were strangely soft, and your sleepy mind offered itself up. A hiss broke from your chest. The man’s fingers dug into your thighs, pressing you to him, sinking beneath the skin. His nails left crescents on your skin. No breaking free.
As always, they pretend they are not tired — until you ask.
Characters: Baelor Breakspear Targaryen, Maekar Targaryen, Duncan the Tall, Daeron the Drunken Targaryen, Valarr Targaryen, Lyonel Baratheon, Raymun Fossoway.
listen I know there’s probably no “knyaz” in Westeros but the sound of it suits Maekar too well and I refuse to let go of that
Baelor
Rest
The candle flame flickered slightly as the page turned beneath the Hand’s fingers. His eyes stayed on the text, while his other hand propped up his brow, smoothing the lines there. He blinked a few times and rubbed his eyes.
You entered quietly: a soft step, a door pulled nearly shut. Your gaze went to him.
“How much have you rested today, my prince?”
His head lifted, and a faint smile touched his lips.
“Enough. I’m not tired,” he answers on an exhale, and you narrow your eyes as you move closer.
“Not tired? I haven’t seen you since breakfast.”
“I haven’t seen you since breakfast either, my lady. Does that mean you did not rest?”
He catches your gaze and does not look away. He watches you with a slight squint and lifts a hand, threading your fingers together. A warm palm, and lips brushing your knuckles.
“Baelor. It is nearly the middle of the night.”
You lean toward him, drawing his attention back to yourself while your free hand pushes the papers aside. The prince’s gaze flickers, and he blinks again, rubbing at his eyes. You can see how red they are.
“This has to be finished today,” he whispers, but he does not let your hands part. You sigh and straighten, and his head dips slightly toward the desk.
“All right. But I’m staying.”
You do not give him a chance to object, and he only nods, feeling your hand on his shoulders as he turns back to his work.
Maekar
Frowning
Warm sun over the training yard. The ring of steel and the shouts of men. A view from above, from the gallery curving around the yard. Maekar stands in the shade of the arches, looking down. His brows are drawn together, his hands behind his back. He turns his head slightly, and his jaw tightens. He breathes out through his nose, rubbing at his neck.
“My knyaz!” your voice rings out as you drift toward him through the empty corridor. His head lifts at once, but something clicks in his neck, and he curses under his breath again.
“My knyaz?” he says, low, and you smirk.
“Of course. My knyaz. Why have you been frowning so much lately?” The question hangs in the air with your smile. The lines around his eyes soften. His brows do not move.
“Woman, have you nothing to do?” he nearly growls, but bends at the back, since he cannot bend his neck. You raise a brow.
“I do. For example, watching you frown.” Your hand rises. “The best view in the world,” you whisper as your fingers touch his face.
Maekar’s eyes go past your shoulder. Then back to you. His shoulders slowly lower. Your thumb presses softly to the bridge of his nose, massaging, and the fourth prince’s eyes close. For a moment.
“I’m not frowning.”
“Oh, then I am watching you not frown and not die from the pain in your neck.”
“I’m not–” He cuts himself off. He breathes out sharply through his nose and leans forward when your hand settles on his neck, massaging. His palm finds your side and pulls you against him, under him, while a warm breeze moves through the arches.
Duncan
Watching
You slowly opened your eyes, turning a little on your bedroll. Dawn was beginning. The quiet sound of the fire dying down. You lingered for a second, eyes closed, then let out a heavy breath and slowly sat up. Egg slept nearby. Dunk sat by the dying fire, looking up.
The stars were almost gone, and the moon as well. The dark sky of night was giving way to blue and pink dawn. He did not look away from it until you came closer.
“Dunk.”
The man did not startle, only turned his head toward you and tilted it slightly. “M’lady, you’re awake.”
You shook your head as you sat down beside him. “Yes, but you should have woken me sooner, so I could take your place.” At your words, he tensed slightly, but when he saw the gooseflesh on your skin, he laid his cloak over your shoulders.
“I did not want to wake you. You looked tired.” You frowned, wrapping yourself in his cloak, but after looking at his face, you only sighed and pressed your cheek to his shoulder, looking up at the sky with him.
“You get tired too. The only difference is that you are the only one who can truly protect us,” you whispered. The first rays of dawn painted his face orange, but you saw his ears turn red, and you smiled.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“Don’t apologize. I’ll take first watch now.” You breathe out and press yourself closer to him, escaping the morning chill. “How long have you been looking?”
He swallowed. “All night. The sky’s beautiful.” You go still, lifting your eyes to his profile. To the way he looked at the stars that were no longer there.
“Yes. You’re right. Beautiful.”
Daeron
Sleep
The dimness of the room was being driven back by the start of dawn. The curtains swayed slowly with the wind, and the quiet chime of the crystals at the window was lulling. Not him. Daeron lay on his back, pinned beneath you, looking at the ceiling and catching the rainbow light, the glints from the crystals on the canopy above.
You began to wake. Slender fingers traced lines along your back, and the man’s chest rose and fell beneath your cheek. Your eyes slowly opened. “Are you awake already?” Your voice was rough with sleep. Your mouth parted, and you yawned into his chest.
“Yeah...” came from his side.
You lifted your head, blinking. He met your gaze, one brow lifting slightly. His face was a little swollen from the night; one cheek looked fuller, his head still tilted and pressed to his shoulder.
“What?”
“You’re lying,” you whisper, pushing yourself up on your arms and stretching.
“Never,” he answers at once, but then sees the way your brows draw together. He breathes out slowly, lowering his hand to your thigh.
“How much did you sleep?” you ask, stroking his hand on your thigh.
One brow lifts, and he breathes out again, turning onto his side and pressing his face into your thigh, pressing closer. Your fingers sink into his hair, massaging his scalp. The man’s back relaxes, and his breathing grows deeper.
Valarr
Training
The sky had turned red with sunset, but the air was still warm. The sharp sounds of each swing filled the quiet of the training yard. Prince Valarr stepped forward, cutting through the air. Sweat ran down his temples, his hair clung to his forehead, and his hands trembled slightly. Heavy breaths left him with every lunge.
You stand at the edge, in the shade, for a long time — long enough for your legs to grow tired — but you do not interrupt him. Another swing. You notice the way he winces and finally step forward. “My prince.” He startles, comes to a stop, and slowly turns toward you.
His breathing is uneven. One hand wipes away the sweat, and his gaze drops to your hands, holding a waterskin and a towel. His cheekbones color softly.
“My lady. I am almost finished.”
“Almost?” you ask, stepping closer. “I have been standing here a long time... how long have you been training?” He goes still.
“I...not long.” He looks away, rubbing his neck, but then looks at you again. “Maybe since noon.” You narrow your eyes at his answer and lift your gaze to the sky. Sunset. Shaking your head, you reach out with the towel and wipe his temple. He swallows, but leans toward you, taking the towel from your hand.
“Then we should go eat.” You smile softly when you see his lips part. But you do not let him answer. You take the sword from his trembling fingers — they tighten, but still let go — heavy, and hand him the water.
He presses his lips together, and the corners twitch as he nods, taking everything from you and giving the same back.
Lyonel
Drunk
The roar of voices filled the feast hall. People blurred together in dance, clothes flowing, drowned in drinks spilling over, and food vanished before it could even settle on the tables. In the middle of it all was one man whose voice rang louder than the rest, and whose laughter tore through the walls.
You moved through the guests toward the sound of that laughter, toward a voice you would know among a thousand. And there he was before your eyes: lord-husband, your Lyonel Baratheon, turning with a tankard in hand, grinning all teeth. A turn, a slight sway, then upright again, and he drank with a pleased sound. Your lips twitched, and your eyes met.
One step, and he is already before you. A hand at your waist, a boyish smile on his face. “My doe...” Lyonel whispers, his sour breath washing over you, and you frown.
“How much have you had to drink, my lord?” At your words, his nose wrinkles and his lips pout. The hands that hold swords and lands catch you up and spin you. Your fingers latch onto his shoulders sharply, and one brow lifts.
“Why does my wife call me lord?” His voice is slightly hoarse, rising from his chest and catching in his throat.
“Because your wife still has to sleep in the same bed with you, my lord.” You pronounce the title syllable by syllable while your fingers tuck his hair behind his ear and brush his earring. Strong hands lower you, biting into the fabric of your dress. His eyes, usually playful, look strange now: searching, catching, and his lip presses tight.
You blink once, then twice, and roll your eyes. “You can’t–” But he only leans toward you, head tilted to one side. “Lyonel, no!” He does not stop, spins you again and looks you in the eyes. Your cheeks burn, and a huff slips from your lips. “My stag.”
He goes still, and his fingers tighten on you. That drunken smile spreads across his face again when his lips touch yours.
The taste of wine and victory.
Raymun
Work
From dawn till dusk. Every day. Searching. Speaking. Building. Trying. He does not spare himself, because he has the strength, he has the one beside him, and he has what must be built for himself and for her. For the future. For hope.
You watch the man all day. The way he walks, the way he speaks. But his shoulders are tense, and now and then his breath catches. You see him sitting with his elbows on his knees, swaying slightly. You come up behind him and, bending down, wrap your arms around his neck. He startles and turns his head.
“The Seven...you scared me.” A faint laugh slips from his lips, and his back straightens, but you only lean on him harder, catching his gaze.
“How much have you worked today?” you whisper in his ear. Goosebumps run over the back of his neck, and his hand covers yours. “A lot. I saw it.” You answer for him while he blinks and lowers his head.
“Less with each day,” he says louder, but kneads his free hand with a wince. You move around him, standing between his knees, and he lifts his head.
“Not less.” Your palms rest on his cheeks while his fingers linger, then finally settle on your sides. He shakes his head.
“Now it is less.” You fall still at his words and let out a quiet, warm laugh.
“My knight.” You kiss his brow while he pulls you onto his lap and wraps an arm around your waist. His face presses to your chest, and he breathes out slowly.
So happy you liked it! I'm guessing you mean Chapter 3 (since the second one is already up)? I think it’ll take about two weeks or so to finish, especially since the first two took me a full month to write.
There is no peace for one who has never known it. A forced betrothal, and a journey to a bride he barely remembers. But has he seen her only in childhood?
pairing: daeron targaryen х F!stark!reader
word count: 17.2k
warnings: alcoholism, substance abuse, withdrawal, vomiting, sexual content, brothel, profanity, toxic family dynamics, arranged marriage, forced marriage themes, panic attacks / anxiety, emotional distress, nightmares, disturbing dreams
AO3 | Previous Chapter | The Next Chapter
A long bright corridor in the Red Keep, already stifling in the morning. Two white cloaks stood on either side of the door leading into the council chamber. The voices within were barely audible. With the corridor empty, one of the guards yawned—then flinched at a sudden snarl and bit his tongue.
“To the North?!” The rough voice struck the pale walls of the council chamber, and the birds on the windowsill burst upward. The fourth prince’s lips tightened; a vein stood out on his brow. “What the fu—” His shoulders went taut. “Why do WE have to go North?!” Maekar’s fingers closed around the back of the chair, and the wood gave a treacherous creak.
Silence fell over the room. The King exchanged a glance with the Queen, and she only shook her head, gently tightening her hand around her husband’s. Baelor stood half-turned by the window, looking out, but he turned toward his brother and ran his fingers over his ring.
“Daeron is taking Stark’s daughter to wife.” Daeron II exhaled and leaned back in his chair. He did not take his eyes off his younger son. “The Starks hold the North. We will show respect where we mean to keep loyalty.” Maekar’s jaw tightened.
“They will hold the North, not my son and Stark’s daughter.” He shoved away from the chair, and it scraped across the floor with a wobble.
“She is not merely Stark’s daughter. She is the sister of the future Warden of the North.” The elder prince’s voice made Maekar lift his head. Baelor gave his brother a nod. “If the alliance begins in their house and is then confirmed in ours, it will be seen—”
“If it goes well,” the fourth son cut in, staring hard at his brother. The fair-haired prince sank back into his chair with a frown. “How long did we wait for an answer? A month? More? They did not rush.”
“Knowing Beron’s temperament, we might have waited longer still… Of the three ravens we sent, only one reached him.” The King rubbed at his brow and settled his elbow on the armrest.
“This was not decided in a day,” the Queen said. “And the notion is not a new one, Maekar. We raised it before, when Lord Stark was here with his elder children. Even if it was set aside then…” Myriah sighed, studying her son. “At least they do not enter this union as strangers.”
“She reduced my son to tears.” The words left Maekar’s lips weakly. “And her brother beat him.” He leaned forward as he rose, bracing both hands on the table. “Perhaps they remember one another. Even so, that family insulted a prince.” The Queen sighed and let her shoulders sink.
“You speak as though they shed blood over an inheritance, not merely came to blows in the nursery as children do.” Myriah’s voice rang clearer than before. Maekar went still beneath his mother’s steady gaze, and she smiled. “But that is not what we are discussing.” She felt her husband’s fingers tighten around her own. “Lord Stark wrote that his daughter agreed of her own will…” She met her husband’s eyes, then her youngest son’s again. “She said yes. Not under compulsion, as far as one can judge. That is enough for me not to treat the boy as some punishment forced upon her.” Maekar looked away, teeth clenched.
“Drag him across the whole kingdom just because he is not some ‘punishment forced on her’?!” His fingers clenched. The King narrowed his eyes.
“The boy already knows he is to marry, and he did not object, did he?” Daeron II exhaled with the ghost of a smile. “You did tell him?”
“How could I not? Everyone already knows.” Maekar muttered, taut with strain.
“If you do not want to drag Daeron up the kingsroad, send him by ship.” Baelor shrugged. “Lord Manderly will be at the wedding. Your son will have a chance to see the North.” The Hand’s gaze softened. “And sea air does a man good.”
“This is not an outing,” the fourth prince growled at his brother. “And not some fucking pleasure voyage.”
“No. But neither is it the road to an execution,” the Queen said. “Daeron is not a child, Maekar. He will manage — after his own fashion, perhaps, but he will.”
Maekar stared at his family, then lowered his head. Something thick and viscous spread inside him, burning in his throat. Their words echoed through his skull, and the prince’s eyes closed for a moment. A pair of birds returned to the windowsill and began to coo, circling one another. The fourth son parted his lips, but no words came.
“And that is why…” the King cut his son off before he could object. “This is how it will be done: first the North, then the court. That is the end of it.” Myriah looked at her husband with a frown.
Maekar answered his father’s words with nothing but heavy breathing. His fists clenched, nails biting into his palms. Slowly, he straightened.
“As you command, Father.”
—
A faint wind wandered beneath the arches of the keep’s passageways. Beyond them came the noise of the inner yard — steel on steel, the clang of the royal guard’s armor, the patter of quick little feet and voices tripping over one another, bowling through everything in their path. And servants trying not to be knocked flat in the rush.
Afternoon light poured through the open window, trying to press past the half-drawn curtains. Pillows strewn across the floor and carpet. Clothes. The faint scent of the night — sour, astringent — was being driven out by the fresh breeze.
Quiet breathing from beside the bed. Shallow. Something turned over with a hiss and nudged a goblet, sending it rolling across the floor and spilling the last of the wine.
Daeron lay face down on the floor, one arm pinned beneath him, his legs twisted at an odd angle. A fine tremor ran through him. A heavy breath tore out of his chest as his eyes flew open and darted feverishly. He swallowed and winced at once.
Pins and needles stabbed through his deadened arm when the prince tried to push himself up, but he dropped back at once and rolled onto his back. The room spun. Cold stone beneath him. Breathing came hard. He wiped the saliva from his face and tried to sit up — not on the first try, but on the third.
He sagged heavily against the edge of the bed and stared at the clothes he had been wearing since yesterday. Or the day before. He drew in a breath through his nose — and the sour stench of vomit hit him at once, thick and clinging. He grimaced and rubbed at his temple.
Drawing his legs under him, the prince rose from his knees. The world lurched, and his hand flew to his mouth of its own accord. He breathed out through his teeth as he stripped off the reeking tunic and flung it to the floor.
The touch of air against his bare skin sent a chill through him; he squeezed his eyes shut and at once caught his foot on the goblet. He pitched sideways, but managed to catch himself on the table. He breathed out. Reaching for the wine pitcher, he snatched it up — empty.
“Fuck…” The hoarse word scraped from his dry lips. His head dropped. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a wineskin lying beneath the table, and dropped to his knees, crawling under after it. He had almost reached it when the door to his room flew open and slammed into the wall.
“BROTHER!”
Daeron jolted, throwing his head up. A dull thud. Pain at the back of his skull. He groaned, sagging back to the floor, clutching his head and hissing through his teeth. His eyes cracked open, and he saw a pair of curious eyes bent down to peer beneath the table.
“What are you doing?” young Aegon asked, blinking up at him in unison with Daella. The elder prince frowned, then wiped it from his face at once.
“Studying the floor.” He grabbed the wineskin and crawled back out, straightening slowly. “And it seems my research is complete.” He had already loosened the stopper, but his gaze dropped to the younger two, then to himself again. “What are you doing here this early?”
“We—”
“We’re going North!” Daella announced proudly, cutting Aegon off. He shoved her in the shoulder; she frowned and shoved him right back.
“The North…” Daeron stuck out his tongue as he went to the wardrobe and pulled out a clean tunic. “Why? It’s cold there…” He swallowed down the nausea. “And the wolves howl.”
He had just pulled on clean clothes and taken a swallow from the wineskin when a shriek made him choke. He turned to find two little dragons already at war with one another. His head throbbed harder. The elder prince crossed the room quickly, nearly losing his balance, and dropped between them, dragging the children apart.
“Hey — let’s not do this first thing in the morning.” Aegon tried to squirm free, and Daeron caught him under the arm. The younger boy kept writhing anyway.
“She started it!” the boy said with a pout.
“And you’ll be the first to stop.” Daeron tightened his grip and flipped the boy upside down. Egg let out a shriek, swinging, and the girl’s eyes went wide.
“Flip me too! I want that too!” Daella clambered onto her older brother, and he barely managed to keep hold of Aegon before toppling under his sister’s weight as well.
“Maybe later?” The young man met his sister’s eyes and sighed as he sat up again. Letting Aegon go, he took Daella and flipped her over with a faint smile. “Like that?” The girl shrieked and flailed her arms while the younger prince sulked, straightened his clothes, and climbed onto the bed—on the third try. “There, now breathe.” The elder prince set Daella back on the floor, breathing out too close to her face, and she immediately winced, covering herself with her palms.
“You don’t breathe.” The girl ran to the window, yanking the curtains open and pushing the window wider.
Bright light flooded the room, and the young man winced. He took another swallow of wine as he crawled back to the bed and leaned against it with his back. His shoulders eased. His head fell back against the soft mattress, and his eyes drifted shut.
Daeron’s hair clung to his cheeks and temples, and dark shadows had settled beneath his eyes. Daella climbed onto the bed too and leaned over him with Aegon, both of them starting to fuss with his hair.
“What?” the elder muttered, feeling their eyes on him and cracking one eye open.
“Here.” The boy pulled a slice of apple from his pocket, already gone brown and fuzzed with lint. “Aemon said apples are good for you.” The elder prince nodded and accepted the offering.
“Why aren’t you happy?” the younger brother frowned and stuck his hands into Daeron’s hair as well, trying to help his sister with the braids. The tugging set Daeron’s temples throbbing again.
“About what?..” His eyes slid shut again, and the children exchanged glances.
“The trip.” The princess folded her little hands across her chest. “I heard Papa say we’re going by ship!” The elder son went tense.
“Wait…” Aegon stared at his sister, counting off on his fingers. “Papa said… he was going… Daeron, Aerion… and Aemon…” Horror spread over the boy’s face. “They want to leave us behind!” Daella’s eyes flew wide.
“No…Papa will take us! There’s snow there!” the girl burst out, jerking forward. The edge of her dress caught in Daeron’s hair. He lifted his head, turning, and hissed at the pull.
“Snow…Has he decided to conquer the North?” His trembling fingers worked at his tangled hair. “Or is there a new rebellion there?”
“No, our new sister is there,” Aegon said, turning at once to Daella. “That means we have to hide… if he doesn’t take us, then—”
“Egg.” Daeron’s voice pulled the younger dragons’ attention back to him. “So…what does ‘new sister’ mean?” The elder prince took another swallow. Something flickered at the edge of his mind.
“Lady Wolf,” Daella said. “Grandmother—the Queen—said she’ll become our sister when she marries you.” Prince Daeron went still. His clouded eyes opened all the way.
“A union with the North. You are to marry the eldest Stark daughter. It will…strengthen the crown’s position.”
His father’s voice echoed in Daeron’s skull. Two months ago. He swallowed, let his face fall against the bed, and slid down to the floor. The younger ones kept talking about something, but he did not hear them. When he closed his eyes, a blade and a rush of cold struck behind them. He flinched, opened them again, and took a deep pull of wine.
—
The days bled into one another. Thoughts were drowned in wine, wine gave way to water, water to dreams that left an itch beneath his skull. By day he was hemmed in by people with clothes, by courtiers with lively voices. Breathing came hard.
“Do not move.” Maekar’s voice carried through the room, and Daeron went still.
Seamstresses and servants draped him in thick, heavy fabrics trimmed with fur. The needles never touched him, yet each time a chill still ran over his skin. His hand came up to touch the cloth.
“Heavy,” the prince whispered, looking at his father.
“It’s cold there.” Maekar noticed the slight tremor in his son’s hand and nodded to the seamstresses. “More fur.”
At night came silence and trembling. Each day brought more guards. Dreams pressed through the haze only to be drowned again in wine. But the talk around him always circled back to the North. The Starks in the capital? the walls whispered day and night.
By the tenth day, the Red Keep had stirred into motion.
Prince Baelor rode out earlier with his children along the kingsroad—the procession that would pass through the whole realm. Back at the castle, servants were packing for the ship’s departure. The noise of the yard, the hum of children, the bustle pressing between his shoulder blades.
The corridors were crowded even after dark, but there was that taut gathering of nerves that comes over a keep preparing for an event. Prince Daeron’s step was uneven, but light. He did not hurry as he moved along the wall.
A turn around the corner, and he nearly collided with a maid. He slipped past her with a crooked smile; she bowed in haste and hurried on. His eyes followed her while his hands adjusted his cloak and the bundle hidden beneath it. Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught a pale head of hair and swallowed before he meant to.
Torchlight threw uneven shadows. Sweat prickled over his back as guards passed, bowing. He did not look at them. Only nodded. A few steps more—and a chill went down his spine, as though someone’s stare had sunk into it.
Daeron turned his head slowly, but saw no one. He gave it a shake and kept moving. The level floor gave way to a narrow spiral stair, and by then his hood was already up, hiding the wheat-pale hair on his head.
A stagger on the turns, then solid ground underfoot again. The chill of stone and damp gave way to sea air and open space. A quiet place, dark—neither outside the castle nor truly within it.
He looked around and breathed out. Daeron’s body sagged against the wall. He had only just pulled out the flask—his lips had not yet touched the neck—when someone’s hand jerked him sharply by the shoulder.
“I thought there was a thief here.” The second prince’s grip was hard, a sneer on his lips. “But it’s only you.”
Daeron went still, looking at his brother, and blinked slowly. His mouth twisted, but his shoulder sagged of its own accord when Aerion’s hand did not let go.
“Yes. Me.” the elder muttered, looking away. “What do you want, Aerion?”
The younger one did not answer. His gaze slid over his elder brother. Hood. Cloak. Twitching. A look fixed somewhere beyond him. And something under the cloak.
“Look at that. Everyone’s getting ready to drag themselves to this fucking North, and you’re running off again.” The boy let go of his brother’s shoulder.
“I’m not running away…just stepped out for a walk.” Daeron winced as he drank.
“A walk? With this bag?” Aerion nudged the bundle on the ground with his foot. Something clinked inside. “Since when do brothel girls need satchels?”
“They happen to like silk and velvet too, you know.” The elder prince bent to sling the bundle over his shoulder.
“Of course…” the younger one said through his teeth. “Are you so dreadful with them that silver and gold no longer do the trick? Or are you planning to become one of them yourself?” The caustic voice made something tighten beneath Daeron’s ribs.
“You’ll be the heir. I’ll be sprawled wherever I happen to fall.” The man shrugged. “Better for everyone.”
Aerion’s brow lifted, and his face turned more serious. He looked at his brother—the shadows beneath Daeron’s eyes had sunk so deep they seemed part of his skin, his face sheened lightly with sweat. Something in Aerion’s expression shifted for a second.
“Then take one of the Starks yourself…if you want it that badly.” The elder brother’s voice went lazy, his hands spreading apart. “...I think there are more women there…”
“I would never stain myself with those savages!” It came out as a snarl breaking into a shout, his voice only recently broken.
“Then what do you want from me? I just stepped out.” The man turned away and took a couple of steps.
From the top of the stairs came a dull, rough voice. Prince Maekar. Daeron tensed. His eyes widened and slid toward his younger brother. He gave the faintest shake of his head.
“Father!” the young prince called.
Silence. The heavy thud of boots on the stairs. Daeron jerked, but his brother caught him first, fingers clamping around his wrist hard enough to nearly hurt.
“Let go, ple—”
Prince Maekar appeared in the doorway. He was frowning, breathing hard, his whole posture taut. But after a glance over Aerion, his face eased and his shoulders dropped. Then his head turned toward the hooded figure. The younger boy’s grip loosened, and Daeron swallowed.
“Daeron. What are you doing here?” came his father’s dull voice.
The young man’s legs nearly gave way, but he caught himself. His fingers tightened around the flask, tucking it beneath his cloak. He bowed his head and turned, trying to take a couple of steps away, but a hard grip on the back of his collar and a shove brought him up short.
“What the hell is going on here?” Maekar rasped, holding fast to his elder son. He spun him around and yanked back the hood. His face darkened into a frown again. “Explain.” Daeron’s breath hitched, and the faintest crooked smile touched his mouth.
“I…went out for a walk and ran into my brother.” The words came out dull.
“He’s lying. He was going to run away, Father.” Aerion lifted his chin, his nose wrinkling. “I stopped him.”
Maekar’s jaw clenched. He raked a look over his elder son, then seized the bag from his shoulder and ripped it open. Clothes. Jewelry. Goblets. Gold. A wineskin. His calloused hands stilled for half a second. Was that all? The veins in his neck swelled, and his teeth ground together.
“That’s not—”
“THAT’S NOT WHAT?!” Maekar cut him off, hurling the bag to the ground. “You have one task. One. To get ready and—”
“I am ready!” Daeron flung up his hands, stepping back. “There are my things. Everything I own, as you can see.”
“Weren’t you planning to give it all to whores?” the younger one cut in.
“Aerion!” Maekar turned toward his white-haired son. The younger boy’s brows drew together.
“It’s true! I caught him—you can see that for yourself,” he protested, looking at his father.
“Go inside. Now.” Aerion went tense, turned away with visible effort, and slowly started up the stairs, muttering under his breath. Only when his steps had faded did Maekar look at Daeron again. “Do you even understand what you are doing?” The words forced their way out through clenched teeth.
“Keeping a lady from making the worst mistake of her life?” The fourth prince’s fists clenched at his son’s words. Daeron flinched. “Why any of this…” His gaze finally met his father’s.
Maekar studied the boy’s face. His eyes slid from those tense shoulders up to his face and stayed there long enough to make Daeron look away. Maekar exhaled, unclenching his fists, and when he spoke again his voice was quieter.
“You’re going back to your room. I’ll post more guards. You’ll stay there until—”
“Until she comes to save me?” Daeron raised the flask to his mouth, but his father’s hand struck it from his grasp. It rang off the wall and hit the ground.
“Don’t.” Maekar’s fingers clamped down on his son’s shoulder; with his other hand he snatched up the bag and shoved it back into Daeron’s arms, dragging him along. “If I see you try to run again even once…”
“Then drag me already—” Daeron stumbled on the stairs, but his father’s hand caught him and set him upright again. Maekar went rigid, staring at his son, and Daeron only shrugged. “Just make sure you find her another husband afterward.”
—
A burning in his eyes. The sun had heated the stone of the pier and the seawater alike, leaving a damp, sticky film on the skin that would not wash away. Banners. Highborn farewells. The smell of salt and sweat. Water struck the hull of the ship in the docks.
A violet gaze slid over the fortress and the cliffs, then came to rest on the people nearby. Drops ran down Daeron’s neck, and he breathed out, letting his shoulders fall. He heard the king speaking without listening to a word. His ears rang. His fingers kept stroking the edge of his velvet sleeve, catching now and then on a loose gilt thread.
“Daeron.”
The prince blinked and turned his head. The others were already going up the gangplank, passing him by. Myriah stood close to her grandson, only the last sliver of space between them, while her dark gaze moved over his face. Citrus on the air. A faint smile stirred on the prince’s lips before he meant it to.
“Are you nervous?” the queen asked softly, and the space between them seemed to narrow.
“Me?” One of the prince’s brows twitched, and he smirked. “Never… I’m never nervous.” His hands dropped, and his fingers brushed over the stopper of the wineskin beneath his kaftan.
“Of course.” The woman nodded, looking after Maekar as he oversaw the boarding of Aerion, Aemon, and the rest of the baggage. The air around him seemed to shimmer. “Try to keep away from the ship’s side.”
“I think father will tie me down the moment the ship gets underway.” Daeron shrugged, and the corners of the queen’s mouth twitched.
“He might.” She tipped her head. “But he would not.” Myriah straightened, suddenly seeming to fill the space between them. “Safe road and a fair wind.”
The prince glanced sideways at her and bowed. Wetting his lips, he bowed to the king as well, then strode toward the ship beneath his father’s watchful gaze. Salt water spattered his hand as he climbed the gangplank. Daeron breathed out.
On board, the last bustle before departure was already underway, and the prince sagged against the rail, fingers clenched around it. Warm wood. Sea breeze. For a moment he let his eyes close. A wet splat. When he opened them again, he found a fresh smear of gull shit beside him. His nose wrinkled, and his body drew slowly away.
Daeron turned and looked over the deck. Aerion stood at the bow, chin lifted, watching the capital. Maekar’s steps thudded heavily through the planks as he walked toward the stern, while the crew finished the last of their preparations.
The moment the ship moved, the young man was thrown off balance. He sat down by a crate on the deck, braced an elbow against it, opened the wineskin, and took a couple of swallows, licking his lips afterward. The waves rocked him lightly as he watched King’s Landing drift away.
“You’re about to spill that.”
The elder prince jolted and choked. He coughed, wiped his chin, and looked at the boy sitting on the crate. “How…how long have you been sitting there?”
“From the beginning.” Aemon turned a page and glanced at his brother. Daeron squinted as he pushed himself up a little.
“I can believe that.” He sat down beside his brother and peered into the book, his shoulder brushing lightly against Aemon’s. “What are you reading?”
“A book.” The younger boy wrinkled his nose when the elder prince’s hair fell across his face. “A Chronology of the Lineages of the Lords of Westeros, with Commentaries.” His childish fingers ran over the text.
“Didn’t we read that when you were younger?” Daeron leaned back against the crate, letting one leg dangle while the other stayed bent, and tucked a hand behind his head with a deep breath.
Aemon did not answer. He only looked at his brother, then returned to his reading.
Rare drops struck Daeron’s face as he lay beneath the mast’s shadow with his eyes closed. The farther they drew from the city, the gentler the sun became on his skin. The rustle of lowering sails. The occasional cry of a gull. His heart beat with a strange steadiness, and his fingers kept stroking the stopper of the wineskin.
The sharp snap of a book closing made the man’s eyelids lift. He turned his head slightly, looking at his brother through his lashes. The boy sat bolt upright, staring at the horizon. His face had gone pale.
“What, seen a sea monster?” Daeron muttered. His gaze slid across the deck to where the younger one was looking, and he saw Aerion strutting toward their father. “Well…that one, maybe.”
Aemon did not answer. He clapped a hand over his mouth, swallowed hard, shoved the book into his brother’s hands, and jumped off the crate, running for the ship’s side. The boy’s shoulders shook, his fingers digging into the rail as he vomited over the edge. Daeron winced and pushed himself up.
“Hey…easy.” The elder prince’s mouth twitched, and he set a palm between his brother’s shoulder blades, holding him there so he would not pitch over the side when he vomited again. “That’s my field, actually. Don’t take the last trade I’ve got.”
He lifted his head and looked toward the helm, meeting his father’s eyes. Maekar was frowning at them and had already taken a step, but Daeron gave a slight shake of his head. The man stopped and let his shoulders drop. Aerion, standing beside their father, smirked—then froze the moment Maekar looked at him.
“It…wasn’t meant to happen like this,” the young dragon muttered. “I was looking at the horizon…I didn’t eat much before we left…” His voice trembled, and the boy looked as though he had just witnessed the greatest injustice in the world. The elder prince sighed as he got to his feet and tugged his brother by the shoulder.
“Come on, inside. You’ll drink some water…maybe show the world your inner self one more time.”
—
After Dragonstone, the weather turned fickle—vile drizzle one hour, blazing sun the next, as though it had not noticed the ship was sailing north. The cabin was stifling. The bed was soaked through with sweat. Four days at sea. Faint light came through the cabin’s only window. Daeron’s eyes had sunk deep, and every time he closed them his body shuddered and his lids snapped open again. The sheets lay in a twist, the clothes no better. Food sat untouched on the table, fruit with it. His stomach clenched at the sight, and he turned away, wrapping himself tighter in the blanket.
The wine had run out two days earlier, and what remained in the casks belowdecks was guarded—as well as anything could be on a ship. He had tried, of course he had, but Maekar had dragged him away from there and forced water down him instead. Daeron had vomited then and there. His empty wineskin had vanished, and Maekar had punished him for it, since someone had cracked open a cask of wine. After that he stopped leaving the cabin. Sweat kept breaking over him, and at night he thought he heard running feet. Rats, his mind kept insisting. Just rats.
He fought sleep, but his mind gave him up all the same. Exhaustion dragged his lids down, pulling him into that unsteady slurry between sleep and waking. Heat crashed over him at once, as though from inside, and was replaced just as quickly by cold. Something tore beneath his ribs. A cry ripped from his throat, and Daeron jerked upright, catching himself on his hands.
Sweat ran down his temple.
Movement.
His head snapped toward the table, and he froze. Two small figures stood there. Silent. Fruit and untouched food in their hands. Two pairs of violet eyes stared straight at him.
The ship lurched.
Daeron slowly sagged back onto the bed and shut his eyes, turning away. The rustling did not stop. It only came closer.
The prince felt eyes on his face, and his brows drew together. “Just hallucinations…there can’t be two children on this ship…that doesn’t happen. I’m dead. Definitely dead. Father threw me overboard…or I fell off myself…” The words came out under his breath through a thread of hysterical laughter, and then came that familiar little slosh. His eyes opened again, and now everything was sharper. Two younger dragons. Dirt on their faces, grease in their hair. Their little faces were slightly drawn, and they smelled of—his nostrils flared and fell, and he covered his nose with the edge of the blanket. His mouth slowly pulled crooked. “No…”
Silence hung between them. Three Targaryens stared at one another without a word. The ship lurched, but the children caught themselves against the bed. Then Daella’s stomach growled, and she hiccuped a sob. “I’m hungry…and thirsty…brooother…” The crying that followed cut under Daeron’s skull like a knife. His hands flew up to cover his ears, but it did not help.
“Don’t cry, Daeron will help. He will help!” Aegon muttered, clutching his sister’s hand, but his own breathing had quickened too, and tears were already running down his face. He sobbed, lips pressed tight in a sulk, and kept on sobbing until his face went redder and redder.
Everything inside Daeron’s head was pounding as though his skull were about to split. The twin cry of children, the stink—he bit his lip until he tasted blood. A shrill whine in his ears.
“ENOUGH!”
The children fell silent and stepped back, though they were still sniffling and breathing hard. Daeron sat up with effort, looking at them through the hair hanging in his face. “Just…don’t scream…” The blanket slipped to his waist, exposing the bruises on his shoulder. The younger two flinched, and he breathed out, dragging a hand over his face and letting it stop against his cheek. The stubble rasped under his palm. Then his gaze locked on what his younger brother was holding. A wineskin. His wineskin, full by the sound of it. He slapped himself across the cheek, winced, and looked at them again. Aegon sniffled, wiped his nose with his hand, and took a step toward the bed. Daeron’s body leaned toward him before he seemed to mean it, and his trembling hand reached out.
The boy set the wineskin on the bed, but did not get away in time: Daeron had already caught him and seated him beside him. With his other hand he grabbed the wineskin and jerked his head at his sister. When she came closer, he hauled her up onto the bed as well. The moment he got the stopper open, his shoulders dropped, and he took several deep swallows with his head tipped back. His throat worked wildly, and afterward he coughed. His head spun a little, and cotton seemed to flood through his body. “Either I’m imagining you… or the gods have decided to amuse themselves with me.”
“We wanted to go North,” the girl said in a rush. Her eyes lifted to her elder brother again. Her lips were bitten raw and dry. “Do you have any water?” At that last word, Daeron flinched.
He looked them over again and got off the bed with difficulty. Bracing himself on the mattress for a second and swaying, he somehow made it to the table. He sloshed water from the pitcher into two goblets, spilling some across the tabletop, and carried them back to the children. The younger two snatched the cups from his hands and began to gulp greedily. “Easy. You’ll choke.” He breathed out again, took up the pitcher, sat back on the bed, and poured them a second helping.
His back pressed to the headboard as he watched the younger ones. A swallow from the wineskin. His eyes went to the door and stayed there for a moment. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to blink them clear, but a knock at the door cut him off. The children froze and looked at their brother with wide eyes.
“My prince? Are you all right? We heard shouting.”
“I just fell out of bed. It happens!” the elder prince shouted back without even looking at the children. “Just fell…”
Aegon looked at Daeron’s lowered head, at the way his face kept tightening as he stared somewhere ahead of himself. The younger two exchanged glances. “Are you angry with us?” the boy whispered. The elder prince gave a weak wave of dismissal.
“Do I look angry?” he snorted, taking a swallow.
“Well…” the girl swallowed, nose tucked to the rim of the cup. “You were shouting.”
“It’s part of me. Shouting and speaking when no one asks…” Violet eyes met violet eyes. “How did you get here?” The young dragons’ faces fell.
“Father didn’t want to take us. He said we were too little—”
“But Aemon went!” His sister shushed him, and the boy went on in a quieter voice. “But Aemon went, and he’s not grown.” Aegon took a swallow of water and let out a small ah. “We made a plan.” There was naked pride in the child’s voice. Daeron raised a brow. “We climbed into a crate!” Daella nodded eagerly.
The elder prince blinked. Twice. His head tipped to one side. “A crate?...” The children nodded hard. “You ran away.”
“No!” the princess objected. “You said sometimes you have to slip away unnoticed so that…diplomacy works!”
Daeron’s eyes closed slowly. “And you decided that this was what I meant?” The younger ones exchanged another glance.
“Of course. Grandmother said you were all going because you’re princes. And I’m a prince too, so—”
“And I’m a princess!” Daella cut Aegon off.
“That would be a convenient arrangement, yes.” Daeron took a swallow of wine, and there came another knock at the door. His brows drew together. “I said everything was fine!” No answer came.
He got to his feet while the children scrambled behind the bed and drifted toward the door. His hand settled on the latch, and he glanced back at the bed. The children were gone. He breathed out and opened the door. “I—” His body went still. Maekar loomed over his son, brows drawn down.
“I was told you were shouting.”
“I’m always shouting,” slipped from Daeron’s lips. “Fell out of bed, hit myself—that’s me, that’s all.”
Maekar’s gaze moved slowly around the room. A wreck. Goblets on the floor. A heavy, foul smell. His nostrils flared, and he was already shaking his head as he turned away. “Hic.” The man stopped dead. Daeron swallowed when his father turned back to him.
“What? Just hiccuping… is it not allowed?” and the prince gave a demonstrative hiccup.
“You’ve been drinking?”
“From what?” Daeron answered, spreading his hands, and the light caught the bruises on his shoulder. “You didn’t leave me anything yourself, Father.” Maekar’s jaw tightened, and his fingers twitched. A heavy breath.
“You are supposed to present yourself properly, not look like some fucking drunk rotting in an alley.”
“Well, then at least I’m useful for something.” A smile flickered over Daeron’s mouth. The hiccup came again, but his chest did not move with it. Maekar’s eyes narrowed. “…Father.” With a sudden jerk, Maekar slammed Daeron into the wall.
The fourth prince stepped into the room and went toward the bed. Behind the weight of his footsteps came a small murmur, then silence. Two younger children stood before him. Daella had a hand clapped over Aegon’s mouth as he hiccuped again, and both of them were staring at their father. Maekar stopped dead, looking at his younger children—who should not have been here at all. His hands curled into fists of their own accord. A vein pulsed in his brow, and his lips parted only to close again without a sound.
The younger dragons did not move. They only blinked up at their father. Silence wrapped the room. Daeron dropped onto the bed hard enough to make the children flinch, then took a pull from the wineskin. Maekar looked at him. “You said you had not been drinking.”
“I said I couldn’t get at the booze myself,” the elder prince snorted, propping his head on one hand. “They brought it.”
“They should not be here!” Maekar’s voice grated like stone on stone. “What are you doing here? How did you even get in here? Did you bring them here?!” He was already reaching for his elder son when Aegon threw himself at his father’s arm.
“No! Father! We got in here ourselves, truly!” The boy planted himself on the bed between his father and his elder brother. The ship lurched, and the child toppled backward onto his brother, drawing a groan from him.
“I can barely get out of bed. How was I supposed to smuggle them in here?” Daeron muttered, settling his brother and reaching for his shirt. Meanwhile Daella had got to her feet, clutching at the skirts of her father’s doublet and tugging.
“We hid in a crate early in the morning,” Aegon went on, looking at his father. “And then we got out when the ship had already sailed…” He produced a little dagger from behind his back. “I opened the crate with this…”
“I helped,” Daella put in.
The cabin fell silent. Maekar closed his eyes slowly, feeling a dull ache gather at the back of his skull, and opened them again only when he heard a chuckle from his elder son.
“Lovely.” Daeron reached for the dagger in Aegon’s hand and took it. “That’s Aerion’s dagger. I was wondering why he’d been in such a temper the day before we left.” The Prince of Summerhall snatched the dagger from his elder son’s hand, making Daeron lift his own hands in the air, and tucked it into his belt.
“Another word out of your mouth and I—” He looked back at the younger children, grimy and a little drawn, then rubbed at the bridge of his nose with a heavy exhale. The cloth of his doublet pulled taut.
“Papa…I’m hungry…” the girl whispered, looking up at her father.
“Hungry? After everything you’ve done?” Maekar ground his teeth as he lifted his daughter, wrinkling his nose. “What have you been eating these past few days?”
“I suppose they’re the ones who’ve been stealing my food.” Daeron shrugged. “The watch on this ship isn’t much to boast of.”
“I wasn’t asking you,” the man barked. “And if you knew they were here, you were supposed to say so! Do you understand what is happening at all, or is this all a joke to you?!” He was breathing hard, but his shoulders dropped a little when Daella wrapped her arms around his neck.
“I thought it was just rats…or my own thoughts.” Daeron shrugged, ruffled his brother’s hair, and took a pull from the wineskin.
One of Maekar’s eyes twitched, and heat spread through his chest. He took a step, but his daughter’s stomach growled and stopped him. “We will return to this later. Aegon.” The boy straightened. “Come.” His father’s hand settled at the small of his back as he climbed off the bed and went to the door.
“If the wine cask’s already been cracked open anyway, can I have it?” Daeron snorted.
Maekar lingered in the doorway and turned his head. His gaze slid over his son and the wineskin in his hand. “No.” He narrowed his eyes. “That wineskin is the last mercy you’ll get from me on this journey. It’s time to grow up, Daeron.” Then he slammed the door, leaving his elder son alone.
—
That same afternoon, Daeron finally managed to drag himself out of bed. He scratched at his neck, hearing the scurry overhead on deck and realizing the ship had stopped. With effort, he pulled on a velvet tunic, wincing at the pain in his shoulder, then a doublet, then his boots, and went out with the wineskin tied at his belt.
A maid dashed past him, nearly knocking him off his feet, and he blinked hard, shook his head, and kept on. The wooden floorboards gave softly under his steps, while his fingers brushed the wall as though it were the branch of a tree.
When he opened the door onto the deck, fresh sea air struck him full in the face, and his chest rose heavily. His lids fluttered as he adjusted to the light.
“My prince. If I may.”
Daeron stepped back to let the guardsman pass, and the man bowed as he went by. Once clear of the doorway and out onto the deck, Daeron swept it with his gaze. His father stood by the rail, directing a guardsman climbing down into a longboat, and beyond them the city lay in the distance. Daeron’s head tipped slightly to one side, one brow lifting. His hand settled at his belt.
“Aegon and Daella snuck onto the ship.”
The elder prince almost cried out, jolting at Aemon’s voice and clutching at the cloth over his chest. He blinked at his younger brother, and Aemon looked calmly back. His chest was still rising hard as he rubbed at his temple. “I know.” The younger boy lifted a brow.
“Did you bring them?”
“Why do you think it was me?” At Daeron’s answer, Aemon only shrugged.
“Just asking.” His gaze slid toward their father. “He decided to let them stay. Said it would be difficult to send them back to the capital.”
“Maybe he’ll let me send a letter from…”
“Gulltown.”
“Yes, that.” Daeron nodded, then frowned. “Are we that far already?”
“The wind’s been favorable.” The boy shrugged and looked at his brother again. “What is that on your face?”
“A great many things.” The elder prince’s hand slid over his face, brushing his hair back and exposing the stubble to the world. “Be specific.” The boy had already opened his mouth to answer.
“He means that embarrassment on your chin,” Aerion’s voice came from behind them, and the two princes turned. “What is that? You look like a beggar.” When he came closer, he covered his nose with his hand. “And you smell like one too.”
“Thank you, I suppose.” Daeron rubbed at his eyes with his fingers and blinked hard again. “It’s called stubble…a beard. Grow up a little and you’ll have one too.” A faint smile touched his mouth as he looked Aerion over.
“Disgusting.” He gave a snort and drew his cloak a little closer around himself.
“And I thought Northerners might like it.” Daeron shrugged as he uncapped the wineskin. “At least the last Northerner I saw had a beard.” His throat worked on the swallow, and the second prince frowned.
“Already decided how you’re going to crawl under some wh—”
“By the way, I found your dagger.” Aerion fell silent and blinked. Daeron smirked. “Father has it. There—see?” The elder brother’s hand tipped toward their father, the dagger tucked at his belt. Aerion’s eyes widened.
“Father!” He shoved past his brothers and headed for Maekar. Aemon recoiled a little and let out a breath, straightening his clothes.
“He didn’t have that dagger.”
“No.”
“Then where—?”
“Aegon stole it. Clever boy.” Daeron took a swallow, and a small laugh slipped from the younger brother.
“I think she’ll like it.” The elder prince looked at his brother, one brow lifted. “The lady, I mean. I think the lady will like your stubble. You look grown with it.” And a child’s smile appeared on the boy’s lips.
Daeron swallowed, and something in his back went taut. His jaw tightened faintly as he glanced at his father’s bearded profile while Maekar spoke with Aerion. “I don’t think so,” slipped from his lips, and he shook his head, looking at the younger boy again. “Women don’t like stubble. It scratches.”
Aemon studied his brother, lowered his head with a frown, then lifted it again. “What do women like, then?”
The elder prince blinked. Once. Twice. What did women like? He had already opened his mouth to answer, then stopped at the look in his brother’s eyes and pressed his lips together. “Women…” His thumb traced slow circles over the stopper of the wineskin. His head went blank in an instant, and yet still kept turning. One thought shoved out the next, each trying to catch on something solid. His breath faltered a little. “Money?”
“Money?” Aemon sounded uncertain. “Why?” Daeron groaned and sagged.
“I don’t know. Ask the lady when we reach the North…or ask Daella. I’m sure she already knows exactly what she wants from the future.” The wind tossed his hair loose again, and it fell into his eyes.
“I think they value cleanliness.” The younger boy shifted a little to one side. Daeron blinked again and gave a faint laugh.
“Did you just laugh at me?” His palm came to his chest as he stepped back.
“Just an observation.”
“Then keep observing.” Daeron reached for his brother’s head, but Aemon ducked away. “Fine.” He threw up his hands. “I’m going back to…lying down.” His body had already turned away.
“But you wanted to send a letter!”
“I wanted to run away. But I’ve had enough heroics for one day.” The words drifted off into the belly of the ship.
—
His legs hurt. As if they are not his. As if they are too short, too weak to bear his weight. Cold cuts at the soles of his feet, and the taste of blood sits in his mouth.
A forest?
No.
A red tree. One trunk. A wound in the middle of emptiness.
The ground gives way. The body falls. No branches, no stone—only heat rising from below, as from a split-open furnace. A wave rises and strikes his face. Not water. Something thicker.
Skin burns.
No—it is peeling away.
The roar does not come from outside. It comes from within. Another. And another. As if teeth are grinding against one another beneath the flesh.
A hand reaches upward. For one moment air enters the lungs—then turns at once to fire. A wing beats overhead. On metal, a yellow eye flares.
The red tree is here again.
Why is it here?
Hands reach for hands — and find a throat. Fingers dig in deeper. The water is ice-cold, and inside there is fire. There is no face. Only another’s grip, and a crack, breaking—
“My prince! We’ve arrived!”
A cry tears from Daeron’s chest, and he jerks upright, trembling all over. His eyes dart wildly around the cabin. His body is sticky, itching. The door opens, and he recoils.
“My prince? Are you all right?” The guardsman’s face hovers there, worried. “You were shouting—”
“I’m fine! Go away!” The words came out a weak rasp from the prince’s dry throat as he dragged in breath. The door shuts again. The room spins. His body pitches off the bed, and he vomits into the basin. The acrid stink spreads through the cabin, and there is nothing in the bowl but bile. Yellow.
Daeron sat for a long while, staring at his trembling fingers. His lids kept flickering. With effort he got to his feet, seized the water pitcher, and drank. A glint caught in his eyes, and his head turned toward the window. White Harbor.
—
Rare sunlight struck off the city’s white walls so brightly it could have blinded even the gulls above the bay. The water was so blue the slightest movement showed beneath it, and fish flashed there almost like mermaids, the kind that might lure any sailor to ruin. And of course White Harbor had its own mermaids in the streets—girls standing in doorways, luring tired men in. But lower down, in the harbor, everything grew louder: the sounds of the pier and the sailors, the waves, the smell of salt working its way into skin and hair.
The welcoming party waited on the outer quay, headed by Theomore Manderly, his sea-foam hair drawn back tight, his arms folded across his chest. Behind him stood his three sons and daughter, and beside them two from the Stark delegation: a man and a woman. The ship was already entering the harbor, and Theomore yawned wide without even bothering to cover his mouth.
“Could you at least pretend this matters to you?” came a woman’s voice from beside him. Myriame Manderly lifted her eyes to her brother. Her gown, worked in the colors of two houses, stirred lightly in the sea wind. “Or at least refrain from yawning when they come ashore.”
“I do care,” the lord muttered, scratching at his cheek. “It is hardly my fault they are two days late and chose a wretched time for a wedding.”
“And what, in your opinion, would be a BETTER time for a wedding?”
“None… or any other.”
Myriame let out a slow breath through her nose and rubbed at the bridge of it with her gloved fingers. Theomore only smirked.
“Don’t be so tense, sister. It is a grand wedding, after all. South and North… almost a ballad. And I am a gracious host.” The man tipped his head to one side. “Why, the castellan looks ready to walk straight into the sea and never come back. Yet there he still stands.”
“I do not think the sea would have me, Lord Manderly,” breathed Rodwell Cerwyn, castellan to the Starks. His eyes slid toward the approaching ship. “And fishing has never been to my taste.” The lord’s sharp laugh made everyone flinch.
“You only think that. I’m certain you would come to like the sea.”
“I prefer solid ground under my feet. Especially now.” The castellan’s shoulders sank.
“And why is that? I’m sure everyone in Winterfell is delighted the little lady will finally have a husband,” old Manderly pressed on. He spread his hands a little. “She was only this small the last time I saw her. Smaller than the fish we pull from the sea.”
“You are speaking of our niece,” Myriame murmured, adjusting her collar as a hard gust tore at her hair.
“Not by blood, dear sister.”
“But by my marriage, dear brother.” Their eyes met. Lord Manderly’s jaw tightened.
“That is why no one has married you again yet.” He cut himself off.
“Truly?” The woman lifted a brow. “And here I thought it was because I am still in mourning and still love my dead husband.”
Even the waves seemed to hush, and the gulls fell quiet. The younger Manderlys behind them exchanged glances and looked anywhere but at the backs of their father and aunt. The castellan coughed, choking on sea air. Lady Manderly sighed and pushed the hair from her face, while Lord Manderly looked away to the ship as it came in to moor.
“I know.” He sighed. “I’m only still surprised that it was you who came with the castellan.”
“Not glad to see your sister?”
“I am, but I had hoped to see the heir as well. The boy must have grown by now. Why is he not here?”
“And how would you react yourself, if it were me being given to a prince known as a drunkard and a whoremonger?” Myriame whispered, watching the gangplank being lowered. The man frowned.
“So he—” The sound of wood striking stone cut him off, and Lord Manderly turned his head.
“Yes,” the widow whispered.
The ship settled hard into the docks, rising and falling only slightly on the water now. No one noticed it anymore. But under Daeron’s feet, the ground still shifted like a deck.
His hair had been combed back, his face shaved, his body scrubbed clean, yet the weight of his clothes still pressed on his shoulders and dragged him down. He swallowed as he stepped onto the gangplank. Even on the solid quay, his head kept swaying slowly. The light struck his eyes. The white harbor walls, the water, the gulls—everything was too bright.
Maekar walked ahead with the younger children. Behind him came Daeron, Aerion, and Aemon. Behind them, men were already moving in with the baggage.
“Fish,” Aemon muttered, turning his head for a moment—and walked straight into Aerion.
“Watch your step.”
Daeron unclenched his fingers, then clenched them again. His hands were trembling; he hid them beneath his cloak. Over his father’s shoulder he saw those waiting to greet them. Lord Manderly. His children. The woman beside them. Something in him tightened at once. Straight back. The colors on her clothes. Lines at the corners of her eyes.
Lines.
Not her.
The breath left his chest of its own accord. He looked away at the exact moment his eyes met the woman’s.
“Welcome to White Harbor, Prince Maekar. We have been expecting you.” Lord Manderly’s loud voice carried across the quay, and he bowed. “I trust the voyage did not weary you overmuch.”
“The pleasure is mine.” Maekar nodded, his neck tight. “The voyage was… quiet.”
Lord Manderly laughed, still smiling, and the prince’s jaw tightened. “I am sure it was. Young prince, princess.” He nodded to the younger children, and they bowed. “We had word from Gulltown. Clothes have been prepared for them and are waiting.”
“I thank you.”
“Allow me to present my heir, Medrick Manderly; my second son, Willam; my third, Warren; and my dear daughter, my young pearl, Torra Manderly.” All four bowed to the southern guests, looking with interest at those near their own age. “And my sister, Myriame Manderly, widow to Rodwell Stark.”
“My condolences for your loss,” Maekar said, his brow easing slightly as he looked at the woman.
“My thanks, prince.” She bowed.
“She came with Elric Cerwyn, castellan to the Starks, to greet you in their name.”
“A pleasure, prince.” The castellan bowed as well, and the two men’s eyes met. Maekar let out a measured breath.
“My heir, Prince Daeron…” Daeron went taut. “My second son, Prince Aerion; my third, Prince Aemon; and the younger two, Princess Daella and Prince Aegon.”
“So you are the future husband of Lady Stark.” Lord Manderly was smiling broadly, easily, as though he were speaking of a fine catch rather than a man. His gaze slid over Daeron’s shoulders, the fur, the line of his neck.
Myriame did not take her eyes off him. Neither did Maekar. Daeron’s spine straightened of its own accord.
“You have strong shoulders, just like your father. That is good. A man ought to have strong shoulders,” Theomore went on. “You can see it even under the furs… And you, Prince Aerion—”
Daeron blinked. “Strong shoulders…” His mouth twisted crooked. When he raised his eyes, his father was already looking at him. Maekar breathed out through his teeth.
“Lord Manderly.” Maekar’s firm voice cut through the chatter. “We are glad to be here, but the voyage has wearied us. Might we move on from the pier?” Daella tightened her hand around her father’s.
“Of course! Forgive me—what sort of host am I?” The lord of White Harbor spread his hands. “This way, if you please. White Harbor welcomes you with the sea and with hospitality. And afterward, of course, we shall feast in your honor. I am certain you have not yet tried our thick black stout!”
At the lord’s last words, Daeron lifted his head slightly and, for the first time since the journey began, let out a breath.
—
Warm water wrapped itself around the man’s body in the wooden tub, easing into muscles gone stiff. One arm hung over the rim. His head was tipped back. The soft sound of drops running from wet hair, damp lashes, the smell of soap. Daeron stirred, turned his head, and drank from his cup. So something still remained after all. A flicker of a smile crossed his mouth, and he reached for the plate. He tossed a bite into his mouth, and his jaw began to work slowly.
His fingers idly parted the water, and his breathing grew steadier. His back slid down the wall, and with one breath drawn in, he sank fully beneath the surface. Underwater, he opened his eyes a little. His lips pressed together. The last weak light of the sun came through the window and through the water, flowing over his skin. He blinked, staring at the blurred patterns on his thighs and tracing them with his fingers.
“My prince?”
A blurred voice from outside. Daeron rose slowly from the water. His hair fell across his face, and he pushed it back with one hand. “Yes?” He leaned back again and looked at the servant.
“I was ordered to help you dress for the feast.” The servant swallowed.
The prince’s lids lowered, and his gaze drifted to the wall, then fell to the fading bands of sunlight. “Yes, the feast… of course. What would any of this be without a feast.” Bracing himself on his hands, he rose, and the water slapped shut around him. Gooseflesh ran over his skin, but the servant at once wrapped a towel around him.
Soft layers settled over his body one after another: first the towel, then breeches and a tunic. His hair was combed back again, with only a few strands left to frame his face. The length was tied back. He winced. “Too tight.” The servant flinched.
“My apologies.”
A breath slipped from Daeron’s lips, and he wet them with his tongue. The fuss around him went on. Over that came another tunic, then a belt, boots, a doublet. An outfit fit for a prince. Warm velvet lined with fur. His throat tightened, and he loosened the collar, sliding his fingers over his neck.
The corridors of the New Castle rose high and solemn around him. Even here there lingered salt in the air, and a trace of cold. His chest lifted as he drew that new scent in. Daeron paused by a window and caught sight of a merman statue in the inner court. His shoulders tightened, and his feet carried him on after the servant. The farther they went, the louder the voices grew.
“The Merman’s Court, my prince.” The servant nodded at the door, and the guards opened it. Warm air and the smell of food and drink filled the prince’s lungs. His body slackened a little. He kept following the servant, taking in the room—the wood, the carved fish, fish upon wood everywhere. Daeron gave a faint, crooked smile, one brow lifting. “This way, to the table—”
“Prince Daeron! Here!” Medrick Manderly, the heir, called to him, making him pause for a heartbeat and nod.
“Here?” the prince murmured to the servant.
“Yes…yes, my prince. This way, please.”
Medrick and Willam Manderly were already seated at the table. Aerion sat beside the empty place left for him. Daeron let out a breath as he lowered himself beside his brother—and flinched when a pint of something dark was set in front of him.
“Drink—to our meeting! And to the future!” Medrick laughed, and Willam covered his eyes with one hand.
“The future, by the sound of it, will be snowy,” Daeron snorted, drawing another burst of laughter from the Manderlys before taking a drink from the mug. His face twisted; he ran his tongue over his teeth. “What is that?..” The hoarse words came out with a cough. Aerion lifted a brow over the rim of his own cup.
“The best drink in the world! And you took it exactly as you should—” the younger Manderly yanked his elder brother back down onto the bench with an arm around his neck. “Hey!”
“Sit,” Willam ordered, and the elder one pouted, struggling to break free. He raised his cup, and a servant came with a pitcher to pour wine. “I take it this is more to your taste.” The second son held the cup out to Daeron, and he drank from it at once, washing the flavor away.
The prince’s eyes lifted again and met his father’s across the high table.
Maekar caught his elder son’s face in turn. Chatter ran all around them, but his neck still throbbed. When Daeron drank from the cup again and turned away, the man’s brows drew together. His jaw tightened. His legs went heavy; his body lifted slightly, nudging the chair back.
“You have a charming daughter.”
A woman’s voice—and his body settles back into the chair. His head turns, and his eyes catch the woman’s lifted brow. He blinks. “Pardon?”
“Your daughter. Princess Daella.” Myriame nodded toward the table where the younger children sat—the younger princes and princess, with Manderly’s youngest son and daughter among them. “She bosses Warren about quite thoroughly. A strong girl.”
“Yes, she is.” He let out a small breath, and his shoulders lowered.
“And Prince Aegon—a very lively child. He has already made a third circuit of the tables.” She drank. “I could do with his strength. And Prince Aemon—quiet to look at, but clever-eyed.”
“And to what end are you describing them?” Maekar’s voice sounded dull beneath the hall’s uproar, and his face turned again toward the younger children. Daella was stubbornly telling something to the girl of Manderly, who clearly was not looking at the daughter of him, while Aegon tried to wedge into the conversation.
“And Prince Aerion? My niece seems already to have taken an interest in him.” A faint smile touched the woman’s lips. “I cannot blame her. Your son will grow into a very handsome man.”
“Beauty will not keep him from danger.” Maekar straightened, taking up his fork. “He will grow into a warrior.” He put a piece of food into his mouth and chewed it slowly.
“Most likely,” the lady nodded. “But alliances do not wait for children to grow.” She drank again, and the prince stilled. He touched the cup to his lips, clearing his throat. “I had heard your heir and my niece knew one another as children. Well…I hope he is glad to see such an old friend again.”
The Prince of Summerhall stilled for a moment and turned his full attention to the woman beside him. He studied her calm face. An unexpected heat rose in his chest, and his fingers dug into his palm. “Yes. They met in childhood. And Lord Stark’s letter made it plain that your niece agreed to this match of her own will.”
“Well, then perhaps she truly does think of him as an old friend.” Myriame looked toward Daeron, sprawled along the bench and grinning with the elder Manderlys. She frowned. “He—”
“Children always make their strongest bonds in blood, my prince,” Lord Manderly burst in suddenly, cutting his sister off, and every face turned toward him. “I am certain that if your son and my niece had only started by fighting, we could have held the wedding at once. Myriame! Tell Prince Maekar about your first meeting with Rodwell. She nearly killed him! And why? He said her hair looked like seaweed.” A great laugh burst from the lord’s chest. “Gods. The poor fool thought it a compliment.”
A ringing started in Maekar’s ear, and he winced.
“Everyone is preparing at Winterfell,” the castellan’s tired voice dropped into the hall like a stone into water. “In truth, it is just as well you arrived a few days late. On the road we shall meet Prince Baelor and his part of the delegation. And nearer the end, Lord Stark will come out to meet us with his daughter.” He drank from his pint. “They will have time to become acquainted again… and I imagine the other princes and the princess will find plenty of interest among my lord’s children as well…” he went on in that dragging voice.
“Elric.” Myriame’s voice softened. “Perhaps you ought to go and rest after all.”
“I am resting, my lady. Only trying to… rest.” The castellan let out a heavy breath at the same moment as Maekar. “To the young.”
“A fine toast.” Lord Manderly raised his cup as well, and a cheerful shout went through the hall like a wave.
“To the young!” Medrick echoed from the far end of the hall and took a drink. “Ahhh… good!”
“And you do love this, don’t you,” Daeron smirked, drinking his wine. His shoulders dropped, and he leaned an elbow on the table, propping his cheek on one hand.
“And how could I not? There is sea all around us, women near at hand—drink is only natural.” The heir of Manderly shrugged.
“Women and drink…” Aerion snorted, picking at his food. “There’s your friend for you, brother.”
“Well said,” the heir nodded.
“By the by, my aunt let slip on her arrival that you already knew your bride,” Willam cut in, and Daeron went taut.
“And when did you manage to hear that?” Medrick leaned toward his brother.
“I was listening, all right?” Willam pushed his elder brother’s face away and looked back at the prince. “So—you are already acquainted?”
“I know her name,” the crown prince smirked. “The rest… I fear I may have mistaken her for another lady.” He lowered his gaze into the cup and drank, and the Manderlys exchanged a glance.
“Interesting.” Willam rubbed at his chin and leaned toward Daeron. “Truth be told, Donnor Stark was meant to come here in my aunt’s place… but it seems he was forbidden,” he whispered. Aerion snorted at that.
“An unstable brother for your bride. A happy marriage indeed.” The second prince looked at the two Manderlys. “And why was he forbidden?”
“I’m sure he was merely overjoyed that his sister should marry me.” Daeron raised his cup, and more wine was poured for him—but then he was sharply jostled.
“Sorry!” Aegon shouted, already running back to his place. The crown prince shook his head and drank.
“Quick little creature,” Medrick said with a smile, nodding toward the fleeing Aegon.
“I heard Stark men gossiping that he simply went mad. Which would not surprise me.” Willam shrugged and sipped his drink. “We spent near a year at Winterfell and grew friendly with them… Brother and sister, twins. So their closeness, the way they look after one another—that makes sense. Even I look after this one…” He pointed at his elder brother, who promptly choked. “And we are a year apart.”
“Who are you calling ‘this one,’ you wretch?!”
Daeron was looking into his wine. Elder brother. His throat went dry, and a shiver ran down his back when someone’s breath touched his ear.
“How touching. So the North, too, knows how to love its own blood rather too well,” Aerion whispered. “Who do you think would win? Her brother—or you?” Daeron recoiled, looking at his brother, and blinked. “How strong a warrior is he?” The second prince shifted his gaze toward the Manderly brothers, who were trying to throttle one another.
“Last time he disarmed us. But I wore him down and won in the end. The ladies in winter town were delighted to hear the tale.” Medrick’s voice went dreamy and lazy.
“They were delighted because you paid them,” Willam said, shaking his head. “And do stop shouting about it. Father will kill you for those exploits.”
“Father is in excellent spirits today. At last he can relax after so many days, dear brother.” The elder nodded toward the high table, where Lord Manderly was laughing into Prince Maekar’s ears. Aerion rose slowly.
“Where are you going?” Daeron muttered into his cup.
“None of your concern,” the second prince answered, stepping over the bench and going around the table.
“Is he always like that?” Medrick asked, and the crown prince narrowed his eyes, shaking his head.
“No… not before.”
The three young men tracked his progress. When some courtier’s hand nearly caught the second prince, Daeron gave a snort, but Aerion slipped aside without breaking stride. He went to the younger children’s table and began speaking to Manderly’s youngest daughter. Medrick tensed and half-rose, but Willam’s hand came down on his brother’s shoulder, and he tipped his head toward the high table. Myriame Manderly was already striding that way, her back straight, storm clouds all but gathered around her.
When the woman reached the children, she gently drew her niece away and, after exchanging a few words with Aerion, bowed to him and led her kin off. The prince’s face went from bewilderment to a furious red. The two Manderlys laughed, and Daeron smirked, dragging a hand over his face.
“Excellent. Brother’s been put in his place, and the lady has sent him away,” the prince snorted, sinking back at the table.
“Speaking of shame and ladies…” the heir said, almost in conspiracy. “We have heard stories of you as well, Prince Daeron. They say your knowledge extends beyond wine to women.”
Daeron lifted a brow. “Interesting. Go on.” His fingers slid along the rim of the cup.
“Medrick, don’t,” Willam cut in, but the elder only waved him off.
“Oh, come now. The prince is soon to be wed. We must show him our hospitality—and the best we have to offer.” The heir smiled and turned back to Daeron. “We have a certain brothel here. A magnificent place. I’m no lover of wine, but theirs is exquisite. Not King’s Landing, perhaps, but well worth the visit. And the women… ah. Tell me, my prince—have you sampled northern maids before?”
Daeron’s spine tightened, though his posture did not change. He rubbed at his temple, pushed the loose strands from his face, and stared past the cup. Something tightened in his chest, yet no answering warmth followed in his gut; his thoughts only drifted. “I believe so… though I would not swear to it.” He gave a faint smile. “Still, I doubt northern women differ so greatly from southern ones. Men are much the same in either place.” His lips touched the wine. “No?”
“We are hardier than southerners. No offense meant,” Medrick snorted, drinking from his pint. Willam let out a breath.
“Perhaps we might change the subje—”
“But you must try it,” the heir cut across his brother. “There is one here—not a woman but a vision from the sea. A true siren, I tell you. You will see her and never forget her. And her voice—gods, you understand at once why men break themselves on rocks.”
“Sounds like a fairy tale… or a bad vision.” Daeron looked away. “Either one would frighten me equally,” the prince muttered.
Medrick smiled broadly and leaned toward the prince, setting a morsel on his plate. “I can take you there tonight. You ought to relax after the journey. Consider it a personal gift from me.” He leaned back. “To good company! And to the future happiness of your life!”
The toast struck Daeron’s ears dully. His fingers tightened on the bench. His thumbnail scraped at the wood. His gaze slid aside—to the wall, to the sea-creatures carved into the dark timber. He did not raise his cup at once. “How thoughtful,” the prince breathed, and drank.
—
One finger tapped rhythmically against the arm of the chair by the hearth in the prince’s room. He sat half-turned, slouched to one side, his head tipped toward his shoulder. An empty goblet hung from his other hand. His eyes were fixed on the fire, and the light of the flames played across Daeron’s face. His lids lowered slowly, only to snap open again in a rapid flutter of blinking.
Setting the goblet down on the floor, he straightened and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. His palms covered his face. He could hear the guards out in the corridor—perhaps one of the men his father had set outside the door. He let out a breath with something like a smirk. His eyes had begun to burn, and he rubbed at them absently with his fingers.
A strange rustle in the wall made him jerk his head up, and when he turned he saw a man quietly climbing out of the stone itself. “Prince Daeron,” Medrick whispered. Daeron blinked, gripping the chair arms, and slowly nodded as he watched the young man straighten. “They’ve posted some white-cloaked absurdity at your door. I thought the statues had come alive.” The Manderly heir gave a snort and tossed him a bundle of clothes. “Change. No one will know you.”
Daeron lowered his gaze to the clothes and gave a faint smile. “It stinks.” He tipped his head, rising. “Then it suits.” His arms lifted as his back stretched; he made for the bed, stripping off his formal clothes as he went. Medrick wandered to the table, drank from the pitcher, and wiped his mouth with the heel of his hand.
“We’ll go through the servants’ passages. There may be a guard at your door, but he clearly knows nothing of this house’s finer virtues.” He tossed a nut into his mouth, listening to the rustle of cloth behind him. “I’m certain you’ll like the city. Fishfoot Yard is bursting tonight. New stock came in only recently, so you’ll be able to make merry in brothels and in wine-dreams besides.” He smiled, shook his head, and turned. “I’ve heard the capital is hot and stinks. Is that true?”
“In part.” The prince dragged the fresh clothes over his head. “The stone bakes in the sun there, the sea smells of rot and weed, and pickpockets haunt the alleys.” He smoothed the clothes down and threw a cloak over his shoulders. “Home, sweet home.” The other man only smirked and pushed off from the table.
“A lovely picture.” The Manderly heir’s hands went to the ties of the prince’s cloak, pulling them tighter, and then he clapped him on the shoulder. “There. Now you look like a regular at the Lazy Eel.”
“Thank you?”
“It suits you.” Medrick smothered a laugh. “Though your eyes are still too noticeable. Then again, where we’re going, hardly anyone looks a man in the eye.” He patted Daeron’s cheek, and Daeron winced. “After me, Your Highness.”
The two of them had to fold nearly in half to squeeze into the passage inside the wall. The prince had to clutch the cloth at the back of Medrick’s tunic so as not to lose his footing in the unfamiliar dark. Daeron moved slowly, struck his head on stone once, and hissed. His hands were tingling. The Manderly heir paused at the exit, looked out into the corridor, then gave a nod and led the way on.
A few more passages, a corridor, another secret crawlspace, and then the castle walls were behind them. Medrick stretched. “Oof… Nearly misjudged it, but all in all it went rather well. There are rather too many Stark men about, of course… but they certainly won’t be in the holy of holies.” A hard hand landed between Daeron’s shoulders and knocked the breath from his chest.
“I didn’t know such places counted as holy ground in the North.” The prince slowly straightened, though his shoulders stayed hunched as they went down toward the streets.
“Any place is holy enough when there’s a woman ready to draw a man into her nets, my prince—”
“Daeron.” Medrick stopped and looked at him. “You may call me Daeron. What need has anyone here of a prince?” A crooked smile pulled at the heir of Maekar’s mouth.
“Too grand by half, though I expected no less from you,” the man snorted as he walked on. “You were named for the king, yes?”
“I don’t think so, though perhaps. I never asked my father such things.” The prince let out a breath. “Though perhaps he thought I would become exactly that.”
“Names aren’t merely pretty sounds. They have power. My mother always said so—‘the power of a name’—and then named me Medrick, as though I were madness itself.” Medrick shrugged. “My younger brother is called Willam, and what’s amusing is that the second Stark son is called Willam as well. It used to amuse me no end when I called out and both of them turned.” The air grew thicker as they descended, and louder too. “You are nothing like Prince Maekar. No offense. He is all stone and cliff. The air here would suit him. I can already picture him at the helm of a ship.”
“I fear you’re late in making that assessment.” Daeron pulled up his hood and stopped to crouch and tie a lace at his boot. “That much is true.” The other man loomed over him. “But my father would never take a helm in hand. He is too—”
“Rigid? Heavy? Something of the sort?” Medrick folded his arms, smiling to himself. “Yes, perhaps a ship is not the best place for him. A ship needs freedom of spirit. You have that in you. I can feel it.” Daeron let out a breath.
“What freedom of spirit?” the prince said as he rose and looked at him. “I was dragged across half a continent.”
“And now you’re going to enjoy life. Even if you look as though you might collapse at the first corner.” Something tightened in the prince’s chest, and he swallowed while Medrick went on. “You aren’t suffering from anything serious, are you?” Silence hung between them. Sweat slowly broke over Daeron’s back, and he parted his lips, letting out a breath that turned white in the air. “The place we’re going to is rather strict about such things.”
“Only in soul, my friend.” The prince smiled crookedly, and one corner of his mouth twitched. “I am… a prince, after all. I possess…” He swallowed. “Bodily purity, in a certain sense.”
Medrick nodded. “Makes sense.” They went on. The road underfoot grew more firmly paved, and alleys gave way to broader streets. People came from every side, and Daeron lowered his hood to hide his eyes. In the square the smell of fish struck his nose again and made him sneeze. The Manderly heir smirked. “A fine scent, isn’t it? Salt, spice, fish, beer… no sweeter smells belong to this city, save one, of course.” He slung an arm around the prince’s neck, and Daeron tensed as he was hauled aside.
“Very… firm grip,” the crown prince rasped, stumbling, but not lifting his hands.
“As it ought to be. Ha! There it is!”
A three-storey building with arcades, their columns carved through with sea-motifs. White-and-blue light gleamed there in torchlight and moonlight alike. Over the entrance hung a sign for Peaceful Waters, with a lady spreading her legs in the manner of some queen of the sea. Daeron raised a brow, then turned his head aside as he realized the true entrance lay in an alley.
Girls already stood by the entrance, calling to revelers and sailors with enough coin for them. A pair waved from the windows—not to him, but plainly to the man beside him. Before the prince could even take a step, Medrick was dragging him inside, stripping back his hood as he went. “In, in. No lingering at the door.”
The interior gave off the same impression as all White Harbor: blue, white, dark, salt. As though the city knew no other images for itself. But the women here… Daeron swallowed, squinting. Silk mingled with heavier cloth clinging to their bodies, and their hair flowed loose. More dark-haired than fair, with a pair of redheads among them; his gaze snagged on one bent over some gentleman. Her eyes flashed in two different colors, and Daeron looked away with a small shake of his head. The rooms were divided by screens and curtains glittering with pearls.
“You liked her, didn’t you?” Medrick smirked..
“She only reminded me of someone in the capital… though the hair was a different color.” The prince’s answer set his companion laughing.
“You do have a type, dear Daeron.” A heavy palm thumped his shoulder.
“A type? No. I’m not so much an aesthete. More… diligent, in a certain sense.”
“Then you will certainly like what I have in mind. She likes diligence.” Medrick’s words rang oddly in the close, stifling air, and Daeron cast him a sidelong glance as they wove between bodies in various states of undress. Fingers skimmed across the prince’s chest, and he turned, catching the eye of a smiling woman biting her lip. He gave her a crooked smile, and she winked back.
“There is more here.” he muttered
“More of what?” Medrick held a cup of wine out to him, and Daeron only touched it to his lips.
“More of everything.” The prince shrugged.
“You do not happen to like poetry, do you?” the violet-eyed man asked, his brows drawing together slightly.
“Why?”
“You have that… turn of phrase in you. At times you speak like a drunk poet.”
“Well, the drunken part is certainly true.” The prince leaned against a column. “The poet part, I’m less sure of.”
The Manderly heir opened his mouth, only to shut it again when his eye caught on someone. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a moment.” Daeron merely shrugged, drank, and stayed where he was by the column.
His eyes began to wander again. Nothing new. Only the music, perhaps, was different. His left hand started to tremble, and he clenched his fingers to still it. Someone was fastening a pearl necklace around a whore’s throat; somewhere else a man was being dragged away from a girl while she only laughed, bright and ringing. The prince gave the faintest smirk and lowered his gaze to the cup.
“You look bored, my lord.”
A soft woman’s voice at his very ear, and gooseflesh ran over him. Daeron swallowed, lifted his head, and looked at her. Skin like gold in the warm light. Eyes dark and deep. Her lips gleamed wet when she smiled.
“I’m sure I can improve your mood.” Her hand slid up his forearm to his shoulder. Fingers touched his chin. Her breast, barely veiled in cloth, pressed softly to his side.
Daeron did not pull away.
He only went still.
His fingers tightened on the cup. The wine trembled at the rim. His gaze slid past her face—to the pearls between the screens, to strangers’ hands, to the half-dark. His throat worked. “Your eyes are beautifully sad… what strange color are they?” The vibration of her voice went under his skin. He tilted his head slowly, and one corner of his mouth twitched.
“Beautifully sad?” Daeron smirked. “That is the first time I’ve heard that. I hope it was meant as a compliment—otherwise I shall be upset and grow sadder still.” She laughed.
“I only try to speak in a manner suited to you. I heard your friend say you were a poet.” She bit her lip. “One rarely finds masters of words here… or of the tongue. Mostly it is strong hands and capable fingers.” The prince’s fingers tightened on the cup, and his shoulders went taut. The dark-eyed woman smiled. “Sometimes girls wish to listen, and to feel the rhythm of words as well.”
“I can speak, crookedly perhaps, but still—”
“Medrick!” The girl turned at once to the approaching man and threw herself around his neck, which he met with obvious delight. Daeron blinked and drank.
“Morena, my dear. Glad to see you.” Medrick’s hand slid to the small of her back and pulled her closer. “Every day you grow more beautiful.” The girl laughed and smacked his chest with an open palm.
“You have not visited for a long time; I already began to think that you had grown tired of us.”
“Of the others? Perhaps. Of you? Never in life.” He buried head in the neck of her, and the laughter of her became only more ringing. Daeron only looked away when someone cleared a throat nearby.
“Oh, Madam Vale, forgive me… I did not see you,” the girl muttered, pressing herself into the sturdy man beside her.
“Of course. I had forgotten that in this brothel I am its MOST INVISIBLE FIGURE.” The woman rolled her eyes. She was more fully covered than most, and fuller-bodied too; pearls and sapphires adorned her hands and throat, while her hair was dressed high. Then her gaze shifted to Medrick.
“My apologies, Madam Vale. Allow me to present my dear friend, Daeron.” He nodded. “Daeron, this is Madam Vale. The most magnificent woman in all White Harbor.” Morena pinched his arm, and he winced, leaning toward her.
“A pleasure to meet you. Medrick does not often bring such close friends here.” The madam’s full hand rose, and Daeron took it, bowing over it.
“I hope I shall not disappoint you.” His dry lips brushed lightly against her knuckles, and he caught the faint smile on the woman’s face.
“You are very gracious.” She lowered her hand. “I have been rather firmly asked to show you one very particular girl from our establishment. Your friend has paid handsomely for the privilege.”
“That is fortunate, as I seem to have left my own coin in another set of clothes.”
Madam Vale laughed. “A very interesting man.” She took him by the elbow and led him away. Daeron turned his head toward Medrick, but the other man only nodded with a smile. “Your friend has been generous indeed. Tonight Serena will be entirely at your disposal. A private room, wine, fruit, and sweetmeats. A hot bath as well. And if you do not wish to wash yourself, Serena can assist in that too.”
They stepped into a corridor where there were fewer and fewer guests and girls, and the music of the hall was left behind as a dull, sticky noise. Daeron’s gaze slid along the doors. There were fewer rooms here than in King’s Landing, but the sounds behind them were the same.
“And how do you find our city?” Madam Vale lifted her eyes to the prince.
“Very white. Very maritime. And, surprisingly, not so cold as I had expected.” The words left him almost without thought.
“Yes. We are not quite North and not quite South. More what lies between.” She nodded. “And does our establishment please you?”
Daeron’s shoulders tightened slightly. “Everything here is at once unfamiliar and strangely familiar.” His lips twitched. “Your girls must delight a great many eyes.”
“I do my best. But the morals of the young are dreadful. Too self-sacrificing by half.” She settled a little more against his arm, and he tightened it beneath her hand. “If you should want more girls, only say so. But I think Serena will satisfy you well enough.”
“Medrick spoke of her… He described her as some vision from the sea, with a beautiful voice.” Daeron shrugged.
“And what did you say to that?”
“That it sounded too much like a fairy tale—and therefore alarming.” Madam Vale smothered a chuckle.
“Yes, that is very like him… many are mad for him. Were I younger, perhaps—but I have far too much work.” She lifted her gaze to him and narrowed her eyes. “I trust you will not cause us trouble?”
“No such thought has crossed my mind. Only do not cast me out at dawn. Let me at least lie abed until noon.” His head tipped on the turn of the stair.
“You have been paid for until noon itself. Do not trouble yourself. And even had you not been… well.” Madam Vale shrugged. “We do not often receive such guests, so we are pleased to welcome you to our humble house.” She stopped. “We have arrived.”
The door was little different from the rest, save for a red leaf set into the stone beside it. Daeron looked closer—but the door had already opened, and the woman was bidding him in. He bowed briefly and entered. The room was warm. A few more steps inward.
A woman with long black hair waited by the bed. When she saw him, she rose slowly. He looked into her face as he untied his cloak. “My lord. I am Serena.” Her voice was distant, as though from some depth below. She smelled of waves, but not of weed or rot. A hand touched his temple gently, and the man’s eyes lowered. “Let me show you what Peaceful Waters are truly like…”
Bodies and touches twined together. Her skin was warm, alive. Her voice wrapped around him, drawing him lower, deeper, but not drowning him. Not yet. Daeron lay with his eyes half-closed. Light caught in the pale hair on the pillow. His fingers moved of their own accord along a thigh, a waist.
Salt on the tongue.
Another’s breath at his throat.
Dark curls through his fingers—and a name slipped from his lips. Not this one. Another. Far away. Barely heard.
Serena only kissed his neck, and heat came over them both again. By morning the sheets smelled of sweat, wine, and sea.
—
“Can you stop looking at me like that?” Daeron’s voice blended into the sounds of the horses.
Maekar’s branch of the family set out a few days after the feast. A delay, and a carriage for the children. The train stretched along the roads toward the kingsroad through foul weather, and the banners snapping in the wind were already crusting with rime in places, despite the still-green land. The southern party kept up as best it could, trying not to lag behind the Stark men leading the procession deeper into the North, and only the Manderlys rode that thin line between high spirits and restraint.
So the days dragged on—a dozen or more—from dawn to dusk, and even that was measured by the dark rather than by the sun hidden behind thick clouds. There seemed no end to these lands, nor to the cold that worked its way under the skin through layers of cloth and fur. One of the Stark men had ridden ahead.
Daeron shifted in the saddle, wincing at the pain in his back, and his fingers tightened on the reins when the horse tossed its head.
“No. I want to ride too, not sit in the carriage.” Aegon’s sulky face hung out of the little window. His cheeks were red from the cold, but his wide eyes still drank in the world. “Aemon got to ride! It isn’t fair.”
“Because our brother gets sick from the motion,” the elder muttered, lifting himself slightly in the saddle. His tailbone throbbed unpleasantly.
“But you feel awful too.”
“That’s exactly why I’m on a horse. Though I’d gladly trade places with you.” At his brother’s last words the boy leaned out of the window and wobbled, but Daeron caught him and shoved him back inside—only to pitch sideways himself. A hand from the other side caught him, steadied him, and snatched itself away at once. The elder prince turned his head. Aerion’s face was twisted, his eyes fixed on the hand that had just kept his brother in the saddle.
“Thank you.”
“It was an accident,” the second prince snorted, spurring his horse ahead.
“Thank you anyway.”
“And when are we getting there?” the princess called from the carriage, shoving Aegon off her.
“Soon, little lady! Very soon!” Medrick’s voice rang out from behind.
Daeron leaned back a little with a breath, then bent forward again, shifting in the saddle. Cold wind struck his face and stole his breath. He dragged his hood down over his face, only to throw it back at once when the horse sidestepped.
“You don’t like horses, Prince Daeron?” Willam rode into the place Aerion had just left.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Not from you. From the horse, yes.” The second Manderly son shrugged.
The horse under Daeron jolted again with a snort. The prince tensed his shoulders, shut his eyes, and let out a slow breath. His eyes had sunk deep, and something knotted inside him, growing heavier with each day. “I simply don’t care for being kept in this position for so long.” His gaze slid down over his tense thighs, itching from within with a faint tremor.
“I can understand that. I don’t care for it much either, especially in this weather.” As though in answer, a heavy drop landed on the young man’s face and he grimaced, wiping at his nose.
“Since when does my brother suffer so terribly from a few drops of rain?” Medrick smirked.
“Since my arse grew into this saddle.”
Daeron pressed his lips together and gave a small nod while the Manderly heir laughed, and the procession slowed a little. The prince lifted his head, pushing up the edge of his hood to look toward the front. The pace had not slackened by much, but he raised a brow all the same. His gaze slid over Aerion’s back, the guards, Aemon, the Stark men, the Manderlys. Then it stopped on his father. He narrowed his eyes when Maekar turned and followed his line of sight. Banners. New ones. More Targaryens, and—
“The Royce? What are they doing here?” he muttered, lowering his hand to drink from the wineskin.
“The Lady of Winterfell. Lorra Royce, Lord Stark’s wife,” Willam said. “Though I didn’t expect them to appear here.”
“The more the merrier,” Medrick snorted, riding around his brother and making for the head of the column toward his father. He passed the others and drew level with Myriame’s horse.
The woman turned her head to her nephew at once, one brow lifting, then looked ahead again while Maekar urged his horse forward and rode on. “Why are you here instead of beside the princes?”
“They’re tense. Especially the groom.” The youth waved it off. “Boring. And the groom’s gone a bit twitchy after everything.” His large hand patted the horse’s neck.
The Stark widow went still and slowly turned her gaze back to her nephew, looking him over. “After what?” The question came quietly, with a visible cloud of breath. Medrick swallowed.
“Er… the road. Ha. Yes. The road’s been hard.” The Manderly heir looked anywhere but at his aunt.
“Medrick.”
The young man’s mouth twitched and he glanced around. They were far enough from the others, so he bent toward her and whispered, “A brothel.” He all but squealed inside when she seized his hand and squeezed.
“What?!” she hissed, and sticky sweat broke over Medrick’s back despite the cold around them. “When?”
“Af-after the feast.” He cleared his throat and kept whispering. “I thought he was too nervous and ought to relax. What else are men meant to do before a wedd— OW!”
The cuff to the back of his head landed harder than he expected, and Myriame rubbed at the bridge of her nose. “Who else knows?”
“Well, me and him… no one else, I think.”
“You think?”
“No one! Truly!” He rubbed the back of his head and smiled. “You’ve a strong hand, aunt.”
“And a strong disappointment.” She sighed, turning her head to look for Daeron in the procession; he was swaying slightly in the saddle, blinking too often. “Not a word to anyone.” The whisper slipped from her lips as she turned her face back toward the road. “God help us if anyone learns of it.”
“But they aren’t married yet.”
“That is exactly what you can tell her brothers when they’re putting the prince into the ground.” Medrick went silent at that, lowering his head. The woman’s jaw tightened. “Go back to your brother. And keep your mouth shut.” She pressed her heel to her horse and sent it forward. The party on horseback was approaching.
Maekar reined his horse in, fingers tightening, legs bracing, and the column drew up at an angle to the other. A man with an easy smile and straight carriage rode up to him. “Glad to see you again after the long road, brother,” Baelor said, and Maekar gave a nod.
“Uncle.”
“Valarr.” The man’s gaze met his nephew’s, then returned to his brother. He inclined his head slightly.
“Prince Baelor!” The castellan rode up after them with Theomore Manderly and Myriame. “Prince Valarr.” He bowed as much as a man could from horseback. “I hope your road was an easy one.”
“More than easy. We met some Royce men on the way as well.” The crown prince’s voice stayed light as his gaze moved to the others.
“Theomore Manderly, Lord of White Harbor. A pleasure to meet you, my prince.” The man smiled. “And my sister, Myriame Manderly, widow of Stark.”
“Your Grace.” The woman inclined her head.
“A pleasure.”
The castellan cleared his throat. “We can ride on. Winterfell is less than half a day away now. We’ll be there by sunset. I’ve already sent a man ahead, so they’ll be waiting for us.”
The two columns joined and moved on across flatter ground that rose toward a hill in the distance. Baelor’s gaze slid over the procession and then back to his brother, a faint smile at his mouth. “You look as though you survived a battle, not a ship.” One of Maekar’s eyes twitched.
“We are in this cursed North under eternal dampness—”
“Rime.”
The fair-haired man turned his head toward his brother, mouth parting slightly. “What?”
“Rime,” the crown prince repeated, shifting one shoulder. “That’s what they call it.”
“I know what rime is,” Maekar almost growled and clenched hands.
“Is the road truly so hard? The Manderlys seemed welcoming enough.” Baelor turned his head, looking over the procession, and raised a brow when he noticed the carriage. A child was peering out the window toward Daeron again… Aegon? The boy turned and smiled at his uncle. The Hand blinked. “You decided to bring Aegon with you?”
“I haven’t decided a thing here in a long while,” the fourth prince said through his teeth. “He and Daella sneaked aboard the ship.”
“Did you send word to the capital?”
Maekar nodded. Baelor glanced at his son and shook his head. Valarr lifted a brow and dropped back, steering his horse toward the carriage. When the brothers were left alone, the elder prince lowered his head a little and let out a quiet laugh.
“What’s amusing?” The horse under Maekar pinned its ears at his tone.
“Nothing. It’s not amusing at all.” The heir tipped his head back, looking up at the sky, then inclined it toward his brother. “But they’re alive. That’s what matters. I never thought it would turn out this way.”
“Alive, yes, but they threw the whole order into ruin,” the fourth prince snorted. “They even cracked open a cask of wine. To bring the wine to Daeron! I forbade him to drink. Children—” The complaint came out of him like a second breath before he caught himself and pressed his lips together. Baelor narrowed his eyes.
“Is he alright?”
The question stopped Maekar cold. His face slackened for a moment as he stared toward the rise ahead. The silence stretched. The crown prince turned again to look toward his nephew. Valarr was already drawing level with him.
The prince with the white streak in his hair soothed his horse and drew in behind Aerion just as they began the climb. “Cousin.”
Daeron turned his head, blinking hard, and squinted. “Valarr.” The name slipped from his lips like a breath, and two children popped out of the carriage.
“Valarr!” Daella cried, and the prince smiled.
“I’m glad to see you too. Are you well?”
“Perfectly! It’s freezing. My hands are going numb,” Aegon declared, chin up.
“Then get back inside and throw some fur over yourself,” Daeron grumbled, hunching deeper into cloak and hood. The younger ones sulked and shut the window, disappearing back into the carriage. As the road climbed, Daeron pressed himself harder into the saddle and leaned forward. His stomach twisted, and he swallowed against the lump in his throat.
“Are you alright?” Valarr reached a hand toward his cousin, but Daeron stopped him with one of his own.
“Perfectly,” Daeron answered, licking his lips and slowly straightening.
“You haven’t a scrap of face left.” Baelor’s son pulled a waterskin from his saddle and held it out to Maekar’s son. “Drink. We stopped not long ago to refill.”
“It seems I never do.” Daeron winced, but took it in a trembling hand and drank, several swallows, before handing it back. He wiped his mouth, steadied himself over the horse, and asked, “How was the journey?”
“Tolerably enough. Though we lost a horse.” The crown prince’s face darkened. “Wolves came out of nowhere in the night and dragged it off toward the river. Not a pleasant sight.”
“I’m sure the horse had it worse.”
Valarr looked taken aback for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Yes. It did.”
The climb dragged Daeron’s body lower and lower. His lids slid shut, his shoulders hunching further in. Darkness. Nothing around him but wind, hoofbeats—and the smell of earth. Cold earth. The horse’s gait evened out, yet he did not open his eyes, not even when the animal veered aside. The wind struck harder here.
“Hm, look.”
Aerion’s voice sounded far away. His hands slackened and his lashes fluttered. Something flashed. His body jerked upright—the horse shied, but Daeron managed to check it. He was breathing hard as he looked around. The sky seemed closer here. His gaze shifted to his younger brother, who was staring down from the hill.
“Why have they brought another woman here?”
What little color remained drained from the firstborn son of Maekar, and his neck turned stiffly. Below, at the foot of the hill, horses waited. Wolf banners. Daeron swallowed when he saw the woman in the saddle beside a tall man. Wind struck the prince’s back, and he lifted a hand to hold back the hair blowing into his eyes.
You lifted your head.
Thanks for reading. Hope you survived the 17k-word marathon.
Home, a familiar place, a familiar silence—until it is broken by the flutter of returning wings.
pairing: daeron targaryen х F!stark!reader
word count: 5.2k
note: Female reader. Twin sister of Donnor Stark. No specific physical descriptions. 204 AC. Some ages changed (scaled to the akotsk).
warnings: arranged marriage, anxiety, nightmares, emotional distress, dissociation, unsettling imagery, canon-typical violence, family pressure, political marriage, implied trauma
AO3 | The Next Chapter
Cold air. Breath misting. A gray sky letting no light through. A stark landscape: mountains, pine forests, meadows of dark grass, sparse flowers. A light frost, but not enough to hinder. Something deep within calls back — to where eyes first opened, to where birth first came. A beat of the wings. Another gust.
Movement at the forest edge. A herd of deer. Rustling in the woods. Gone in a bound. The current shifts; the world tilts, then rights itself again.
Towers afar. Almost there. Another beat of the wings; the air is warmer here, easier to ride. The city. A child baits a dog. A woman shaking out a hide. Crack. A girl carrying a bucket hurls it at a boy. A dull thud. The dog barks, looking up.
A circle over the walls. People in the inner court, too. A murmur. Guards, a wolf on the wall. Wind. A beat. The wolf below notices. Eyes met. White and black. Turned away. Gone.
One more stroke, upward, the tower. A rattling croak. The window. The flock. Warmer inside. Wood beneath the talons like a branch. Claws scrape at the surface. Held.
“Let’s see what we have here...”
The old man speaks, and at once the flock erupts in wingbeats. Pupil narrowing. Glints from the links on his robe. Warm hands. The weight taken from the leg.
“The Royal Seal?”
A wary voice. Red wax, the shape of a dragon. The bundle lifted to his eyes. Studied. A frown — and then out of the room. Wings trembling against the cage. A feather spins out through the window.
—
The smell of earth, damp, forest, and cold wrapped around the stronghold. A light wind. In Winterfell’s inner yard, life had already begun to stir: the sound of armor buckles, the voices of men and women, breath steaming in the cold air. Damp ground crusted with a light frost after the cold night. A faint scraping beneath the paws. A feather lands on the nose.
Light paws. The beast skirts a sentry changing watch, a maester hurrying across the yard, a young stableboy, a servant girl who nearly stumbles. Warmer by the walls. A guttural rumble says as much. Claws scrape the first step to the wall, then go still. Ears twitch. The nose draws in the air.
The beast turns. Back across the ground, among the people of the stronghold.
The direwolf’s step slows at the edge of earth mixed with ash. The gaze lingers. Two warriors. Guards. The lord’s first and second sons crossing swords beneath the master-at-arms’ watch. Steel clashing. Laughter. A fall. The younger one down. “That’s not fair! You tripped me!” The second son’s voice unsteady. Breath heavy. The beast turns away. Moves along the edge of the training yard.
The scent deepens. Pine, freshness, steel. Fur rising along the shoulders. A tail kicks up dust. At last, a young woman seated on a crate enters the line of sight. An empty gaze.
A soft touch between the ears. The muzzle lifts toward the voice. “Good morning, grumbler.” Teasing childish words soften the space. A warm hand gathers the fur, then lets it go. The beast slows. They walk side by side while the girl praises the beast without pause.
“Again!”
A rough male voice, an anchor. You blinked and drew in the cold air. Gooseflesh under your clothes, cold and nasty. Fingers clenched, then loosened. The younger brother sprawled on the ground, struggling to get up — face puffed with indignation. The elder laughed, holding out a hand to his fallen “opponent,” but then your eyes met. The smile faltered for a moment. The second son punched the heir straight in the stomach. You winced, hand tightening over your own belly.
“Sister!”
The child’s call pulled you back, and the heavy head of the wolf dropped onto your knees. Warmth seeped through the layers of cloth. Alive. Real. Fur like velvet. The low vibration of a growl answered in the body, and your shoulders slowly lowered.
“Gooood morning,” Alysanne’s voice rang with satisfaction. Grinning from ear to ear, she tried to clamber onto the direwolf.
You forced your jaw to loosen. “Morning...” A hand rose of its own accord and gently smoothed the child’s hair. A thumb slid from the girl’s nose to her brow. “Not with the maester again?” A soft touch at the girl’s shoulders, and she turned. Dark braids in disarray — whether from wind or running.
“No. He didn’t come,” Alysanne blurted. People passed by, greeting you with short bows. “I waited until the candle melted down a little. Then I ran off. But I blew it out! I did, truly!” The direwolf’s tail twitched when the girl reached for it with both hands.
“Stand still.” The words fell softly from your lips while your hands gently straightened your younger sister. “And who taught you that?” Your fingers moved with familiar ease through the tangled braids, pulling free a twig and a leaf stuck fast there. Alysanne could hardly stand still.
“Donnor! He said they do that in battle too!” The child’s fists flew in all directions. “And I won!” But at once she broke off, flinched, and lifted her eyes to yours. Large brown eyes blinking. “But he told me not to tell you...said you’d scold him for it.” The childish whisper was barely audible.
“He was right.” Breath left your mouth in a white plume. “And running from an old man — even a maester — can hardly be called a victory.” A sharp movement in the distance. A flicker behind your younger sister’s back. From the far side of the noisy yard, a familiar burning gaze was already making its way toward you. A chill ran over your skin. “Did you tell anyone you’d gone off alone?”
“No. I wasn’t gone long...” Alysanne cooed, playing with the wolf’s muzzle. A strong, wrinkled hand touched her.
“Young lady. Where have you run off to?” The old woman’s tone was dry and rough as stone. The girl flinched; a nasty cold prickled between your shoulder blades. She turned slowly. “You are missing your lessons.” Her eyes met yours. You only shook your head. The old woman’s jaw tightened. “Forgive me, milady, but I am taking the young lady back... it seems she has learned to run better than she has learned to wait.”
The young lady’s protest quickly drowned in the noise of the yard. You closed your eyes and rubbed at your lids, pressing a little harder than you should have.
Something hit the ground heavily behind your back, and you turned sharply. The younger brother was already sitting beside you. Willam’s lips pressed tight. His knuckles white. Hands trembling, gaze fixed ahead. “Were you kicked out?” A shadow flickered along the wall, but your attention went back to him at once.
“Kicked out? Don’t make me laugh,” he snapped, staring at the ground. A chestnut fringe had fallen over his brow. “He started it...tripped me, then laughed.” He let out a noisy breath, and at last his shoulders slumped.
“You hit him in the stomach after the fight.” Your gaze shifted to the yard. “And that was fair?” The elder brother was already crossing swords with Lord Glover’s second son. The heir’s cheeks were flushed, breath leaving his mouth in short, uneven bursts. Steel met steel again, and despite yourself your eyes followed the line of the blade.
The boy watched a servant girl stumble after staring too long at the heir. “No. He’s the heir,” Willam snorted. He glanced at the beast, then at you. “Slept badly again?” You slowly lowered your lids as you exhaled. A chill ran down the back of your neck, and your mouth went dry.
A bite. Your eyes dropped to the wolf nipping at your hand. Sharp teeth did not break the skin. “No. I slept well.” You shook your head, drawing your hand away from the wolf’s mouth. “That’s the problem.” The young Stark tilted his head. With the toe of his boot he traced a crooked line in the ground.
“And what’s wrong with that?” He smirked when your eyes met. “Wouldn’t that be better?”
“The problem is that there were no dreams at all.” On the exhale you lifted a hand and wiped the dirt from his face. He winced. “And you, warrior, ought to think on the lesson,” you murmured with a faint smile, gently tugging his cheek. He let out a squeak.
“All right, I got it! I got it!” He pulled away, nearly toppling over. “I’ll keep it in mind... as always.”
“My lady!” You lifted your head at the shout. “Young lord.” The man, out of breath, bowed. “My lady, Lord Stark has ordered you to come to him at once.” The younger brother glanced sideways at you.
Your brows drew together on their own.
“What have you got yourself into now?” Willam’s voice went lazy as he nudged your shoulder. You rose, feeling your legs numb from sitting too long. The wolf stood at once with you.
“No idea.” Even so, the voice wavered, and your eyes dropped. “Stay here.” Without protest, the wolf lay down. You moved toward the Great Keep, weaving between people, stepping over damp ground edged with frost. Your back stayed straight, though the body leaned forward all the same.
By the time you were gone, Willam and the beast stretched beside him were still watching after you. “What do you think happened?” The beast only yawned, lowering its head to its paws. A slap. A wet rag struck the boy full in the face. Willam recoiled, staring at his elder brother.
“What’s with that serious look?” the heir smirked, wiping sweat from his skin. “Thinking about a rematch already?” The younger blinked. His lips tightened.
“Donnor!”
The cry carried across the yard. You did not hear it.
—
The sound of footsteps echoed dully through the stone stairway. A draft stirred the fur at your collar, but did not reach beneath your clothes; here, inside, the stone already held warmth. It left the skin of your neck faintly damp, while your hands stayed cold. You flexed your fingers as you walked, and the wolf-ring flashed briefly in the torchlight. At one of the turns, you tipped your head toward a narrow window: below, in the yard, your mother’s familiar silhouette flickered past.
Another flight of stairs, then a corridor. A tapestry on the wall. Your gaze caught. A wolf beneath a weirwood, stitched in even seams, silver thread. Red leaves, and from the face the sap seemed to seep through from the wrong side of the tapestry. A lump rose in your throat, but your step did not slow. A single guard bowed and opened the door for you. Warmth washed over your face.
A step inside. The scent of pine, weapon oil, and parchment filled your lungs — smells familiar since childhood. Your shoulders straightened on their own. A bookshelf, a narrow window, candles, and a table at the center. The soft fur of the rug muffled the sound of your boots. Lord Stark sat behind the table, looking down at an unfurled parchment. His brows were drawn into a frown, his lips pressed into a thin line. One finger tapped a steady rhythm against the tabletop. His presence seemed to fill the room. A faint smile touched your face. “Father.”
His finger stopped, but he did not look at you. “A raven came from King’s Landing.” The voice low and drawn out. “The royal seal.” Only then did he look up at you. His gaze was heavy and still. The lines at the corners of his eyes stood out more sharply in the cold light from the window.
“They rarely write to us.” You stepped closer and reached for the letter. The man met your gaze and nodded in silence. You lifted the parchment, squinting as you made out the lines. Voices from the keep drifted in through the window. The guard outside the door sneezed. “A betrothal. To the prince.” The paper pulled a little tighter between your fingers. “Are southern marriages not enough for them?” A quiet snort slipped from Lord Stark.
“The North has stood a long time. The king fears fresh unrest.” He rose heavily and moved to the window, blocking part of the light. “Stability. Not by sword, but by marriage.”
“Have we not already proved our loyalty to them?” You looked at his back — the straight posture, the hands clasped behind him. “We already went to them — six or seven years ago — to show that loyalty.” Your teeth caught the inside of your cheek by accident, and you winced, looking down at the text again. “Prince Daeron.”
“The boy you and your brother used to play with.” A low roughness lay in Lord Stark’s voice. He ran a hand through dark hair already touched with gray, closing his fingers in it for a moment. “He is your age. Prince Maekar’s first son.” For an instant, in the silence, clenched teeth clicked. “But he is different now.” The man turned half toward you, searching your face. “Little remains of that little boy. So far as I know.”
“No more than of that little girl, Father.” Your fingers loosened on the rough parchment and lowered it to the table. You closed your eyes for a moment. A fine shiver ran down your back. “To be honest, I remember the prince poorly.” You raised your eyes to him.
The lines at his eyes softened. “I know.” Lord Stark’s shoulders lowered; for a brief moment he seemed younger. “You found yourself good company among those who are meant to one day become the strength of our house.” He stepped toward you. The smell of your father wrapped around you. Home. Your face eased, and you tilted your head back, searching his face. One corner of his mouth was touched by the faintest warmth.
“That may be so. Young Glover should be training in the yard with Donnor now.” The ring beneath your thumb held your attention while your gaze slipped back to the letter of its own accord. A heaviness was slowly gathering at your temples. Warmth touched your cheek, and you stilled beneath your father’s dark eyes. His palm rested there carefully.
“You are a daughter of the North.” The man’s voice softened. “There is a choice. Either we agree, and the wedding will be held here — as a sign of respect to the North. Or within a few days you will have to wed the son of one of our vassals. Ravens do not always arrive in time.” He searched your face intently, though his gaze remained gentle. “I cannot refuse the Crown now without cause. Forgive me, wolf cub.” His hand slipped from your cheek and closed into a fist as he moved around the table.
You inhaled slowly, steadying your breath. A vassal’s son. Your gaze stopped on the red seal stamped with a dragon. A prince. The candle flame flickered, barely perceptible. “May I... think on it until evening? At least.” You looked at your father, who had already sat back down. He nodded. You straightened your shoulders, bowed, and had already turned toward the door when his voice stopped you.
“Your nightmares?” Your father’s soft voice made you go still, hand on the latch. “They...” The rest did not leave his lips.
You did not turn at once, feeling the pull in your neck. “Fourteen nights of silence. Maybe fifteen. Empty.” A short nod — and you stepped out. The coolness of the corridor struck your face as the stairs leading downward returned beneath your feet.
—
Below, Winterfell’s inner yard was still loud, only the ring of swords had faded, leaving behind the general hum of voices. Your fingers bit into the wooden railing, your nails carving their eternal patterns into it. They had gone so numb you did not feel the splinter at once. A draft wandered through the Winged Corridor, your cheeks quickly flushing, and in your head one heavy, insistent word kept striking: wedding.
A gust of wind carried the smell of food. You closed your eyes for only a moment, finally letting go of the railing. The conversation with your father pressed from within, somewhere deep behind your eyes; the moment you stopped, the feeling only grew clearer. You opened your eyes sharply. Out of the whole yard, the second son of Lord Glover stood out at once. Ethan was crossing the yard with Donnor, who was dragging him along while he huffed after him. A smack.
Something damp touched your cheek, and you recoiled, pressing a hand to your chest. The culprit stared at you, babbling something. You blinked, and a faint smile touched your lips. “Rodrik...Mother.”
“My dear, what is the matter?” One of Lorra’s brows lifted slightly as her gaze searched your face. Your little brother squirmed in her arms. “We were calling for you, but it seems you did not hear.” The woman’s warm hand touched your cheek, her thumb brushing over wind-chapped skin. Something beneath your ribs grew a little warmer.
“Perhaps she was occupied with something else?” The second daughter peered out from behind her mother’s back and looked down, toward where Ethan Glover was heading into the keep.
Lorra sighed as she handed you the child; your arms closed around the little warm body of their own accord. “Berena.”
“What? She—” The girl broke off beneath her mother’s look and swallowed.
Little Rodrik sat in your arms, his small damp palms patting your face. “Sis’a...cold...” You smiled despite yourself and pressed your lips to his cheek. He smelled of milk and soap. Your head cleared. You breathed into his neck, and the boy burst out laughing.
“Yes, cold. And you’re warm. And delicious.” A whisper, and you shifted your gaze to your sister. “You have a new ribbon in your braids. Very pretty.” Berena’s cheeks flared at once, and her head jerked aside.
“Yes,” the young lady huffed, and her mother sighed. “Will you join us for the meal? It’s your favorite today.” Berena’s gaze lingered on your arms around your brother. Her fingers twitched toward you, then closed instead in the folds of her dress.
“No. Forgive me,” you whispered, swaying slightly with your brother as you looked at your mother and sister. “I am already full, and I want to walk a little. Perhaps I’ll come later.” Lorra narrowed her eyes.
“My daughter says she is full and looks like a ghost. Are you certain no one has poisoned you?” the woman muttered.
Your lips pressed together of their own accord. “Mother.” Your voice wavered slightly.
“What? I am your mother. I worry about all of you.” The wind caught the woman’s hair, and she stepped past you toward the stairs. You and Berena exchanged a glance, then both followed.
The howl of the wind gave way to the sound of boots on stone steps. Childish babble echoed off the walls. You held your little brother close while he tangled his fingers in your hair. His warmth finally steadied your breathing, and the smile still lingered on your lips.
“You were looking at him,” Berena whispered, but in the narrow stairwell the whisper still scattered off the walls. You raised a brow. The girl glanced at you, keeping a hand against the stone. “Lord Glover’s son.”
“I–” The little one shoved his fingers into your mouth, and you frowned at him. “Don’t do that.” You pulled his hand away and at the same time freed a strand of your hair. “He is Donnor’s friend, and Willam’s, and mine,” you sighed, shifting the boy to your other hip.
“Yes, but they are men.” Berena’s nose wrinkled. You were already about to answer, but your mother’s laughter made both of you start.
“Men? Berena, your brothers are men in name only, and so is Glover’s son.” The woman looked back over her shoulder, then turned away again. “There is still too much youth in them. As in both of you.”
“Mother...” Heat rushed to your cheeks at once, and your voice came out tight. Berena, however, did not stop.
“But when you were her age, you already had two children.” The girl frowned. “What if marriage changes something? She won’t be... like this anymore.” The younger one broke off and went still. Her eyes widened. Her mother stopped and turned on the steps.
The air thickened around you. You turned to stone. Your arms tightened around the boy; his breath warmed your shoulder. It did not help. Your temples began to throb again when you looked at your sister. Your lips parted, but only air came out.
“Berena.” Her mother’s voice cut through the space, and all of you flinched. “And what, exactly, is your sister?” The young lady flushed and hunched in on herself.
“She...” The girl only glanced at you for a moment — and faltered at once. “She’s...just grown.” She swallowed, and the words hung between you.
“Yes. Your sister is grown.” The woman looked at you, and you turned away. Not now. “But that is not what makes a person grown. Experience does. And both of you are still young and untried.” She narrowed her eyes as she turned toward the younger girl. “If we turn away from one another, who will turn toward us?” The girl tensed, a quiet sob catching in her throat.
At the sound, your head lifted at once. In the torchlight, moisture glistened on your sister’s cheek, and her shoulders trembled.
“Mother.” The sound came hoarse from your throat, and you cleared it. “I–” You felt a touch and lowered your head, seeing your younger sister’s hand clutching the hem of your dress. Shifting the boy to one arm, you laced your fingers through hers with the other. “I am all right.” Your voice wavered. The mother’s eyes skated over her daughters, and she exhaled.
“Eight children...” the woman muttered, kissing her daughters and son on their cheeks. “And all of them bite,” grumbled the Lady of Winterfell as she turned and continued down the steps, while a quiet laugh slipped from your lips and the younger girl wiped at her eyes in secret.
Back in the yard, you handed your brother over to your mother and turned at once toward the gate leading to the godswood. The pressure in your chest had not eased, and your fingers stroked the wolf-ring of their own accord.
The air grew less thick and less warm, and the people thinned as you walked toward the passage between the walls. The farther your boots carried over the ground, the fewer sounds remained. A long passage. Gray sky overhead. The inner yard behind. A hidden turn ahead. The walls pressed in, guided, left no third way. A drop fell on your nose. You lifted your head to the sky and stilled. Above stretched a thin strip of gray, and the longer you looked at it, the farther away it seemed.
A growl made you flinch. You lowered your head. The familiar beast stood ahead. “Don’t frighten me like that.” The words came out rough, with a rasp. You coughed and stepped aside to let him pass, but the wolf only slipped around the turn.
You reached the end of the passage, turned — and the forest opened before you at once. Quiet. Motionless. Drawing air deep into your chest, you exhaled slowly. One. Two. Three. White mist rose and vanished. With the first step, your shoulders began to lower; with the second, your chin lifted of its own accord. Your fingers slipped along the bark: rough, deeply cut by time, damp in places with sap. A faint smile flickered over your lips when red leaves appeared among the green branches.
Water could be heard — not a river, only a quiet drop falling into a small pool before the mighty tree. You squinted, watching the leaves stir when a bird flew between them from its nest. The tiny voices of chicks trembled faintly in the silence. Your eyelids lowered, and you slowly drew in air. Your chest lowered.
Stepping carefully between the roots, you circled the tree. The closer you came to the face in the trunk, the lower your head bent. Eye to eye. Crimson sap ran along the bark — only a little. You bowed again. One more step — and your knees touched the wet ground. Dampness and cold came through the fabric at once, but your body remained motionless.
One more exhale. You slowly lift your head and meet the white, sightless face again. Your lips part of their own accord. Your breath falters. Your fingers dig into the ground, your nails tearing the soft mud. A strangled sound breaks from your chest as your forehead lowers onto your knuckles, and the raw smell of earth strikes your nostrils.
You leaned closer, helping yourself with your hands, and finally settled between the roots. You flinched when you noticed the direwolf by the water. “Away from the water.” Your voice wavered. The beast pricked up its ears and withdrew obediently. Not toward you — aside, around the pool, and then disappeared between the trees.
The warmth in your back was leaving quickly. You wrapped your cloak tighter around yourself and drew up your legs. Your head tipped back, trying to find something in the crown of the tree. Your eyes closed of their own accord. Your body slowly went slack.
Emptiness.
—
“Sister.”
A distant male voice sounded somewhere at the edge of consciousness.
“Sisteerrr…”
The body tensed faintly, and a low, aching sound rose in the chest.
“Wake up.”
Warmth on the nose. Impossible to breathe in. You slowly opened your eyes. A man was kneeling before you, pinching your nose shut with two fingers and cutting off your air. “Oh, awake?” His words hung in the air. You blinked, breathed out and in through your mouth, and squinted.
“Yes. By your prayers.” Your voice came out muffled through your pinched nose. “You can let go.”
The man smirked and took his hand away. “How long have you been sitting here?” He rose to his full height, still smiling, and held out a hand to you. You shook your head, but accepted the help all the same.
“I came here before the meal,” you exhaled, straightening. “Did I miss lunch?” You brushed wet leaves from your clothes while your brother picked them from your cloak and hair.
“Yes. But...” He pulled a bundle from beneath his cloak and held it out. “Brought a little with me. Barely escaped Mother’s spoon when she threw it at me for stealing from the table. Won this afterward with blood and sweat.” He sighed. “Didn’t think I’d find you here.” His lips twitched. “Decided at last to become an ice lady?”
“I think once was enough.” You took the bundle from him, unwrapped the cloth, and pulled out a piece of barely warm venison wrapped in bread. The smell filled the air at once. Your stomach gave a treacherous growl. You shot your brother a glance and began to eat, letting out a small, satisfied sound despite yourself. Donnor smirked.
“Berena was pestering poor Glover again...fifth time this past week already.” The heir sat down on a stone by the pond. “Asking him about you...Have you two got something planned?” His brows twitched, but when he saw you go still, he frowned. “Sister?”
Swallowing the bite, you lowered your gaze to what was left of the food. Your hands and legs suddenly grew heavy, as though filled with lead. “You should not have angered Mother.” Your teeth parted with effort as you bit off another piece. Donnor narrowed his eyes, one brow lifting.
“Perhaps...” The young man’s voice was quiet, barely audible. He leaned forward, an elbow braced on his knee. “But the younger ones found it amusing.”
“You are too carefree,” you snorted.
“Someone has to smile around here, besides our mother.” His face spread into a crooked smile.
“Rodrik manages it well enough.” You sat down beside your brother, though still away from the water.
“He is only ten moons old,” Donnor answered, then paused. “Do I look like an infant?” He ran a hand through his hair, grinning widely. “I clearly have more hair... and teeth.” A faint laugh slipped from your lips, and you leaned back slightly against his shoulder. His body relaxed at once, taking your weight, and for a few moments the two of you slipped into a shared silence.
Little by little, the world was slipping back into its usual course. The bird returned to the nest again, and you watched her settle a twig into place, weaving it among the others. A light wind stirred the leaves, but scarcely reached your skin — familiar warmth beside you kept it off. You rolled the ring over your finger, your head barely swaying in time with your thoughts.
“Why are you here?” The quiet question hung in the air.
“Just thinking.” The whisper slipped from your throat while you looked down at your feet. The heir’s lips pressed together, and he nudged you lightly with his shoulder. You flinched and lifted your eyes to him. One brow raised, his head tilted slightly to the side. No smile. You lowered your gaze again, feeling a dull heaviness at the back of your head. “What do you remember of Daeron?” The man frowned.
“He’s...the king.” You shook your head. Donnor stared up at the sky for a moment, then looked at you again. “The prince?” You nodded.
“Yes. That boy we played with in the capital. Prince Maekar’s son. What do you remember of him?” Your lips barely parted; there was not enough air.
“He ran fast.” The young man nodded, stroking his chin and staring ahead. “Oh! We fought... I think.” He looked at you and caught your raised brow. “What?”
“You fought him?” you sighed, rubbing your forehead with your fingers.
“Yes. Well, we were children...you were there too.” The man shrugged. “And it was a game... if I remember right, he was going on about dragons and knights. And there was that one too... Aerion. Little thing. Pale. Growled at everyone.” He smirked. “You two are alike.”
You tensed and jabbed him in the side, hissing, “I don’t growl at people!”
“There! There she is growling!” His laughter filled the space, echoing off the water and through the crowns of the trees. It warmed. “But why do you ask?”
You pressed your lips together, lowering your head beneath the weight of your thoughts. Cold passed through you again; your fingers clenched on the ground, staining the cloth. Before you could open your mouth, Donnor jabbed you in the side, and a sharp shiver ran through your body. “DONNOR!” You shot to your feet, nearly dropping the bundle with the remains of the food, and frowned at your brother. “We’re not children anymore, Donnor.”
“No, but you’ve gone back into yourself again.” He sighed. “At least you were easier to get through to as a child... What happened?” His voice came out hard, and his gaze did not leave you. He did not rise, but his legs were trembling.
You went still, looking at him. An aching, pulling feeling spread through your chest, and for a moment the forest seemed to fall quiet. Closing your eyes, you shook your head and looked at your brother again. “A letter came from King’s Landing.” Donnor’s hand tensed on his knee. “The Crown wants a marriage with the North.”
The air seemed to turn colder still. The forest emptied of sound. No birds. No wind. You stood motionless, as though your legs had grown into the ground. Your brother, who had sat without moving until then, rose slowly. “What?” The man’s deep voice cut through the space, holding your attention. Your throat went dry, but you did not turn your head away.
“A raven came this morning. I spoke with Father.” Your shoulders lowered. “Prince Daeron–”
“No.” He ground it out through his teeth. “You–” His jaw clenched, and he turned to walk away.
“Where are you going?” You stepped after him and grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop, but he pulled free at once.
“Where? To speak with Father!” He took three steps.
“Donnor.” Your voice faltered. The heir did not stop.
“The Crown cannot simply come and take you from here! They–”
“Brother.”
Donnor Stark — heir to Beron Stark, future Warden of the North — froze mid-step. His fists clenched. Uneven clouds of breath broke from his mouth.
“Brother. Look at me.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, tensing all over, then exhaled slowly, opened them, and turned his head. You met his gaze without moving, then nodded toward the stone where you had sat before. You sat first.
Donnor swayed back a little, then sighed after all, came back, and lowered himself beside you. Your shoulders touched. His fingers clenched and unclenched until they began to tap out a quick, uneven rhythm against his thigh.
“We are loyal to the Crown.” You nodded toward his words. “Are southern marriages not enough for them?” A short laugh slipped from your lips, though there was no smile.
“That was my answer to father as well.” Your head came down heavily onto your brother’s shoulder.
His fingers froze.
“Then...what did father say?” He turned his head slightly, looking at your lowered lids. You bit the inside of your cheek.
“Either this, or marriage to a vassal’s son within the next few days.”
Donnor lifted a brow. “Ethan? Is that why Berena was interrogating him?” His voice came out sharper than before. He gave a short breath through his nose. “He isn’t suitable... there has to be someone else.” You slowly lifted your head and narrowed your eyes.
“Are you trying to sell me off now?” The even tone of your voice made him flinch.
“No.” He ran a hand over his face, smoothing away the lines that had suddnly appeared there. “Then you chose him?” You shook your head. “Then... the prince?” His voice nearly broke. You could hear his teeth clench.
“No. I’m still thinking.” You sighed and settled your head on his shoulder again. “Father gave me until evening.”
“Is that why you came here?” His gaze shifted to the face of the weirwood. “Were you trying to call it again?” Something inside you tightened at the sound of his voice.
“I–” A heavy throb beat again at your temples, and gooseflesh ran over your skin. “I was only hoping for something.” You swallowed, burying your face in your brother’s shoulder. He adjusted your cloak.
“You put too much trust in what you do not understand.” His voice sounded quietly above your crown.
“It is hard to understand what frightens you.” The whisper was barely audible.
“We are here with you. Remember that.” His tone was full of strength. A strangled exhale slipped from your lips.
Silence settled around you again — no longer heavy, but familiar. A drop fell from a leaf into the water once more, and you flinched, lifting your head. You watched the rings spread over the water and slowly disappear.
“Berena is next.” At your words, Donnor frowned and looked at you.
“She is a child,” the heir whispered, covering his face with one hand. His whole body tensed again, and his shoulders began to tremble.
“Yes.” Your voice was quiet. Your fingers had gone entirely numb with cold. You pulled out your gloves and slowly drew them on. It did not make you warmer, but the fur was soft. Your hand came to rest on your brother’s shoulder and squeezed. He covered it with his own and squeezed back.
—
By evening, the air had cooled. Lights showed in the few windows. Torches lit the path of the elder Stark children.
The way to Father led along the same stairs, the same stones, the same corridor. But the body carried itself forward. Your back remained straight, your face motionless. You nodded to the guard, and he opened the door.
Lord Stark lifted his head at once and met your gaze. He began to rise slowly, but stopped when you raised a hand.
An unedited snippet from chapter 2 of the Daeron the Drunken x Stark!Reader fic I’m currently writing. Just wanted to share the reason behind the lack of new posts🥀
***
"Go inside. Now." Aerion tensed, tore his gaze away with visible effort, and slowly went up the stairs, muttering under his breath. Only when the footsteps faded did Maekar look back at Daeron. "Do you have any idea what you’re doing?" The words were forced through gritted teeth.
"Keeping a lady from making the worst mistake of her life?" At his son's words, the fourth prince's fists clenched. He flinched. "Why all this..." His gaze finally met his father's.
Maekar studied the boy. His gaze slid over the tense shoulders, rose to his face, and lingered there until Daeron looked away. Maekar exhaled and unclenched his fists. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.
"You will go to your room. I'll post more guards. You'll stay there until—"
"Until she comes to save me?" Daeron raised the flask to his lips, but his father's hand knocked it from his grasp. It struck the wall with a clang and fell.
"Don't you dare." Maekar's fingers closed around his son's shoulder. With his other hand he snatched up the bag, shoved it into Daeron's arms, and dragged him along. "If I see you trying to run away one more time..."
"Then drag me already..." He stumbled on the stairs, but his father's hand steadied him and set him back on his feet. Maekar went rigid, staring at his son, who merely shrugged. "Then don't be surprised when she needs a second husband."
You do not care much for dancing in public. But sometimes, beneath watchful eyes, a single dance is enough to make the body remember — and enough for him to ask for it again in private.
Characters: Baelor Breakspear Targaryen, Maekar Targaryen, Duncan the Tall, Daeron the Drunken Targaryen, Valarr Targaryen, Lyonel Baratheon, Raymun Fossoway.
English isn’t my first language, so thank you for reading.
Baelor
Before the Court
The noise of music and voices crashes over you, making you squint. Your fingers tighten around the Crown Prince’s forearm, and his gaze drops to meet yours. Your brows are knit, your lips pressed thin. You catch his silent question and nod. A ghost of a smile.
A step into the center of the hall. Your chest feels tight. His hand rests between your shoulder blades — firm, calm, holding your posture. His thumb barely shifts, no pressure. The Prince’s hand changes position; his lips whisper low, forcing you to strain your ears. A slow beginning. There is soft support beneath your hand; his body does not swallow you. His chest, close to yours, rises. You breathe in response.
The fabric of your robes swirls in time, masking your trembling legs — a moment of leaning away. The man’s hands guide you, drawing you out of others' sight. Your feet lift from the floor, your hem brushing against his legs. A sense of solid ground at your back, where his fingers still hold you. His steps fall in sync with yours. Eye to eye.
After the Court
The last document slips from the Hand’s fingers, settling on the table. His gaze snags on you. You stare out the window, your back to him. Shoulders level, spine straight. Breathing slow. The scrape of wood behind you; you turn your head, watching as he comes toward you.
A smile on the man’s lips; his hand slowly settles on your shoulder. His lips touch your hair, making your eyelids flutter shut as a faint sigh escapes you. Your hands rise, resting against his chest. Warm – an even rhythm. He leans back slightly, and you find yourself having to lean in closer to him.
A rough palm slides from your shoulders to your waist, pulling you deeper into the room and slowly turning you. His fingers tap lightly along your spine. The man’s lips curl. Your breath falters. A shiver runs through your body, and you cling to his shoulders as your feet leave the floor for another turn. His eyes seek yours as he dips you in the dance, holding you steady.
Maekar
Under the Gaze
A bead of sweat trickled down your neck, and your throat felt parched. Maekar loomed beside you, his hands clasped behind his back. Close. You straightened your spine, inhaling slowly as the others gathered in the center of the Great Hall. The music echoed in your ears. A first dance, a second — and still, you both stand. You do not look.
The man turns his head, meeting the King’s gaze, and frowns. Maekar’s hand rose, palm up. You notice, and slowly lift your own hand — barely trembling — placing your palm into his. His fingers tighten. The Prince’s back is straight, his jaw clenched.
In the center of the hall, you stand face to face, beginning the movement. Every step you take is a tremor; your legs are unsteady. Every turn strikes the air from your lungs; your chest is tight. He does not let go. A breath is lost beneath your ribs, and your head bows. Maekar himself lifts you, himself guides you. Even while his own body is like a wire.
Behind the Door
The rhythmic drumming of rain against the window. The quiet swaying of branches. Your hand rests on the shelf while your foot braces against a chair to reach for a book. Too high. The wood creaks under your weight. The man watches you, and the rustle of his robes sounds from behind your back.
Hands grip your waist firmly, lowering you but not letting go. You lift your head, looking into the face of the man who frowns. You do not let him speak. You place a hand on his shoulder, and it tenses. His frame looms over you. You lean back. He holds. He follows. Your step back is his step forward. A turn in time with the sound of glass.
Fingers tighten against your back as you try to pull away. Your palm settles onto his chest. The man’s jaw twitches, and his shoulders drop. Your eyes meet. A thud in your chest. His cheek brushes your temple. You swallow, lids closing. A rough sound vibrates beneath your palm. Goosebumps prickle your skin, and a soft exhale follows. You continue your steps.
Duncan
Under the Open Sky
The sound of full cups. The thud of boots in rhythm. The merry music of common folk. You sit apart, sipping your drink, your back to the dancers. A small hand clasps yours. It pulls. Young Egg, grinning, drags you along, skipping with every step. Your lips part, but no words come out.
In the center towers Dunk, dancing awkwardly, elbows tucked tight to his ribs. You smirk. He’s drawing closer. You maneuver through the crowd, shoulders hunched. A shove. A couple clips you with an elbow, sending you reeling back to collide with something solid.
Large, familiar hands grip your shoulders as eyes sweep over you from head to toe. Dunk’s gaze meets yours. You shake your head, pulling away, but a small hand seizes both your arm and Dunk’s. You both flush, finally spinning in circles, led along by Egg.
Among the Trees
The low hiss of the campfire and the shifting of horses. A child’s voice. You stood apart, shaking out damp clothes, the moisture settling at your feet. Your head tilted back toward the stars. A quiet call. You startle, feet slipping, and someone catches you, hoisting you clean off the ground.
The damp fabric thudded into the grass. The hedge knight’s two wide pale eyes froze before your face. His breath hitched, but his hands held you fast. You both blinked. A small laugh escaped your lips, and Dunk dipped his head, feeling the heat rush to his face. He set you down. Your feet came to rest atop his.
He took a step – you moved with him. The man’s shoulders tensed, but you only smiled. An exhale broke from his lips, and he repeated the steps. Together you swayed on his feet, his hands steady at your waist. Right until he slipped himself, and you both tumbled into the grass. Together still.
Daeron
Where There Is Noise
Loud laughter and the heat of voices. Your temples throb. Your body is turned half away from the center. Daeron has already raised his glass, but stills when he catches his father’s frown across the room. His fingers tense. Strands of hair cling lightly to his temples. He exhales and sets the glass aside.
You turn your head when his hand finds yours and follow the small tilt of it. You nod to Daeron and place your hand in his. His back is straight, but his shoulders slope forward, as if against himself. His head leans slightly to one side. Too many eyes. Your jaw tightens.
The first figure. A measured distance of a palm’s width between your bodies. His fingers tremble. A nail catches lightly against your skin. You adjust your hand. The prince’s head is bent toward you, but turned aside. An uneven shift, and a quiet sound slips from your lips. Your face tightens. Daeron’s shoulders jolt, and his eyes lift to your face. You shake your head and move a little closer. An attempt at one rhythm.
Where There Is Silence
The faint chime of crystal by the half-open window. Night air and the rustle of leaves. The goblet stands full, untouched. You sit by the hearth, reading, until the scent of mint folds around you. A faint sound. An uneven touch at your shoulder.
He draws you up without pulling away from you, and you yield. Space remains between you, but your fingers are laced together. His head is bowed. His brows are knit. A long pause, and then he starts to move. To the side — and you follow. He watches. You step — and he follows you. Again. A shiver. Again. A soft breath.
Your foot catches the edge of the rug, but his hand is suddenly there beneath your ribs, catching you. The grip tightens. A faint laugh, a sharp little joke, and you roll your eyes. Chest to chest. Your hands settle lightly at his neck. His hands rest on you; his fingers go still, then slowly tighten. Silence gathers around you as your silhouettes sway from side to side.
Valarr
Under the Gaze of the Court
His hands are tucked into the folds of his garments, concealing interlaced fingers. The Prince’s back is straight, yet his eyes flit from one dancing couple to another. You do not look; you give a slight tug to the side. He leans toward you, tilting his head just so, yet he avoids your gaze as he gently draws you out onto the floor. His breathing slows.
The young man’s hands slowly settle into the proper position. All too proper. You keep your eyes on the floor as he leads. A missed step. Your toe catches against his. A faint tremor courses through him as he rights your course, maneuvering you both through the throng of other couples.
His mismatched irises sweep across your face, and his lips thin. Now, it is his hand that falters. You lift your head, offering a faint smile before the turn, and let out a breath. His movements steady. The corners of his mouth twitch. His grip on your fingers tightens.
In Shared Breath
Your silhouette moves in the mirror. The sputtering of candles and the faint rustle of pages fill the room, while the air is heavy with the scent of an approaching storm. The Prince looks up from his book, his gaze lingering upon you. You hear a soft footfall and see him in the reflection. His hands circle your waist, his breath warming your shoulder. The shape of a smile touches your skin. A pale lock of his hair catches the light.
Your feet tangle as you turn, and you lurch, but his grip is steadfast. No movement, no breath. A quiet laugh escapes you, and once more you sway toward him. He flinches, recoiling for a heartbeat, only to draw you close again. One of his hands rests at the small of your back, the other clasps yours. The young man’s lips brush your knuckles as his feet step back. He is pulling you in.
The crackle of logs in the hearth. A quiet whisper. Your bodies sway to the rhythm of the waves crashing against the cliffs of Dragonstone. Forward. Backward. He tilts the both of you until your foreheads touch. Your breaths mingle, and your lips brush the bridge of his nose. The Prince’s cheeks redden, and though his hand trembles, he does not let go.
Lyonel
Under Rolling Laughter
You moved through the crowd toward the far corner. One last effort. Laughter broke behind you. A strong arm pulls you against a broad chest, circling your waist. A sharp pivot. Your jaw tightens at the sight of the man smiling, tipping his head toward the dancing couples. A pause, and you breathe out.
His steps are wide, and your feet barely touch the ground. His hands keep hold of you as you move, and your body nearly hangs on him. Your eyes stay on the floor. The music rises again. He bends over you. The first step. A sharp turn. Your skirts stream around you. Again. Again.
Your fingers dig into his shoulders, and he only laughs. His cloak flares with every turn, shielding part of you from the others. Warm breath brushes the top of your head. A chuckle, and your noses meet. Your jaw loosens.
Alone With a Smile
Warm candlelight filled the bedroom, while the hum of the man’s eager voice blurred into white noise. You sat, pulling off your shoes and rubbing your trembling feet. A light cramp. Your face tightened, and you leaned back in the chair with an exhale. Silence hung.
You flinch and open your eyes at the touch of warm hands on your ankle. The man’s large hands ease your legs straight. Your breath hitches. Your legs loosen. His fingers crept higher. You shake your head with a faint smile, hearing his laughter answer yours. The world tilts.
Your feet no longer touch the ground, and your hands brace against Lyonel’s shoulders. You look down at him. The room spins. The man’s strong arms close around your thighs. The beat of his heart in his chest. A turn. A sway. A smile spreads across your lips, and laughter breaks from your chest like a storm.
Raymun
Where He Builds
You stood together at the edge of the dance floor while people spun around you. You leaned back, watching Raymun’s profile as he leaned toward the dancers. A smile spread across his face, and he nodded, starting toward the others. Then he stopped short.
Your hand was in his, but you did not step with him. You leaned back again when your eyes met. Your lips pressed thin. He raised an eyebrow, glancing at the dancers over his shoulder before looking back at you. Your chest tightened. He did not let go of your hand, but he stopped trying to pull you forward.
A moment passes. Then you step — and his hand is at your waist. You freeze, lifting your head. He smiles, shaking his head as he draws you farther from the dancing. You blink, and your heart stumbles.
Where You Built Together
You were helping him gather his things. He watched you while your hands carefully closed the chest. He leaned closer. You turned, taking the sword from his hands and carrying it to the new armor, bowing slightly as you set it down. He swallowed.
When you straightened, Raymun was already there, holding out his hand. His fingers trembled slightly. A steady look, a faint smile. His hand gives another small jerk when you place your palm in his. He pulls you in and turns you with him, but you falter, and he goes still.
Your hand slides to his hair, and the young man looks at you again. The movement slows. Fingers at the small of your back trace slow circles, sending a faint shiver through you. You press your cheek to his chest, and his arms close around you. Soft breath at your forehead. Your steps slow until the two of you nearly go still.
Thanks for reading!
A couple of days ago I was forced to dance (I hate it) and I’m still pissed.
Characters: Baelor Breakspear Targaryen, Maekar Targaryen, Duncan the Tall, Daeron the Drunken Targaryen, Valarr Targaryen, Lyonel Baratheon, Raymun Fossoway.
This came to me right before sleep. I’m not sure if anyone has done something similar.
The translation might be a bit off since English isn't my native language. Just headcanons, don't take it too seriously.
Baelor
The Forearm
During formal ceremonies, your hand comes to his forearm. The crook of the elbow, palms sliding down. Your fingers tighten. His gaze settles on you. A silent question and a soft smile. Your thumb brushes against his forearm while his hand covers yours. The Crown Prince’s back straightens as he leads you through the crowd.
The Curve of the Throat
You catch his gaze before sleep. The Hand is already in your bed, keeping you close. You lean over him, your fingers sliding slowly down his neck. Dark, fine stubble, the texture of tanned skin, the Adam’s apple. Your fingers do not press, yet a breath escapes his lips. His neck relaxes, and he leans into your palm.
Palms
The quill falters in his long, calloused fingers. You discover him hunched over a book in his study and take a hand in yours, turning it palm upward. Your thumbs trace the lines upon his palm, pressing into the center. You repeat the motion, drawing a line toward his pulse. The Crown Prince’s shoulders sink. He lowers his head, nearly brushing against you.
Maekar
The Chest
The Prince of Summerhall breathes deep. His chest rises and falls in the sweltering hall, you at his side. One of the highborn men speaks to him, and you notice his jaw clench. Your hand rises cautiously, smoothing the fabric over his chest. His gaze meets yours. A lingering touch. He lets out a breath through clenched teeth.
The Upper Shoulder
The fourth prince’s movements are sharp, abrupt, as he strips off his shirt, flinging it to the floor. He joins you in your bed, grumbling while pulling off his boots. You rise, trailing your fingers from his neck to his shoulders and back. The muscles go rigid under your hand. He doesn’t pull away. The soft pressure of your fingers. Confident movements. Patterns under your fingers, and he exhales and leans back into you.
The Nape
Your hand reaches for his pale hair. Usually, he is taller, but now he sits. Nothing stops you. Fingers slow against the strands, finding the scalp at the nape of his neck. You stroke one spot. His head tilts back into your touch. A heavy weight. You add your second hand. Another point at the back of his head. A low hum starts in his chest. His eyes close.
Duncan
The Shoulder
Once, you slipped and grabbed his shoulder. He simply raised his arm; you hung in midair. He flushed. Since then, your palms often find his shoulder. No slipping. A firm hold. You massage his shoulder softly, unseen by the rest. He notices. He looks away. He smiles. His muscles tense under your fingers.
The Knee
His legs are longer than yours. You sit side by side, thighs pressed together, but his leg jerks. You raise your hand. With one finger, you slowly trace circles on his knee. He falters for a second. His gaze flickers between you and your hand. A shiver runs through his body; his breath breaks. He leans closer, almost blotting you out.
The Hair
You lean over him. Fingers carefully pluck a burr from his hair. He squints from the sting. You purse your lips, softly stroking the spot of discomfort. The hedge knight leans in, though seated, for your convenience. He does not stir until you are finished. Afterward, you settle his hair. He lifts his gaze to you bright, wide-eyed. His face burns, but he remains. It has become a habit.
Daeron
His Back
Your hand presses against his back to steady him. The Prince tenses and turns his head. He doesn’t catch your gaze at first. An exhale. You don't pull the hand away. You lead him through the crowd toward the exit. Your palm slides over his shoulder blades, not letting him fall back. He bears down on you regardless.
Temples
The young man’s head is thrown back over the sofa’s armrest. Eyes clamped shut. Your fingers touch his temples, massaging softly, lifting. The tremor in his body dies down. His eyelids lift heavily. A smile appears on the prince’s cracked lips. He raises his head, letting you sit on the armrest, and drops it back against your thigh. He lets you.
Eyelids
Morning seeps through the windows. He lies there, staring at the ceiling. Shadows under his eyes. You lean over him, directing your hands toward his eyes. His eyes close on their own. Your thumbs slide over his eyelids. No pressure. Feeling them. A trembling of the lids. A quiet masculine chuckle. You gently clear the remnants of sleep from the corners of his eyes and his lashes.
Valarr
Fingers
You stand beside the Prince while he is centered on the people. You watch his profile, the smile, the nod. The tense line near his eyes. You move; your pinky finds his. Fingers interlace, hidden from the eyes of others within the folds of your clothes. He tightens his grip and draws you into the dialogue, as you already are.
Ears
A pale strand of his hair shimmers in the candlelight of your chambers. Your hand tucks it behind his ear. The Prince flinches, raising an eyebrow. You do not stop. Your fingers glide softly over the curve of his ear. You press the earlobe, just slightly. He shudders— almost too quick to notice. Then he smirks, shaking his head, allowing you to continue.
Cheeks
Sweat runs down his temples after training. His cheekbones are flushed, his breath hitched. You reach out to wipe his face with a damp towel, lingering on his cheeks. You take his face in your hands. He freezes, pulling his head back to keep from sweating on you. You stop him. He is drenched, but his cheeks are soft, hot. The Prince’s face flushes deeper, but he does not pull the smile from his lips.
Lyonel
Lower Back
The sounds of the feast fill the air. The laughter of the Lord of Storm’s End fills the space, his hand resting on your shoulder. Your smile distracts him as your hand settles against the small of his back. His brow perks up. Your palm presses into him, dragging in a slow stroke, your eyes locked on his. A predatory grin spreads across the man's lips as he leans back on purpose, making you hold his weight.
Lips
You speak with him before sleep. He answers. His lips — always a different curve. A smile. Pensiveness. A parting of lips in a laugh. Your fingers touch the corner of the Laughing Storm’s mouth. He does not stop. You trail your touch along his lower lip. You feel them stretch — the shape of his teeth under them. He keeps speaking, his gaze fixed on yours.
Forehead
A frown on the man’s face as he stoops over the table with parchment. An unaccustomed silence. You drag your thumb up the bridge of his nose to the space between his brows. You press soft against his forehead. You smooth every crease. He remains silent, relaxing his face. His eyes are hooded. When you finish, you press a kiss to his brow. Returning to his work, the frown is gone.
Raymun
Knuckles
You stop the young green apple. His hand is in yours. You narrow your eyes, carefully inspecting his slightly bruised knuckles. A couple of abrasions. A few scars. The hands of a knight, the founder of a new house. He tries to pull his hand away so you won’t see —then freezes. You brush your thumb over his knuckles, looking him in the eyes. He blinks, as if caught, but he smiles anyway.
The Jaw
He clenches his jaw, fighting to stay still while you shave him. His gaze is fixed on you. Head tilted slightly back. The blade glides over skin; the towel wipes away the foam. You set the steel aside and run your fingers over the sensitive skin of his jaw. A short, involuntary sound breaks from his lips, his eyes never leaving yours.
The Crown of the Head
The soft breath of the young man tickles the skin of your chest. His eyes are closed, but he is not asleep. His body is tense. Your head tilts. Your lips brush the hair on the crown of his head. Not a kiss —just a soft touch. He exhales, pressing into you, his arms wrapping around your waist. The apple rolls to you of its own accord.
Thanks for reading!
I’m currently busy working on a multi-chapter fic, but writing these headcanons helps me relax and shift my focus for a bit.
If youd like to see something from me, my requests are open
Daeron Targaryen x Stark!Reader (Aegon Targaryen platonic)
Words: 1.5k
Tags: light alcohol mention. sibling dynamics. Targaryen family. Aegon is about 5 - 6 years old in this scene.
English isn't my native language.
The rhythmic drumming of raindrops against the half-open window, the slow sway of the curtains—the air itself felt charged. A damp chill pushed aside the sour scent of wine and old parchment, bringing something fresher in its wake. A faint shiver ran down Daeron’s body. He took a sip of wine and pressed his back into the sofa, head lolling against the cushion, his cracked lips slightly parted. His eyes tracked a droplet crawling down the pane, and the young man grimaced as another stray drop landed on his nose.
“D-Dwagon…” Aegon’s voice sounded again within the small, separate space of the chambers the elder prince shared with his wife. The young prince’s fingers traced the symbols on the page of the book resting on his lap as he fidgeted upon his cushion, his eyes constantly drifting back to the illustrations of giant, fire-breathing winged lizards.
“Dragon,” uttered Daeron on a breath, straightening slightly. “With the ‘r’. Dra-gon.” His eyes flicked toward the door, lingering a heartbeat too long, then snapped back to his brother as his hand reached for a small box nearby. “Like when a dragon speaks. Or our father.”
“I’ve nevew heawd dwagons woaw.” The boy lifted his gaze and reached out a hand. “Maybe when I hear them, I’ll be able to woar just like that?” A candle’s reflection glinted in his eyes, and he reached toward his older brother again, pouting slightly. “And Papa doesn’t woar.” The young prince bared his teeth in a snarl.
“Roars, he does,” Daeron muttered, nearly dropping the box as he opened it, took out a mint leaf and put it in his brother’s hand. “Maybe not like dragons…but I imagine that’s how they’d sound...” he faltered, eyes squeezed shut, and shook his head, taking another leaf and popping it into his mouth. “Or learn from the wolf. Why not? He growls often enough…same as his owner.” A faint snorting sound came from behind the screen that shielded the marriage bed. The young prince’s brows shot up as he leaned back, nearly toppling, but his brother’s foot held his back. The child’s gaze fixed on the screen before shifting back to Daeron, whose eyes seemed slightly out of focus.
“No, you’we lying.” The younger prince pouted again, chin jutting out, before glancing back at the book. His brows shot up. From the direction of the bed came the soft click-clack of claws against the floor. “Does the Lady gwoawl like the wolf?” the boy whispered, leaning back over the book and bowing his head. The elder prince let out a faint chuckle, his strands of hair swaying slightly in time with the curtains. The flames of a pair of candles flickered for a moment before returning to their steady glow.
“Of course she does. Didn’t you know?” The man stretched his hand and snapped the lid of the small box shut. “She’s always growling, especially when something grates on her. Northern charm.” The fresh taste filled his mouth and his breath. “So if you want to growl like her, start with the ‘r’. Or at least try to say Targaryen…or dragon.” Daeron’s head fell back as he exhaled, closing his eyes. “Try reading it again.” The young prince nodded, burying his face in the book.
“Young d-dwagons are f-fiewce and pwoud…” young pale brows furrowed. “Fiece...fierce and pwoud...” A small finger traced every letter on the parchment as he read. “But old dwagons are the most feawsome of all.” The boy shifted his gaze to the illustration comparing the sizes of two lizards, then back to the text. “When a d-dwagon spweads its wings, the aiw shudders…and the dwagon…w-woaws…” The sound of thunder and a low growl from the direction of the door pierced the atmosphere. Daeron jolted, opening his eyes and fixing them on the window, blinking rapidly.
“Roars,” he corrected the younger, reaching for the wine. “Go on.” Something flickered on the periphery of his vision; the elder prince shook his head, taking a deep swallow.
“...like before a stowm,” Egg finished and looked up. “Like right now? Could there be dwagons behind the clouds? Or is it not every time dragons take flight that thunder sounds?” The boy stood, leaving the book on his brother’s lap, and went to the window, flinging it open. Sheets of paper scattered from the table in the corner, caught by a gust of wind. Tiny droplets lashed against his face as his eyes remained fixed on the sky. He pulled himself up on his toes, clinging to the window frame. “There! A dWagon!” A maple leaf struck the child’s face, and he recoiled. “No, not a dwagon,” Aegon muttered, pulling the leaf away and pouting as he examined it. Someone began wiping his face with a handkerchief, and he looked up. “Lady!” A smile spread across the boy’s face.
“Young prince,” the lady spoke softly, closing the window with her other hand. “You shouldn't stand in the rain, however warm it may be.” Her gaze drifted toward her husband as he once more placed a mint leaf in his mouth. She smiled. “What are you two doing?” Lady Stark began to walk around the sofa, a shawl held in her hands.
“Reading about dragons...” Daeron exhaled, leaning back once more and removing the book from his lap. “And trying to learn how to pronounce the most important letter in our House.” The Northerner’s brow arched as she draped the blanket over her husband. He met her gaze. “R,” Aegon cut in, snatching the book from his older brother’s hands.
“A most…treacherous letter,” The young woman shook her head, settling onto the sofa as the young prince approached, spreading the book across her lap. By the window, the direwolf lay down, nearly upending a goblet of wine—but Daeron caught it.
“It tells the stories of how dwagons are bon,” Egg began, flipping through the pages to show the illustrations. “Here’s the biggest one! Ba-Bale… Balewion!” The child was feverishly presenting his knowledge, only to be cut short by a woman’s palms catching his cheeks.
“Indeed…where is that sound hiding?” Lady Stark leaned in toward the boy, and Daeron chuckled, shaking his head. “Try breathing out, young prince. Take a deep breath…now let it out through your mouth. Feel how your tongue trembles when the air passes over it…rrrr,” she urged, her voice thick with a sharp Northern burr. The boy drew a deep breath into his lungs.
“Ahhhhrrrhrrrhrrr...” His face flushed a dark crimson as he strained, trying once more. “Arrharrrrhhhh...” then he recoiled, panting for air. The elder prince let out a sharp laugh.
“Seven hells…you’re a real dragon, little brother. A bit more and you’ll start breathing fire.” Daeron nodded and let out a squeak as his wife pinched his cheek. “What? At least he speaks better than I do. Even sober I can barely get half the words out...let alone in my usual state.” He raised his glass. The air in the room thickened.
“Daeron...” That quiet voice and the fixed stare now turned upon her husband, even as her fingers trailed through the child’s silky hair at the nape of his neck, struck Daeron motionless. A cold shiver crawled down the elder prince’s spine; he cracked his eyes open, drowning his gaze in the cup of wine. He saw his reflection there. A knot tightened in his throat. “Daeron.” The sheer softness of her voice made him flinch, his grip crushing the rim of the goblet. A single drop rolled down the metal, staining his finger.
The touch against his head caused him to startle, and he lifted his gaze to his wife. Lady Stark gave a small nod, her thumb tracing the line of his temple. He swallowed, set the goblet aside with a sigh, and rested his cheek against her thigh, watching as his younger brother continued trying to roar across the room like a gathering storm. “He almost had it,” the elder prince muttered.
“Yes, and you have your own way with it, too. Who else would declaim poetry to me while deep in his cups and scarcely able to keep his feet?” she whispered, scanning the text of the book. “But it seems to me he is still too young for proper speech. Even considering that he is a prince.”
“He wants to be a knight,” Daeron sighed. “What sort of knight will he be if he can’t even say ‘princess’ properly?” Lady Stark’s eyes narrowed at her husband’s remark.
“A knight of honour, perhaps? Or one of few words...” She flicked her eyes up at the boy who growled without pause. “Not the case here, of course.” She lowered her gaze back to the crown of her husband’s head, as she picked at a small knot in his hair, when suddenly, the child’s snarling snapped shut. She looked at the boy again, seeing that he had covered his mouth with his hands and was staring at them with wide eyes. “What happened?” Her brows knitted.
“My tooth…” Aegon approached, and Daeron straightened up. The boy opened his mouth, and the two adults, after exchanging a glance, looked inside. “It’s wobbly.” The young prince nudged the tooth with his tongue, and it wiggled. Silence followed, then the elder prince’s sharp laughter rang out through the room, making Lady Stark give a start in her seat.
“Looks like the lesson’s over. You’ll have to be a silent knight, brother.” Daeron quipped, which immediately made the young prince whimper.
Headcanon that little Aegon (Egg) couldn't pronounce the letter "R" until he was about six or seven. Daeron tries to teach him while they read together, but the poor boy still ends up saying "Talgayens"… this family has too many names with the letter "R"😭😭😭
actually, I'm writing a drabble about this right now…
Warnings: canon-typical violence, crude language, sexual references.
The translation might be a bit off since English isn't my native language.
I also highlighted in bold the lines Raymun says about the Targaryens that come directly from the show. Everything else is my writing.
Accursed was the day she had agreed to come to Ashford. Now it had turned into a search for her brother through a stench-ridden camp packed with people. Aerion Targaryen never hid. He didn’t think it necessary, for a dragon must shine. Maekar had left to find his other two sons, leaving his eldest daughter to watch over Aerion. She loathed being here, having no desire to play babysitter to an uncontrollable brother whose behavior turned unbearable the moment their father rode off.
Now, she was more concerned that her brother might break someone’s neck. Aerion’s horse had been taken from him and given to Ser Humfrey Hardyng to replace the one he had killed during the tournament. Naturally, this upset him, though the word "upset" could not describe the emotions she saw on her brother’s face at the moment when their uncle informed him of it. The way his fists trembled, the way his lips tightened. It seemed to her that today could not get any worse, and she wanted only one thing: peace, and perhaps, a proper bath.
Wandering in her thoughts, she stumbled, catching on a tent peg, and cursed under her breath, looking up at the banner. There stood the pavilion of House Fossoway of Cider Hall. Gods be her witness, she tried to remember someone from their house who was present at the tournament, but her mind had gone completely blank. Voices could be heard from inside the tent, barely discernible, but she caught the words "Aerion," "kill," and "horse" in a single sentence.
"Why is that hard?" The question drifted through the thin fabric of the tent. The princess eased the flap back, letting the voices carry more clearly. "No, I-" the second voice wavered, and she arched an eyebrow. She knew that voice.
"They're incestuous aliens, Duncan." the first man continued. "Blood-magickers and tyrants who have burned our lands, enslaved our people, dragged us into their wars without a mote of respect for our history or our customs. Every pale-haired brat they saddled on us has been madder than the last, gods know how." The young woman only sighed, listening to all this on the other side of the fabric, and the throbbing in her temples grew sharper. She already wanted to leave, for the people inside the tent were clearly not in the mood for a conversation with a Targaryen, not to mention that they most likely hadn't seen her brother in the last hour.
"The only honorable thing a Targaryen can do for this realm is finish on his wife's tits." The princess’s jaw tightened, her teeth grinding with an audible rasp as she stepped inside. In her head, involuntarily, her mother’s voice sounded. A beautiful woman, the only one her father ever smiled at, a woman whose passing seemed to snuff out the very light of their family. Fermenting tang of cider assaulted her senses. "So aye, I think he meant to kill the fucking horse." The dark-haired man finished his tirade, looking away and taking a sip of his drink.
Raymun was too distracted to notice the uninvited guest in the small space of the tent, but Dunk noticed and froze, then swallowed hard. He had first seen her when she arrived with the other members of her family, but he remembered the Targaryen princess. "Princess…m'lady…we…this is not…" his voice trailed off, barely a whisper, only to be cut short by the young man.
"I got a bit carried away there," the squire said, still not looking at the other man. "I heard that part about the tits from Steffon."
"Don’t you think that finishing on the tits is somewhat childish?" the lady said, approaching the men. "Surely it is simpler to spill the seed in her mouth or on her face, the better to debase a woman who presumed to marry a dragon?" She met the hedge knight’s eyes while he started to rise and then sank back onto his chair, and then she shifted her gaze to the back of the second man’s head. "Isn’t that so?"
Raymun froze, looking at the tall man out of the corner of his eye, and slowly turned toward the female voice. The young apple had to look way up. A dragon. Lady Targaryen turned out to be…tall. Gods. Not as tall as Dunk, but...He rose abruptly from his seat, but even then, he looked up at her. The young man replayed his words in his head, wondering how much of what he had said the princess had heard. A cold sweat jolted through him, and his lips parted slightly. His throat constricted, bone-dry. He swallowed hard. The princess’s hair seemed to draw in the light in the dim illumination of the tent. In her eyes was strength, not madness, but a stern anger. And he had just called the Targaryens monsters. He gave his head a small shake to clear the fog, and his gaze focused on her once more.
"No, pray, continue. It is always a curiosity to learn what stirs in the minds and on the tongues of the crown’s subjects." The young woman leaned toward him slightly, looking into Raymun’s eyes without blinking. "After all, ill fares the ruler who does not heed the voice of their people."
His face aflame from her proximity. Too close. The young man had never seen any of the Targaryens so close. He was only a squire from a junior branch, and she was of the blood of the dragon. At such close range, it would have felt impossible but for the warmth of her breath that touched his face. "M'lady, he didn’t n...mean that..." the hedge knight said, standing up but slouching. "Ser Humphrey’s horse, we were discussing that the prince did not maim it on purpose. He is a prince, after all, and would not stoop so low." He flinched when the princess slowly turned her head and leaned toward him now, even though he was taller than her.
"Not on purpose? Do you truly believe that?" She clicked her tongue. "Or are you saying what a descendant of “incestuous aliens” wishes to hear?" Her words left him gasping for air, and under her gaze, he felt himself shrinking. Raymun, who a second ago had been red, suddenly turned pale, as pale as the Targaryen princess’s hair.
"M’lady…Your Grace" Dunk swallowed and tried to slightly shield the apple squire. "I…I am no good with words, m'lady. I am but a hedge knight." He bowed his head, dropping to one knee. "My friend, he’s just shaken by what he saw. I beg of you...he didn't mean no offense."
The princess only narrowed her eyes looking at the hedge knight and shifted her eyes to Raymun. "I heard you mention Steffon, and that you heard it from him…that part about the "tits"." Her shoulders relaxed slightly and her posture became less threatening but still imposing herself upon the space. "You were talking about Steffon Fossoway?" She winced, rubbing her temples, and struggling to fish that name from her memory.
The squire finally came out of his daze but did not lower his gaze, still looking at the lady. "Yes, Your Grace. I am sorry you had to hear that. I did not want to offend you personally, even though it sounded terribly offensive." He stammered, but watched her reaction closely. It reminded him of a fall on the practice field, when you don’t know whether to stand up or concede defeat. "My cousin…He says terrible things sometimes, I should not repeat those words of his. You are b-"
"Enough" the princess said, cutting his words short, and sighed while looking at Raymun. "Be careful with your words in the days to come. I may possess a clearer mind, but I am not all-forgiving." Her gaze fell again on the man still resting on one knee. "Rise…Durkan?…"
"Dunk, m'lady…" he faltered, correcting her pronunciation. "...Ser Duncan." The man straightened up, rising from his knee.
"Right, Ser Duncan. I believe I saw you on the first day of our arrival here…ah, that’s it, my brother took you for a stableboy. Correct?" A faint smile touched her lips, a bit weary but not mocking. "It seems he was mistaken. Men are often mistaken, that is not news, but rather…life." The princess’s gaze shifted to the dark-haired man. "Your name. Are you a knight as well?"
He swallowed. "Raymun Fossoway, Your Grace. I am still a squire." Her smile reminded him of an executioner's blade and a letter opener at the same time. "Forgive me." He did not try to look away. He wanted to say something pleasant, something more polite than a simple "forgive me". His cousin always managed to charm a woman, although…as the squire started to think about it, he realized that his cousin usually paid those women. The young apple ripened, yet remained green. "I shall see to it that my cousin never dares to speak that way again, and I myself will think before speaking of such things, Your Grace."
"Breathe out, Raymun Fossoway. You are lucky that it was I who overheard this conversation, young Fossoway. Had my brother or father been in my place, you would already be choking on your own apples lodged sideways in your throat." Maybe she was exaggerating about her father, but Aerion could have easily done just that. "Blood has already been spilled today, and what is a tourney without blood? Terrible and boring, as many would say. I would not want cider added to that blood, especially one so tasty. It would be travesty." A quiet chuckle escaped her lips. The young woman had already turned to leave and leave the men alone when suddenly a child nearly knocked her off her feet. The princess was already prepared to unleash her cold fury again when she heard the child's voice and froze, recognizing it.
"Aegon?" She muttered, sharply pulling the hood off the boy. She frowned, seeing her brother’s face. The boy was terrified, reeling in shock, the young dragon never expected to find his sister here. "Aegon Targaryen! You explain to me, right now, why father is searching for you and Daeron while you are here! Where is Daeron anyway? Don't tell me he left you alone, I’ll skin him alive for this!" She dropped to one knee before her brother, holding him by the shoulders. Her voice cracked as she ran one hand over the boy’s bald head. "And what happened to your hair?"
"Aerion attacked the puppeteers! He...he saw the death of a dragon in the play..."
—
When they burst into what was left of the tent, Duncan was already down, pinned to the dirt by the prince’s guard. Aegon stepped forward first, while the princess and Raymun stood behind with a few more men that the young Fossoway scrambled to find.
Her gaze flicked over her brother's face while the hedge knight protested in the background, telling Aegon not to get involved. His lip was split, but his face remained smug, while the girl behind him cried and screamed. The Targaryen princess bypassed Aegon, stepping over the wreckage of props and chairs, and climbed onto the stage, seizing her brother by the scruff, her nails burrowing into his skin. "What are you doing?! Shameless boy! Father will have your head for this." Aerion flinched, but she was already dragging him toward the exit while he kicked and struggled like an eel on a griddle. "Believe me, I will see to it. And stop squirming!" she hissed, ignoring Aerion's angry tirade. Her tense gaze fell on Duncan. "Take him. He laid hands on a prince." she told the guards and sighed, taking her younger brother's hand with her free hand, walking out of the tent past the young Fossoway and meeting his gaze.
Raymun stood frozen, expecting the order for his arrest as well, but then he noticed how she slightly lowered her eyelids and turned away. The princess’s head tilted slightly as she walked further, dragging Aerion behind her, while young Fossoway remained transfixed by her retreating figure. He used to think that dragons should inspire only fear. But for the first time, he realized they could inspire something far more dangerous.
I'm definitely not sure if you're writing about this guy, but I can't get it out of my head; it makes me feel like a supa' freak.
I absolutely love your writing style (and your drawings, for heaven's sake). I want to try asking you to write something about Raymun (he just three green apples tall!). Because he deserves more, more attention. I always love the idea of dissonance and contrasts, and considering our guy is a total Targaryen hater (we get it, bruh), it would be funny if he first hammered into Dunk's head how bad and terrible these dragon guys are, and then he sees a Targaryen Princess!Reader, for the first time, and he just bark bark bark, he's torn apart by dissonance and inner turmoil. He doesn't like the Valyrian bastards, but Her Royal Highness... man, he died on the spot. Because he is a real cutie baby green apple, and in my head the reader is sharp, abrupt, a femme fatal lady.
Thank you so much, please accept my admiration and freakiness as an offering to you, talented author. 🍋🍋🍋🍋🍋🍋
Thank you for the sweet words! This was honestly so hard to write (even if I did have fun with it). I've spent the last 4 days editing, so I really hope you guys enjoy the result. I also hope I got the vibe of your request right and didn't disappoint.
Warnings: canon-typical violence, crude language, sexual references.
The translation might be a bit off since English isn't my native language.
I also highlighted in bold the lines Raymun says about the Targaryens that come directly from the show. Everything else is my writing.
Accursed was the day she had agreed to come to Ashford. Now it had turned into a search for her brother through a stench-ridden camp packed with people. Aerion Targaryen never hid. He didn’t think it necessary, for a dragon must shine. Maekar had left to find his other two sons, leaving his eldest daughter to watch over Aerion. She loathed being here, having no desire to play babysitter to an uncontrollable brother whose behavior turned unbearable the moment their father rode off.
Now, she was more concerned that her brother might break someone’s neck. Aerion’s horse had been taken from him and given to Ser Humfrey Hardyng to replace the one he had killed during the tournament. Naturally, this upset him, though the word "upset" could not describe the emotions she saw on her brother’s face at the moment when their uncle informed him of it. The way his fists trembled, the way his lips tightened. It seemed to her that today could not get any worse, and she wanted only one thing: peace, and perhaps, a proper bath.
Wandering in her thoughts, she stumbled, catching on a tent peg, and cursed under her breath, looking up at the banner. There stood the pavilion of House Fossoway of Cider Hall. Gods be her witness, she tried to remember someone from their house who was present at the tournament, but her mind had gone completely blank. Voices could be heard from inside the tent, barely discernible, but she caught the words "Aerion," "kill," and "horse" in a single sentence.
"Why is that hard?" The question drifted through the thin fabric of the tent. The princess eased the flap back, letting the voices carry more clearly. "No, I-" the second voice wavered, and she arched an eyebrow. She knew that voice.
"They're incestuous aliens, Duncan." the first man continued. "Blood-magickers and tyrants who have burned our lands, enslaved our people, dragged us into their wars without a mote of respect for our history or our customs. Every pale-haired brat they saddled on us has been madder than the last, gods know how." The young woman only sighed, listening to all this on the other side of the fabric, and the throbbing in her temples grew sharper. She already wanted to leave, for the people inside the tent were clearly not in the mood for a conversation with a Targaryen, not to mention that they most likely hadn't seen her brother in the last hour.
"The only honorable thing a Targaryen can do for this realm is finish on his wife's tits." The princess’s jaw tightened, her teeth grinding with an audible rasp as she stepped inside. In her head, involuntarily, her mother’s voice sounded. A beautiful woman, the only one her father ever smiled at, a woman whose passing seemed to snuff out the very light of their family. Fermenting tang of cider assaulted her senses. "So aye, I think he meant to kill the fucking horse." The dark-haired man finished his tirade, looking away and taking a sip of his drink.
Raymun was too distracted to notice the uninvited guest in the small space of the tent, but Dunk noticed and froze, then swallowed hard. He had first seen her when she arrived with the other members of her family, but he remembered the Targaryen princess. "Princess…m'lady…we…this is not…" his voice trailed off, barely a whisper, only to be cut short by the young man.
"I got a bit carried away there," the squire said, still not looking at the other man. "I heard that part about the tits from Steffon."
"Don’t you think that finishing on the tits is somewhat childish?" the lady said, approaching the men. "Surely it is simpler to spill the seed in her mouth or on her face, the better to debase a woman who presumed to marry a dragon?" She met the hedge knight’s eyes while he started to rise and then sank back onto his chair, and then she shifted her gaze to the back of the second man’s head. "Isn’t that so?"
Raymun froze, looking at the tall man out of the corner of his eye, and slowly turned toward the female voice. The young apple had to look way up. A dragon. Lady Targaryen turned out to be…tall. Gods. Not as tall as Dunk, but...He rose abruptly from his seat, but even then, he looked up at her. The young man replayed his words in his head, wondering how much of what he had said the princess had heard. A cold sweat jolted through him, and his lips parted slightly. His throat constricted, bone-dry. He swallowed hard. The princess’s hair seemed to draw in the light in the dim illumination of the tent. In her eyes was strength, not madness, but a stern anger. And he had just called the Targaryens monsters. He gave his head a small shake to clear the fog, and his gaze focused on her once more.
"No, pray, continue. It is always a curiosity to learn what stirs in the minds and on the tongues of the crown’s subjects." The young woman leaned toward him slightly, looking into Raymun’s eyes without blinking. "After all, ill fares the ruler who does not heed the voice of their people."
His face aflame from her proximity. Too close. The young man had never seen any of the Targaryens so close. He was only a squire from a junior branch, and she was of the blood of the dragon. At such close range, it would have felt impossible but for the warmth of her breath that touched his face. "M'lady, he didn’t n...mean that..." the hedge knight said, standing up but slouching. "Ser Humphrey’s horse, we were discussing that the prince did not maim it on purpose. He is a prince, after all, and would not stoop so low." He flinched when the princess slowly turned her head and leaned toward him now, even though he was taller than her.
"Not on purpose? Do you truly believe that?" She clicked her tongue. "Or are you saying what a descendant of “incestuous aliens” wishes to hear?" Her words left him gasping for air, and under her gaze, he felt himself shrinking. Raymun, who a second ago had been red, suddenly turned pale, as pale as the Targaryen princess’s hair.
"M’lady…Your Grace" Dunk swallowed and tried to slightly shield the apple squire. "I…I am no good with words, m'lady. I am but a hedge knight." He bowed his head, dropping to one knee. "My friend, he’s just shaken by what he saw. I beg of you...he didn't mean no offense."
The princess only narrowed her eyes looking at the hedge knight and shifted her eyes to Raymun. "I heard you mention Steffon, and that you heard it from him…that part about the "tits"." Her shoulders relaxed slightly and her posture became less threatening but still imposing herself upon the space. "You were talking about Steffon Fossoway?" She winced, rubbing her temples, and struggling to fish that name from her memory.
The squire finally came out of his daze but did not lower his gaze, still looking at the lady. "Yes, Your Grace. I am sorry you had to hear that. I did not want to offend you personally, even though it sounded terribly offensive." He stammered, but watched her reaction closely. It reminded him of a fall on the practice field, when you don’t know whether to stand up or concede defeat. "My cousin…He says terrible things sometimes, I should not repeat those words of his. You are b-"
"Enough" the princess said, cutting his words short, and sighed while looking at Raymun. "Be careful with your words in the days to come. I may possess a clearer mind, but I am not all-forgiving." Her gaze fell again on the man still resting on one knee. "Rise…Durkan?…"
"Dunk, m'lady…" he faltered, correcting her pronunciation. "...Ser Duncan." The man straightened up, rising from his knee.
"Right, Ser Duncan. I believe I saw you on the first day of our arrival here…ah, that’s it, my brother took you for a stableboy. Correct?" A faint smile touched her lips, a bit weary but not mocking. "It seems he was mistaken. Men are often mistaken, that is not news, but rather…life." The princess’s gaze shifted to the dark-haired man. "Your name. Are you a knight as well?"
He swallowed. "Raymun Fossoway, Your Grace. I am still a squire." Her smile reminded him of an executioner's blade and a letter opener at the same time. "Forgive me." He did not try to look away. He wanted to say something pleasant, something more polite than a simple "forgive me". His cousin always managed to charm a woman, although…as the squire started to think about it, he realized that his cousin usually paid those women. The young apple ripened, yet remained green. "I shall see to it that my cousin never dares to speak that way again, and I myself will think before speaking of such things, Your Grace."
"Breathe out, Raymun Fossoway. You are lucky that it was I who overheard this conversation, young Fossoway. Had my brother or father been in my place, you would already be choking on your own apples lodged sideways in your throat." Maybe she was exaggerating about her father, but Aerion could have easily done just that. "Blood has already been spilled today, and what is a tourney without blood? Terrible and boring, as many would say. I would not want cider added to that blood, especially one so tasty. It would be travesty." A quiet chuckle escaped her lips. The young woman had already turned to leave and leave the men alone when suddenly a child nearly knocked her off her feet. The princess was already prepared to unleash her cold fury again when she heard the child's voice and froze, recognizing it.
"Aegon?" She muttered, sharply pulling the hood off the boy. She frowned, seeing her brother’s face. The boy was terrified, reeling in shock, the young dragon never expected to find his sister here. "Aegon Targaryen! You explain to me, right now, why father is searching for you and Daeron while you are here! Where is Daeron anyway? Don't tell me he left you alone, I’ll skin him alive for this!" She dropped to one knee before her brother, holding him by the shoulders. Her voice cracked as she ran one hand over the boy’s bald head. "And what happened to your hair?"
"Aerion attacked the puppeteers! He...he saw the death of a dragon in the play..."
—
When they burst into what was left of the tent, Duncan was already down, pinned to the dirt by the prince’s guard. Aegon stepped forward first, while the princess and Raymun stood behind with a few more men that the young Fossoway scrambled to find.
Her gaze flicked over her brother's face while the hedge knight protested in the background, telling Aegon not to get involved. His lip was split, but his face remained smug, while the girl behind him cried and screamed. The Targaryen princess bypassed Aegon, stepping over the wreckage of props and chairs, and climbed onto the stage, seizing her brother by the scruff, her nails burrowing into his skin. "What are you doing?! Shameless boy! Father will have your head for this." Aerion flinched, but she was already dragging him toward the exit while he kicked and struggled like an eel on a griddle. "Believe me, I will see to it. And stop squirming!" she hissed, ignoring Aerion's angry tirade. Her tense gaze fell on Duncan. "Take him. He laid hands on a prince." she told the guards and sighed, taking her younger brother's hand with her free hand, walking out of the tent past the young Fossoway and meeting his gaze.
Raymun stood frozen, expecting the order for his arrest as well, but then he noticed how she slightly lowered her eyelids and turned away. The princess’s head tilted slightly as she walked further, dragging Aerion behind her, while young Fossoway remained transfixed by her retreating figure. He used to think that dragons should inspire only fear. But for the first time, he realized they could inspire something far more dangerous.
