CurbitKirby

If there was one thing Maekar Targaryen hated, it was war. Eager foolish young men vying for titles, good men lost to petty scrimmages over land and borders. Nonsense. Unnecessary bloodshed, wasteful, and stupid. The isolation, the loneliness, the constant pounding bludgeoning fear, fear of death, of his brother's death, of slipping into the infamous Targaryen madness, and perhaps he would have, if it weren't for your letters.

His fingers drift over the small pile of them; thin strips of parchments, no less precious to him than gold itself.

It had startled him, and your husband, when the goshawk landed on the Lannister banner pole outside their tents; Maekar had only meant to being staying the night while his own pavilion was set up (he had arrived a day earlier than expected), and he had almost taken the queer orange eyed bird for a bad omen, when it cocked its head and stuck its leg out to reveal a small roll of parchment on its leg.

“Oh, for fuck’s sakes,” the Lannister boy had griped, embarrassed. “It's my fucking wife again, hold on.”

He had said it like it was a chore, a bother, a bad thing, to have someone pine for you, to have someone warming your cold bed while you waded into mud and shit and gore-

Gods, in that moment, Maekar missed his wife, and hated the Lannister boy, with all his heart. Dyanna had been gone for nigh on five years now, and he still missed her every day, and moreso, every night. Nights were always so much more difficult than day…

It was no real loss, really, when the arrow pierced the brat’s slender neck that mid-day. Maekar hadn't thought twice before taking over the young man's tent. While he hadn't set out to find them, he had stumbled upon a few pieces of your correspondence scattered around the Lannister boy’s small desk, and couldn't help himself.

They were crumpled up, and he feigned disinterest as he smoothed them out, telling himself he had to read them; they could have been important messages from their allies, they could have been updates on the enemy, but deep down he knew they were not.

They were odd, short and sweet. Little notes about how you were thinking of him, how his mother was fairing, how you prayed for his protection, how you couldn't wait to start a family with him, and Maekar had felt…regret, for his snooping.

But that hadn't stopped him from reading them over and over and over again, hadn't stopped him from bringing the scraps up to his nose and inhaling desperately, as if he could smell you on the page, but alias, they only ever smelt of parchment and ink…

If it weren't for your letters, he would have let himself be overcome by the blood lust and savagery around him. Days blurred briefly. There was nothing but violence from dawn ‘til dusk, and even then, they had to be on alert for sneak attacks in the dead of night, but every night, for the few blissful hours that he had to himself, he belonged to you.

In the following week, you sent two hawks a day; it took Maekar most of said week to realize they were two different beasts, their speckled feathers almost identical, their orange eyes the same shade, but the one that always came just after dawn was a shade smaller and only ever carried strips of parchment. The one that came in the afternoon always carried a letter attached to his chest, and on the last day of the first week, there was a small bag looped around its leg.

With great care and slow movements, Maekar took it from the bird. Without thought, he opened it, and the sight inside made his stomach knot.

A ring, a gold ring, a wedding ring, complete with the Lannister lion sigil stamped in the center. The letter was only a few lines, and he read it twice as he rolled the gold ring between his finger and thumb, scowling at your excitement about the blacksmith finally finishing the custom rings the Lannister boy had requested, and he wondered what kind of empty headed boy would go off to war without a token of his lady love, why he wouldn't have it arranged before the wedding, but it didn't matter, because the ungrateful brat would never wear it.

No one would, Maekar decided, throwing it into the simple pine box he kept your letters in.

And so they came, day after day.

Your letters always began the same, My Dearest Husband, and Maekar was thankful for that, if only because of how much easier it was to pretend he was yours when you didn't use your husband's name. True, it was printed with care on the envelopes, but he always burned those. Gods forbid someone found it and questioned what he was doing with them…

But then, what could they say? That it was a sick cruel thing to do? To accept letters, love letters at that, from a young woman who had yet to learn of her dear husband's death? To be found playing pretend like a simple child? How pathetic he would seem, how feeble they would say he was, if he was caught pretending they were for him?

But so what if he did? Was it really such a perversion? He thought, telling himself there was no harm in it, no real victim, and maybe he could have rationalized that, until he stopped the messenger from alerting the new widow Lannister of her husband's death.

“I'll write it,” he had grunted, and no one on the council had dared argue with the surly Prince. Perhaps he simply wanted to add a personal touch to the message, as he had known the boy personally, but in the end, it didn't matter, no one questioned him, not even Baelor.