em

The next morning when Baelor creeps out of his chambers and sees the books are gone, a hope she has begun to forgive him fills his chest. But the Queen’s spite was not a simple thing. She was raised among six sisters, and she was well versed in holding a grudge. Some may call it childish, or stubborn, but she prefers to think of it as principled.

Her father had always called her sharp, it was both a wonderful and terrible thing. He said it when she challenged him to a debate at the dinner table, and she fought back with a voracious wit, she often reminded him of himself as a young boy in these moments. 

Lord Tyrell would often be the one accompanying her in her time spent in Highgarden’s library, heartily discussing their favorite books, passing them back and forth. He used to dig his heels in to see how snappy his daughter could get, only his girls were allowed to speak back to him in such a way, and Aemma would only behave like a true Tyrell when she argued with her father. 

After the dust of their battles would settle is when her father often remarked on her keen mind, saying it might be sharper than his. 

But he saw how pointed his daughter could be in other ways, like when her sisters would prod too fiercely at one of Aemma’s insecurities, and she would go after them like a viper. 

She was like a feral animal with its hackles drawn, claws out and ready to draw blood, fighting back with a tenacity he had only seen in the faces of knights facing him in a joust. But, Aemma was a smart girl and knew better than to say anything too scathing, especially in the presence of their good mother and father.

Though that is not to say she did not express her temper in other ways. Once a servant boy had spread a rumor that he saw the seam of her dress rip, saying something about how she must have worn one of her sisters’ gowns. 

None of which was true, and Aemma would never let the opinion of a mere servant change those she held of herself. She had read stories about the old Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, the writers spared no detail in describing the beauty of her figure, and in those words she saw herself. Since then she had not let any insult to her appearance strike her heart fiercely, but it was the principle of what he had said and done. Acted against the daughter of the Lord of the Reach, the boy needed to be taught a lesson. 

Or at least that was how she explained herself to her father and mother after she had organized the entire castle’s staff against the boy, having them pretend he was a mere ghost in the wind. It went on for days until Lord Tyrell caught wind of it, half frustrated and half impressed with his daughter’s talents in persuasion. 

So, keeping herself stowed away in her quarters for an entire moon’s turn was not an arduous task, especially when she had Daenys at her side and Gwenyth willing to do anything to lessen her anguish. The books her husband gave her only let her hole up even longer than she would have without new reading materials. 

The King’s efforts gave her the mental fortitude to last at least a week or two longer than she had originally planned. She had thought a fortnight would teach her husband a lesson in being ignored, but the books deposited on her doorstep with a note with love from Baelor only left a rotten taste in her mouth. 

What right did he have to speak of love? Had he ignored her for over a year with love? Made her feel invisible with love? Did he refuse to look at her on their wedding night out of love? If he has love for her, she thought, he has an atrocious way of showing it. The only thing of love that has come from their relationship is Daenys.

And the Queen assumed the stack to be some apologetic stunt, but Aemma’s forgiveness could not be bought with six books. He would have to work far harder to earn it.

So, she was resolved to make him truly feel the ache she had. If his talk of love was true, then her absence would have him feel an ounce of the pain he had made her feel.

*****

A week after the Queen had ‘accepted’ his gift and she still had not left the room, the King started to grow restless. He had thought her taking the literature meant she would leave the room, but still she was nowhere to be seen and Daenys was alone in their quarters like every night before. 

The next week that passed without sight of his wife, he sought out Gwenyth to ask her how Aemma was faring, but the old woman only said she was where she had been. Her ever vague answers were beginning to weigh on him. 

After a turn of the moon, his brother was beginning to question the King’s senses, “Seven fucking Hells, brother, could you be still for a moment?” 

Baelor is pacing across the floor of his solar, as his brother sits in a chair looking on in indignation.

His elder brother stops his motions, turning to face his brother, “Maekar. I have not seen her for a month. Daenys’s absence from her bassinet in the mornings is the only indication I have that she is still breathing, and holding her at night has been my only comfort.”

“And how exactly does wearing a path in the stone help with your predicament? Do you plan to burrow your way through the floor to her chambers?” The blond’s patience was running thin. 

The King’s eyes narrow, “Have you sworn some sort of oath to make light of all my troubles, brother, or does it simply bring you joy?”

Maekar lets out a chuckle, “I have done no such thing, but it does amuse me.”

“If you are not going to offer any productive input, then you can see yourself out.” He heaves out a sigh.

A sly smile spreads across the younger brother’s face, breaking eye contact with the other man before responding, “I do not know why you are so worried, I saw her wandering about in the gardens earlier today.”

Baelor’s chest feels as if it is caving in, “You saw her and did not think to inform me immediately?” He was not one to raise his voice, especially at his own family, but his volume was getting dangerously close. If he was speaking to anyone besides Maekar, they likely would cower. “All the times you have complained of my ‘incessant chatter’ about her absence, and you neglect to tell me?”

A huff of boredom falls from Maekar’s lips, “When the Queen left her chambers, I believed you would have been the first notified. It is not as if I hid this information from you with malicious intent.” His smile curls devious, “She looked nice.” And even with the cautious look Baelor sets on him, he continues on, “She was wearing a gown with the colors of her house, green and gold suit her beautifully, you know?”

The two men grew side by side, so Baelor knows exactly when his little brother is trying to get a rise out of him, and he hates to admit when it works, “Stop.”

“You were right, she is quite the vision,” he tosses his hand off to the side, as if he is playing off his words with the simple motion. “The dress’s cut exposed the slope of her shoulders, and I am not sure if you’ve noticed, but her skin is covered with these most delicate moles and-”

The King crosses the room to stand before his brother, “Cease this. Of course I know she has freckles, it was not as if I had my eyes closed!”

Maekar stares up at his brother, his posture relaxed, he is not perturbed by the outburst, “From what you’ve told me, you might as well have.”

Huffing out a breath, Baelor responds, “Please do not push me brother.” He hasn’t the slightest idea why his Hand is trying to provoke a rise out of him, but he desperately wants it to stop. “I know where I’ve failed her, there is no need to remind me with this performance.” The younger brother straightens his back and clears his throat, beckoning him to continue, sensing that his brother is not done just yet. “Did you speak with her?” Spoken in a whisper, as if he was afraid of the answer.

He hums, “No, she was…occupied. I merely caught sight of her.” The blond neglects to tell his brother who exactly the Queen was ‘occupied’ with, wants to see if Baelor will pry for more information. 

Although the King’s mind does not follow the path his Hand laid out, lips and eyebrows turn down, “You saw her feeding Daenys?” His tone is incredulous, he does not wish to live in a world where any man other than him sees his wife in such a state. “And you leered long enough to remember the details of her skin?” Trying to keep his calm, but he can feel the anger bubbling up his throat.

Maekar’s eyes widen and his mouth opens slightly, “Wha- Fucking hell! No!” He almost laughs at the ridiculous accusation, but he knows better than to truly push his brother too far, and chuckling would do just that. “I merely meant that she was already engaged in conversation with someone else, they seemed absorbed in their conversation about some boring book of poems, and it would have been improper of me to interrupt them.”

Baelor’s shoulders fall as he takes a step back from his brother, his mind stopped listening the moment he said he hadn’t seen you in a state of undress. Slowly, he makes his way around his desk to sit in his chair, Maekar following by turning his chair around so he could continue facing him. 

With his elbows planted on the wood of his desk, he holds his head in his hands, sighing out, “I apologize, little brother.” He rakes his fingers through his hair, the metal from his rings occasionally scratches his scalp, “I should not ha-”

His motions and voice freeze as he finally processes what exactly the Hand had said. Dropping his hands from the top of his head, and with a raised he locks eyes with his brother, “You said she was speaking to someone?”

Maekar cannot hold back the smirk that crosses his face as his brother falls into the trap he set, “Yes.” He holds back from speaking further, ever the youngest sibling, he loves to see the practiced, tranquil demeanor, his eldest brother held onto so fiercely, slip.

The King’s jaw clenches as the pair silently hold eye contact, challenging the other to speak first.

But Baelor has found that his countenance is easily broken when it comes to his wife recently, so he breaks the silence, “Was it Gwenyth?”

The Hand of the King knows that his brother is going mad on the inside, and he wants to draw it out, “Is Gwenyth a man?”

The elder settles back into his chair and clasps his hands tightly in lap, his voice deadly calm, “It was a man?” The relief he had felt just a moment ago vanished like smoke. 

“Yes, some noble lord from the Reach, if my memory serves me.” He reigns in the grin that threatens to spread over his lips.

“The Reach? Do they know each other?” Baelor asks as he leans forward on his knees.

“I do not know brother, as I said, I did not intrude on their conversation.” The blond sits back in his seat. 

The King’s eyes search over his face for a moment, “Do you know of him?”

Maekar is enjoying this little game of his, and he is by no means finished, “Yes, I do.” Once again letting a silence settle between them, it seems to be the language the eldest speaks most fluently. 

Baelor grinds his teeth, “Go on, brother.”

The younger man hums before responding, “He’s Quenton Hightower’s boy, Ormund. Heir to Old Town.”

An unsettling feeling festers in the King’s stomach. The likelihood of the two having met before is high, and he knows the young man is of similar age to his wife. So, there is a chance the Hightower boy, in another life where Aemma’s father hadn’t given away her hand to the crown, would have been the one his wife was wed to in his stead.

He feels the blood in his veins chilling at the thought of this boy, trying to cozy up to his wife, and then he feels sick for feeling that way at all. She was only his wife by law, he had not acted the part of a dutiful husband their entire union, the envy he feels makes his stomach turn with guilt. He is beginning to feel disgusted with what this whole mess has turned him into.

Busying himself with straightening the parchments on his desk, he looks away from his brother before finally responding, “Very well.” He clears his throat, “I have some petitions I need to look over.”

Maekar rolls his eyes before pushing his chair back, and standing from it, “Fine. I’ll allow you to continue your sulking in peace. But you should know, women do enjoy being desired, wanted, seen. The silence between the two of you will heal no wounds and solve no problems.” 

But Baelor does not respond, he only picks up his quill and begins to make marks on the papers laid across the table. The younger brother sighs before he takes his leave.

Once the door falls shut behind him the quill drops from the King’s fingers, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath. His mind constructs dozens of scenarios of his wife and this Ormund Hightower wandering in the luxurious gardens of Highgarden. 

The worst of which are the ones where she confesses her love to the boy, and the wicked whispers in his mind remind him that his wife has never said those words to him. 

Baelor lets these thoughts consume his mind until a servant enters the solar to remind him of another meeting that required his attendance, which he was evidently already late for. He must have lost himself. 

*****

A full turn of the moon passes before Aemma decides the discipline she’s inflicting on her husband has become more of a punishment for herself, she misses the smell of the flowers from the garden that the wind carries through the grounds, and she dearly misses the feeling of that very wind on her skin.

And while Aemma’s will is strong, she is not a god. This isolation has not been enjoyable for her, it has affected her. It was bearable, yes, she would not have done it otherwise, but she liked to be outdoors, and sometimes, if she was lucky, she would happen upon someone who would actually speak to her. She misses that, is practically aching for it. It pains her to leave Daenys behind, but she is desperate to venture outside.

Over their stay locked away in her chambers, Daenys’s mid-day naps had begun to last hours. So, on the day she finally ended her seclusion, she took those hours to quickly and quietly clothe herself in a proper dress for the first time in weeks and leave her quarters with a plan to make her way to the gardens she had been pining to be in. She has several dresses stored in their apartments in case she decided on a whim she no longer liked the silhouette of her gown and wanted to change. Today, she decides to pull out one of her favorites that she had taken with her on her journey from Highgarden to King’s Landing. It’s made mostly from a rich, light green satin with gold detailing, and it is styled to fall off both shoulders.

Makes her feel royal, like she deserves to be there.

She wanted to look nice, it would at least take her mind off worrying of other’s perception of her. The Queen knew exactly what expectations every member of court was likely to have of her after time in solitude, and she wanted to prove them wrong.

She leaves the room after slipping on her shoes, picking up a book, and checking to make sure Daenys is still asleep, ensuring the door closes silently. Most people are occupied with duties of the day at this time, so the halls are generally empty, which she is slightly grateful for. 

Suddenly, after turning down cobbled hallways and twisting staircases, she finds herself in front of a balcony with stairs leading down into the vast gardens. She wants to savor the moment of seeing it again.

It is beautiful.

Aemma did not have a view of it from her chambers, but the flora is just as vibrant as she remembers. Colorful flowers are laid across different levels, which are framed with sweeping willow trees.

There were many occasions she wished she lived here, constantly surrounded by this beauty. She would close her eyes and imagine she was far away from the dullness of her life, another world entirely, but still with Daenys on her hip. No existence of hers would be perfect without perfect babe.

And sometimes on days where she was very lonely, she would envision her husband there too. He would smile at her like he did not despise her very presence as he did in reality, and he would play with Daenys.

If her mind allowed these fantasies to go on too long they would only spiral into melancholy, so they were always short-lived. 

As is this one, as she quickly shakes herself out of her stupor before making her way down the stairs and beginning to wander through the pathways looking for a nice place to sit. 

She eventually finds a bench half covered in shade from a nearby tree, and makes herself comfortable. The sun's rays hitting her skin so directly mixed with the sweet breeze almost bring the Queen to tears. 

After a time of sitting and getting drawn into the book of poetry she brought with her, she sees someone walk over and stand before her in her periphery. And as she was raised as a proper lady, she marks her page with her pointer finger and looks up at the man who stood before her.

“Ormund?!” She exclaims, letting the book fall from her grip as she launches herself at the man, not caring much for propriety.

He chuckles as he returns the hug, “Hello, your grace.”

Aemma playfully shoves him away, “Do not insult me with such honorifics!”

The Hightower folds his arms and smirks down at her, “Well, you are the Queen now. Is that not how I should address you?” 

Scoffing, she says, “If we had not grown up alongside each other, then of course, but you should know better.”

“We’ve only just reunited and you are already badgering me,” he sighs out, dramatically running a hand down his face.

She clicks her tongue against the back of her teeth, “Ormund, you would have died years ago without my badgering.”

He lets out an airy laugh, “You’re right.” Then he bends down to pick up the book Aemma had dropped to the ground, but not before catching the title, “Here, I finished it just recently. I liked it, though I found some of the writers to be quite…uh arduous to read.”

The Queen’s lips curl into a mischievous smile as she snatches the book from his hands, “Ah yes, I was always better with the poets than you were.” She haughtily places herself back on the bench behind them.

Ormund’s jaw falls open and he raises a brow at her, “Do not lie, it is unbecoming.” He takes a seat next to her, “I meant some of them write superfluously, as if they are not confident in the words they have chosen. The mark of a poor poet, not a poor reader.”

Aemma’s eyes roll, “It was merely a jest.”

“I know,” he chuckles.

It has been well over two years since the two had seen each other, and Aemma was not expecting him, so she was unsure what exactly he had made the journey for. 

He was Quenton Hightower’s eldest son, but he was the same age as Aemma, so they were quick friends. And while he could not shirk the responsibilities of knighthood and sportsmanship he had as the first son of a noble lord, he would always find time to send letters to her, and speak in person when they visited each other, discussing the books they had been reading. 

He was the closest friend she had who she was not related to. 

She turns her head to look at him, “What are you doing here, Ormund?” The playful attitude she held previously has fallen.

He does not make eye contact with her, instead choosing to stare at his hands, folded in his lap. Aemma catches sight of a certain blond Targaryen staring at the pair over his shoulder, throwing a quizzical glance. The Hand of the King offers no physical response other than the turn of his body as he walks away. 

“Your father, he was told by an informant you had sequestered yourself, and no one knew the reason.” He sighs out, dragging up one of his hands to rake it through his auburn hair, “He was worried, asked me if I knew anything, and since you’ve neglected our friendship for so many moons, I had no information to give him.” He finally meets her gaze, “And seeing your father so distressed only made my stomach curdle, so I bade him to let me visit you. Check on you with my own eyes, Seven willing.” His hand falls back into his lap, and he wishes to grasp onto hers, but he knows better.

She smiles warmly at him, “Well…here I am!”

He returns a smile, but it is grim, “Why has no one seen you for a month?”

Her smile falls, and she turns away from him, “It is a private matter.”

“A private matter…” He hums, “It would be the first you would not share with me.”

“As you said, I am the Queen now.” She starts to pick at the jewels attached to the bodice of her dress. 

Ormund huffs as he bends over to try and make eye contact with her again, “Am I no longer your closest friend?”

Thinking for a moment, she chuckles, “No. Daenys is.”

The man shoots off the bench, glaring down at his friend, “That is not fair! She cannot even speak, and I have known you far longer!” Aemma lets out a hearty laugh, and it feels wonderful. She has not laughed this hard in ages.

“You are arguing about a baby.” She says, trying to suppress her giggles.

“A baby who has stolen you from me.”

“Stop huffing like a child, you are six and twenty years old.” The Queen gestures back to the bench, “Sit down.” He follows the orders, “Your friendship is still very dear to me, I am sorry if my words hurt you.” A flash of worry passes over her face, “It would break my heart if you did not love her.”

“No!” He takes hold of her forearm, “No, Aemma, I am sorry.” She places her hand on top of his before he continues, “I have just missed you, and acted out of sorts. Of course I love her, I would also love to meet her finally, she must meet her most favorite uncle.”

Her face brightens, “Oh, yes! That would be wonderful! She is the most lovely little girl, and she will adore her Uncle Ormund.” She turns her body away from him to pick up the book she set aside. “I will make arrangements for you two to meet.” Cracking the book open, she turns to lock gazes with him again, “Now, which poems left a poor taste in your mouth, I myself-”

He cuts her off, “Aemma, why have you been hidden away for a month? What happened? I know you enjoy your solitude, but I have never seen you act as such.” 

The hands of the Queen freeze on the page, closing her eyes, “It is a matter between the King and I.”

Her friend’s eyebrows furrow, “Has he done something to you?” A beat passes. “Has he hurt you?”

A look of pure shock takes over her face, “What!” She exclaims. “No, absolutely not. He is a,” She hesitates for a moment, because there was once a time when she would have finished the phrase with ‘good man’, but the word cannot seem to crawl out of her throat, “noble man. He would never do such a thing.”

“Then what did he do?” He asks exasperatedly.

“He has not done anything.” Aemma replies with an indignant attitude.

Ormund sighs dramatically, “Seven Hells, if he’s done nothing, then what is wrong?”

“That is precisely what is wrong,” she does not want to raise her voice in public, but she is getting upset having to explain herself. “He has done nothing our entire marriage, except on the night of the wedding. He acts as if I do not exist to him, looks right through me when we pass in the halls.”

The man sits back on the bench, “So that is why you locked yourself away?”

“Partially…” The Queen says as she shrinks timidly into herself.

“Aemma, I do not want to pry, but I am worried.” She looks for any ounce of insincerity on his face, but finds none. And she trusts him like a brother.

“One moon ago, he tried to take Daenys from me.” She mutters, somewhat embarrassed her own husband would treat her as such.

“On what grounds?!” The veins on the side of his neck bulge as he raises his voice. 

“He said his maesters have concerns over my bond with the babe, wanted to see if I would be willing to let her be with some sort of governess for most of the day, and I denied him. Daenys is everything to me, I cannot bear to be apart from her for too long.” Still, even after so many weeks, recounting the events of that night filled her body with a chilling insecurity. 

When she begged her father to send her name in as a potential wife to the Heir to the Iron Throne after his miraculous return to life, she had thought of him as a kind and gentle man. She had not believed she would actually be chosen, so when word had been sent to her father that Baelor himself had picked her, the, then, Lady Tyrell had been deliriously euphoric. 

It was like out of the fairytales her mother told her growing up. The Prince of her dreams had selected her as his next wife, they were to be wed, be merry, and she would give him heirs.

Which had made their reality all the more humiliating.

Ormund’s voice brings her out of her thoughts, “Has he taken leave of his senses? What is wrong with him? His brother’s mace strike too hard?” 

With a gaping mouth, the Queen shushes him before looking around to assure no one heard his outburst, “Stop that. Even if he has not been a good husband, he is an excellent King. It is a blessing to the realm that he survived the Trial.”

He raises a brow at her, “How can you defend him?”

“I am doing no such thing,” she sighs out. “He is a complicated man, my husband. You can see it in his eyes, the way his duty wears on him. I do not think he believes he can escape it.” Aemma rests a hand over her chest, to calm her racing heart, “He has hurt me, I have no aims to deny that, but he has lost so much. And I would not have my precious daughter without him. As such, I cannot find it in my heart to hate him.”

“You are too kind for this world, Aemma.” He holds his hands out between them, and she takes them. “I just wish for your happiness, you know? That is all I have ever wanted.” 

“Yes, yes, I know. Sometimes you are just a bit…melodramatic in your delivery.” As she speaks she flings their hands about to demonstrate his behaviors. 

“It is only because I care about you so greatly.” He squeezes on her hands. 

The Queen holds back a laugh for just a moment before it tumbles out, “Stop being so sentimental, it is unlike you, and disturbs me.”

“Sush, we are having a nice moment, do not ruin it with your blabbering.” There are bright smiles on both of their faces.

“Ah! There is the boy I know so well. You had been serious for so long I was beginning to worry.” 

He unclasps one of their hands and uses it to pinch the skin beneath the fabric of her dress, “Imagine how I have felt for the past moons, with barely any communication from you.” 

Their remaining clasped hands fall apart as they sit back against the wooden bench once again. 

The Queen sighs, “I am sorry. I had not meant to worry you.” She chuckles after a moment, “Raising a babe is difficult work.”

“I know, that is why I am just here now. If I had my way, I would have followed you here as your appointed guard.” His chest puffing up as he speaks.

“Oh yes, my faithful guard.” 

He scoffs at her sly remark, “My Lady, I will have you know I have sworn fidelity as a knight of Old Town. I have been trained from birth to be a proper soldier, I do believe I could protect a lady.”

“Of course you could. I have seen you in the tiltyard, you are good with a sword.” The Queen holds a sincere face for a moment, before letting out a chuckle, “Sorry, it is not in my nature to compliment you.”

“You are a terrible friend, my Queen.” He does not mean it, cannot even say it with a smile taking over his lips.

“And yet, you still love me.” She smiles back at him.

He does not respond for a moment, eventually mumbling, “Yes, unfortunately, I do.”

Aemma narrows her eyes at him, firstly because she is perturbed by her slightly annoying best friend, and secondly because the sun is starting to set and its rays are beginning to attack her eyes. It reminds her that Daenys will probably awake soon, and the babe hates to wake up without her mother there.

So, she stands from the bench, straightens her skirts, and picks up the book she had taken out into the room with her before turning to her friend, “I am afraid I am on a very strict schedule, and have a hungry baby I must attend to.” She beckons him to rise. “It was truly wonderful to see you.” 

Pulling him into a hug, she whispers into his ear, “I will find you tomorrow, and you must tell me of what you have gotten up to in my absence.” She covers her mouth, just to ensure no onlookers would try to figure out what their conversation is about, “I heard the rumblings of you and Ser Ambrose. Just because you do not mention things to me does not mean I do not have little birds elsewhere.” She pulls away from him, and his face has gone still. “They even say you two are in love. I was not going to mention it, as I thought it would be short lived like most of your interests, but I kept getting reports of you with the same person. If anyone should be upset, it is I.” She smirks as she turns to walk the path back to the castle.

Brief Background: Third born daughter of Lord Leo Tyrell and his wife Arrana of House Hightower. The couple have seven children, all girls. Growing up their father was very protective of the men allowed around his daughters, because of his lack of male children he had to assure favorable marriages for his girls. And by the time Aemma was married to Baelor her eldest sister, Serra, had already given birth to the heir of Highgarden. So, he was less worried about making strong political alliances with his other daughters’ marriages, giving them a chance to seek out a match on their own. Spent most of her childhood indoors at the library, where she gained a love for reading which eventually transformed into a love for writing as well. 

(idk if leo tryell has any mentioned lore/canon wife. i couldn't find anything. so i made my own up bc i can do what i want)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day passes by for the King in a haze. The door to Aemma’s private chambers never opened while he could see, and he had not seen the Queen or the princess roaming the ground as they were wont to do. He eventually finds himself in the chambers of the Small Council, his eyes glaze over as he barely listens to what the men around him say. Suddenly Grand Maester Yormwell calls for his attention.

“My King, were you able to speak with the Queen about Princess Daenys?” All the men in his council have spoken to him as if he will shatter in front of them at any moment since his miraculous return from the brink of death, and the Grand Maester is no different.

“The matter has been seen to, and should not be discussed any further.” He says it with finality in his voice, and the maester lets out a breath of relief.

“So the Queen agreed to a governess?” The old man’s voice was hopeful, and it filled Baelor with disgust. All he can see behind his eyes is the painful look in your eyes from the night before.

“No. The babe is perfectly well at the side of her mother, the matter is finished. I would have been better off not having listened to your whingings. I should be lucky if my wife ever lets me near the babe again.” Mismatched eyes glare daggers into the older man. 

Beside the King sits his brother, Maekar, with a brow raised. His eldest brother had acted like this on very rare occasion, and when he did it only meant Baelor had reached the end of his seemingly endless calm. Which would not be a proper sight for most to behold.

“Get out.” And as he is the Hand of the King, they listen without much fuss, quickly scattering from the room. Wordlessly the silver-haired man rises from his chair and walks over to the flagon of wine off to the side. Bringing it over to the large ornate wood table where his brother sat in his stupor, he poured more wine in his goblet before setting the flagon on the table. 

Maekar places his hands on the table so he can lean over and have a better view of his brother’s face. He had spent his life observing everyone around him, and he knows his family the best of all. He knows something has shaken Baelor. “What happened brother? You have been lost to your mind all day.”

“Little brother…my wife, she fears me,” He says looking up to meet his Hand’s gaze. “Last night when I spoke to her about that man’s concerns she…she put herself in between the babe and me. As if I meant them harm.” His voice does not shake, but it has lost the authority it is so oft to carry. “I do not know what to do, brother. I fear she is too far gone to pull back to me.” The king’s eyes are hollow, broken in a way Maekar has never seen them. 

At a loss for words, the Hand of the King falls back into his chair and takes a large swig of his own chalice of wine. He takes a deep breath in as the elder hangs his head in his hands. “Did she say anything?”

“That Daenys was hers alone, and no one would ever take her from her, not even me. As if that is what I wanted. Then took the babe to her bedchambers and I have yet to see them since.” The King heaves out.

Maekar had of course heard the whispers from the servants and nobles alike of his brother’s marriage, but he had seen his brother take on so much in the past year and did not wish to ask him to wander into the dredges of his tumultuous union. 

He knew the rumors that the King and Queen rarely, if ever, spoke. He saw her haunted eyes at dinners where both their attendance was mandatory, and the shell his brother has turned into in the wake of everything. The Hand was not dull, he knew the truth of their marriage. 

“Has she kept the babe from you before?” With that accusation the King snaps his head toward his brother.

“No! Aemma would not do such a thing-” 

And while Maekar may not hold ill-will toward her in any way, if his brother would not act with logic and reason then he must, “How are you to know that?” His brother’s glare darkens toward him, but he continues on. “Do you truly know the woman? Brother, you picked her because she was the first name on a list. And if rumors are to be taken as truth, then you both have barely exchanged words since your wedding ceremony!”

“Do not speak of her in such a way.” He does not raise his voice, as he is wont not to do with his brothers, but his tone is final. “I know what I have done and how I have treated her, but she used to be warm. When we were first married and she would not cease talking about whatever new poem she had just read I found it irritating, but now that I am without it…I fear I would be cold even if I set myself alight.” He hesitates momentarily before revealing, “I held Daenys for the first time yesterday, Maekar, and she screamed as if she did not even recognize me. It is me who is at fault, brother. I know it. If Aemma has acted unseemly it is because I have pushed her to do so.” 

Maekar reaches out and grasps his brother’s shoulder, “Tell me, Baelor, what has happened between Aemma and you? Why would you not hold your babe until now?”

The King rakes a hand through his short hair, “It felt wrong. I had done nothing but bring despair to this woman’s life, what right do I have to the child she went through the pain of the birthing bed for? And she said just last night, Daenys is hers. When we were wed I was distraught, and I was a ghost haunting our chambers.” Baelor’s chest rises and falls as he takes a deep breath. “The first moment I found myself seeking her company after moons of barely even chatter from her, I remember finding her by herself in the garden wearing this yellow gown that made her look like the sun. And even there, surrounded by the rarest flowers in the realm she looked at me as if I had sucked the life from her very soul. I have ruined this woman’s life, Maekar. Where do I even go from here? How do I even begin to repair the mess I’ve made?”

“On your hands and knees, brother, hoping she graces you with her forgiveness.”

A silence settles between the two.

******

Queen Consort Aemma had not left her bedchambers even when she awoke from her slumber. Her eyes wrenched open when the sun rose and settled upon the sleeping beauty laid beside her. The little girl’s chest rises and falls, letting out small huffs of breath. Delicate blonde eyelashes lay on her pudgy cheeks, and for a moment the Queen’s life pinholes to the vision in front of her. Daenys had decided to sleep through the night for the first time of her precious life, maybe she had sensed her mother needed the rest. 

For a moment the lady pretends the world does not extend beyond the four walls of her chamber. The mere sight of her babe could sustain her. She was like an angel born from her own womb. 

She knew of the murmurs around the castle, for the walls were not as thin as people were oft to think. They all thought she was lost to the throes of childrearing, and the lady would not deny those claims. As Daenys has truly become her entire world since the moment of the babe’s birth. 

She has the most beautiful eyes in the entire kingdom, Aemma is sure. Multicolored like her father, one blue like his, but she had inherited the Targaryen violet in her other. The first time she opened her eyes it felt as if the color returned to the Queen’s vision all at once. The babe has also had the traditional hair of her father’s house, silver tresses growing out in small curls the queen adored wrapping around her finger. 

The Queen’s life was still quiet, yes. Her husband along with everyone else in the castle treated her as a ghost, but Daenys did not. She looked at Aemma as if she was her sun. It was not only the Queen that longed for her company, there was no question that Daenys was a mama’s girl. 

The little princess would giggle and smile at every word that left her mother’s mouth, the only times she was fussy was when her mother wasn’t within her sights or she was hungry. The lady was eternally grateful for the gift of a glad baby. 

After a short while of Aemma staring at the precious bundle lying beside her, she hears the shuffle of servants bringing in the pastries they enjoyed to break their fast. She waited for the sound of the door closing behind the last of the attendants leaving the chambers. And as she would rather anything than see her husband’s face, lest she hear more of his and his maester’s concerns, for the foreseeable future, she decides to take their treats in her chambers. 

Slowly, she peels away the quilt covering her body. Careful not to wake the child in bed next to her, she inches off the plush mattress. She successfully leaves the room with Daenys still sound asleep. While out in their shared quarters, Aemma collects a few books to read while she secludes herself before grabbing the tray of pastries. 

When she is finally settled back in bed, seated against the pillows lining the headboard with the treats placed in front of her, she reaches over and rubs the babe’s stomach to wake her calmly. Daenys seems unhappy with being awoken, but when she opens her eyes and sees just who the hand belongs to she is giving the Queen a gummy smile. Blabbering something in gibberish, Aemma responds with gentle coos.

“Good morning, petal.” The little girl in question reaches up and takes ahold of one of her mother’s fingers, “Did you sleep well, my princess?” Stretching out the finger possessed by her daughter, Aemma tickles the baby’s pudgy stomach earning a sweet laugh from Daenys. “You let your mama sleep through the night, how very courteous, your grace.” 

The Queen scoops the babe off the bed and cradles her into her arms. Daenys immediately starts pawing at her breast, “I’m shocked you could go so long without food, such a little voracious eater you are.” She unlaces her shift and brings her daughter to her chest so she can eat. 

These moments are Aemma’s most favorite. She would often take Daenys into her chambers to feed her in the mornings. Laying against the plush pillows with her greatest treasure in her arms and the rays from her windows warming their skin. She would cling to these precious minutes when the despair of her life felt heavier than all else. 

The lady fussed over her babe while she drank greedily before Daenys decided she was finished for the time being. Tying up her shift, she sets the baby down between her legs before grabbing the tray of pastries and pulling it closer to her. Picking up a tart, but before eating it herself she takes a small dab of jelly on her pinky finger and holds it in front of Daenys. 

“Would you like some jam, my love?” In response the baby opens her mouth and giggles. “I should know better than to ask by now.” 

The mother and daughter spend the rest of the day lazing away in bed. Gwenyth comes by to check on them once, which Aemma uses as an opportunity to request the meals be brought to her chambers. For she was in no mood to deal with the vicious eyes and mouths that lie outside the doors to her and her husband’s shared quarters. 

After the pair of them had eaten mid-day the little princess decided she wanted to take a nap. So, the queen laid the babe on her chest and let her rest. In the quiet Aemma’s mind is no longer distracted with the presence of her daughter and thoughts of her conversation with her husband from last night crawl toward the front of her mind. 

He had startled her when he spoke so directly to her, as he had not done so since he asked for the babe’s name. When she first met the man his voice was a comfort to her, it was warm and he always spoke with a cadence that commanded a room. 

In the beginning of their marriage she spoke to him often, trying to fill the silences he would leave, but he would always respond with short, clipped phrases and words. After a few moons of her efforts being completely unfruitful, she began talking less and then she stopped trying to speak to him at all.

Now, his voice makes her skin freeze over. She scarcely ever hears it anymore, only through walls or words mumbled toward pieces of parchment. Never meant for her ears to hear. 

It was not as if they had ever been particularly close, the closest they ever were was when they consummated their vows and even then her husband barely touched her and had not even spared a glance her way. During the moment she had tried not to think so hard about how dirty it made her feel, but the longer the man went on ignoring her the worse she felt. These feelings were not aided by almost everyone in the Keep acting as if she does not exist.

But her husband had never made her out to be insane before last night, when he had burst into her serenity and, with that calm voice of his, and tried to rip her precious daughter away from her. Saying some nonsense about his maesters and their concerns over their ‘closeness,’ although the coldness lodged in Aemma’s heart whispers these concerns come from the King himself. 

A wicked part of the Queen’s soul had hoped he came into their room to finally speak to her. Even after over a year of almost complete silence she could not help but yearn for him. 

She had been so excited when her father had informed her of her impending marriage with the, at that time, Crown Prince of the Seven Realms. Having seen him once at a tourney, she had become immediately besotted with him. With his dark hair and tan skin. 

At the time she had not gotten the chance to speak with him, but still her mind wove fantasies of a great romance. However, the reality of her marriage to Baelor was nothing like her dreams. But still the wicked part of her hopes. 

Daenys begins to gurgle on her chest, bringing her out of her thoughts. She entertains the babe until the servants bring in her dinner. Which she eats quickly so she can feed her daughter, who is starting to fuss. She knows her husband is wont to return to their chambers after he takes dinner in his solar, and upon his arrival takes time to look over their girl. And even though she wishes her kindness had been burned out of her ages ago, she would not dream of keeping him away from Daenys. 

So, after the babe unlatches from her breast she gathers Daenys in her arms, and, not before peeking out to make sure the room is empty, takes her out to the bassinet in their shared quarters. Letting her little girl await her father’s return. The short walk back to her room alone has never made her feel this ill.

*****

Baelor takes his supper in his solar later that night as he has done since his wife ceased making attempts to speak to him when they used to share the meal. After his cup is empty and his plate is clear, he slowly begins to make his way back to his chambers, and when he comes to their imposing, oak door he hesitates to reach for the handle. He has not seen Aemma all day, and he does not want to destroy any serenity she has created for herself since he took a hammer to it last night. 

So, instead he knocks on the door, but after a few moments of silence, he takes that as response enough and enters the room. He immediately notices his wife’s absence from the common room, even though they did not speak she was always there, and the room feels emptier than it ever has before. 

His melancholy is momentarily quashed when he catches sight of the occupant of the bassinet in the center of the room, letting out a breath he was unaware he was holding. 

It is ungraceful the way he shuffles over to stand in front of the wooden cradle holding his precious daughter, but he cannot bring himself to care. She is awake, but just barely, squinting her eyes up at the man hunched over her. Within a few seconds though she seems to recognize him because she gives him a small smile and reaches one hand up at him. 

He does not want to startle her so he carefully takes the babe’s pudgy little hand in his large, calloused one, slowly rubbing over the folds at her wrist, “Hello, little one.” It has been so long since Valarr and Matarys were babies, and they were not nearly as well-fed as Daenys. But Baelor only thought it made her all the more precious, as did the rest of the Kingdom.

Even though the court seemed to have followed his lead in ignoring his wife, they had all taken quite a liking to Daenys, saying she was a true Targaryen beauty, and he would not disagree with them. 

She seems to grow unsatisfied with the limited contact from him because she starts whining and grabbing at his sleeve with the hand he does not have a hold of, as if she is asking him to hold her. Her father’s hand stills its movements on her hand at her wordless plea, which only makes her cry louder, and once again, without using much of the mind he has strived so long to polish, he gathers Daenys in his arms. 

However, this time instead of squirming and making a fuss, she nuzzles into her father’s chest and grips onto the fabric of the doublet he had yet to change out of. One of his arms is placed firmly under her with his elbow supporting her head, and his over is occupied twisting her short, curled locks around his fingers. He does not stay standing for long, as he feels the strength of his legs begin to give way, and goes to sit on the settee in front of the hearth. 

He can do nothing but stare down at her, how she seems to find peace in his arms. He trails his hand from her hair to caress one of her rosy cheeks, and her eyes keep fluttering closed before opening again to stare up at her father before fluttering all over again and beginning the cycle anew. 

They settle in the silence for a while, the King battling away notions of his treachery and echoes of her cries the last time she was in his arms, not wanting to besmirch this lovely moment. Daenys is doing little else besides yawning and her eyes are closed more often than not until she is entirely asleep. He cannot bear to lay her back in her crib just yet, so he holds her just a bit longer, and tries not to worry if he will ever be able to do this again.

The only reason he gets off the settee is because the fire begins to dwindle, and the supply of chopped wood in their quarters has been depleted. So, he gently takes Daenys back to her bassinet so as not to wake her. Once he is sure she is sound asleep he retreats to his private bedchambers, and changes into his bed clothes.

The King lays atop the quilt laid across his bed, the chill laden across his body would not be sated by a simple piece of thick cloth. Not when his wife had intentionally hidden herself away from him the entire day. He could only hope tomorrow she would at least let him see her once. 

In darkness the fears he had silenced while holding his daughter came to the forefront of his mind. All he can hear is her shrieks and he can still feel the way she tried to squirm out of his hold yesterday. His mind taunts him and tells him that her calmness tonight was a mistake. That his daughter fears him just as much as his wife does. 

After his mind torments him for as long as it sees fit, he falls asleep dreaming that when he awakes his wife and daughter will be waiting for him out in their lounge, and this past year will have been a terrible, twisted dream rendition of his true life with Aemma. One where he graciously accepted the warmth and love his wife so readily offered him upon their marriage. 

But he rouses the next morning and finds no such world exists. Yet worse was when he leaves his bedchamber and finds Daenys’s bassinet empty, meaning the Queen either waited for him to return to his bed or woke before he did to collect their daughter and bring her to her chambers. For he found no evidence of nor had he heard her preparing for the day ahead. Neither option is favorable, as he was up quite late and has always risen early. 

Guilt eats away at him every moment of the day, looking around corners and squinting out windows when he thinks he hears the sound of her favorite slippers or catches a glance of a noble woman with the same hair color as her. His meals are served to him between meetings and when his presence is demanded in the throne room, but he does not eat them, his stomach turns at the mere thought of doing so. 

Still a part of him hopes that his Queen will be there when he returns to their chambers tonight, taking her rightful place lounging on the settee by the hearth dressed in her silk, flowy night robes. Oh, how he adored that sight, and how he loathed himself for never telling her so. 

His hopes are dashed when he enters the room that night to see the same sight he did the night before, Daenys laid in her crib without the presence of her mother. He feels more ill now than he did when his helm was removed after the Trial. Keeping in a shuttering breath, he tries not to let the guilt overtake him at the thought of just what his wife will do to keep this distance between them. 

But he is the King of the Seven Kingdoms, so he gathers himself and makes his way over to the bassinet holding his babe. He is once again reluctant to pick her up, but she reaches for him with pleading eyes and whines. She will be a dangerous young lady at court with how terribly he will spoil her. 

He is careful not to spend as long with her as he did the night prior, even though it pains him so, worried that his wife is waiting for him to retreat. Before placing her back in the cushioned crib, he places a kiss on the crown of her head and takes a deep breath in memorizing her scent. His bed is just as cold that night as it has been for as long as he can remember.

This pattern of behavior goes on for days, and as each one passes Baelor feels himself slipping further and further. His only comfort has been holding Daenys, she has not cried since that first time, and he has started to sing Valyrian lullabies to her quietly. On the fifth day of Aemma’s absence, he wanders the hall like the Stranger when he sees Gwenyth, his wife’s most trusted servant, walking down the hall toward him. 

He straightens his back and clears his throat to gain her attention, “Gwenyth, hello." 

Her gaze flicks up to him quickly, “Hello, your grace.” She curtsies and bows her head before standing back up with a smile, “How can I help you?” 

Folding his arms behind his back before asking, “I was just looking for my wife, have you happened to see her?” He is being disingenuous asking such a question, for he knows she is the one person his wife would allow in her presence at the moment, but he needed to know anything about Aemma.

A gaunt look passes over Gwenyth’s face before she corrects herself returning to a pleasant expression, “I have only seen her when she sends for me, my King.”

It does not deceive him that she is being intentionally vague, and he does not want to be terse with her, but he feels he is suffocating without her. “Where might that be?”

For a moment they stare at each other in silence, willing the other to break first. 

But Baelor has fought and bled on the battlefield for his station, and, by the Seven willing, he will bring his wife back to him. So, he settles into his stance and stares down the attendant.

She does not startle however, because one does not claim the position she has by blowing over easily in the wind, “You are smart, my King. Where do you think she’s spending her time?”

He would be appalled at her impropriety if the matter at hand was not so close to his heart, “My mind and all rational thought commands me to think she has yet to leave her private bedchambers since our last conversation, but my heart and soul ache for a different answer.”

Gwenyth’s shoulders deflate, “I am unable to give you one, your grace.”

Baelor grips his hands tightly behind his back, “Yes, well.” He breathes in deeply, “Does she eat?”

The lady’s eyebrows raise, “Yes, yes, my lord, she asked me to have her meals delivered to her chambers.” 

While small, it soothes the soreness in his chest just a bit, “Has she requested anything else?”

She trains her expression once again after it flashes with confusion, “Actually, she complained to me just earlier that she was getting quite bored of the books available to her.”

The King ponders for a moment, “Even the ones from the castle library?”

As if caught off guard by a memory, she laughs quietly, “Yes, she says she has stolen all the ones she likes for herself already.”

Baelor finds himself chuckling along with her, “I will send someone to fetch her some new books from the market.” He knows he cannot command her to end her seclusion, but maybe if he could show her how much he truly cares for her, he can lure her out. Thinking to himself for a moment before saying, “Does she still prefer the romances?”

Gwenyth stumbles over her words, “Uh- Yes, and she’s started to read some of the histories on Old Valyria.”

His guilt surfaces to the top again, still after all he has done to her she still wants to learn about the history of his people. He hopes desperately he can regain her favor, “Right. I will have that arranged. Thank you, Gwenyth.” 

With that they both go their separate ways, Baelor making his way to the Small Council's chambers. While he takes his luncheon in his solar he makes arrangements for a servant boy to go fetch what Aemma requested before the sun sets in the evening. 

The rest of his day goes by without much commotion, and while he eats his dinner at the desk of his solar a knock from the door echoes through. “Come in,” he beckons them.

Maekar enters the chamber holding a stack of leatherbound books, strung together with twine, “What is it you’re planning brother?”

The King pushes his chair back and crosses the room quickly, holding out a hand, “A gift for my wife. She loves to read.” 

“Does she?” The Hand places the lofty set of books in his brother’s hand, “Did she tell you that herself?”

Baelor turns his back and makes his way back to his desk, taking out a small piece of parchment, “Are you trying to anger me, little brother?”

Maekar hums and walks over to stand in front of the large oak table, “No, brother. I only want to make sure you are doing this because you want to, not because your conscience is urging you to.” He swipes the paper away from his brother before he can begin writing. “You told me yourself how you’ve tormented her. Do not hurt her further. That is all I am trying to do.”

The King sits back in his chair and rubs his forehead, “I appreciate this, Maekar, I do. But you do not live inside my head. You do not feel the way my heart wrenches when I hear her laugh from another room, knowing she used to do so in my presence.” His hands fall to his sides. “I used to read the poetry she would talk about, but now she does not speak to me at all. I was so blind when we first met, I could not see her beauty. The way her curls fall so gently over her shoulder. Her fullness. God, brother, I had a goddess under my fingertips on our wedding night and I could barely look at her!” He lifts his gaze to his brother’s, “I simply want her to look at me the way she used to.”

Wordlessly, Maekar slides the parchment back over and taps on it once, “Then this better be the best thing you’ve ever fucking written.”

Baelor lets out a wet chuckle, “Something of the sort.”

They nod at each other, exchanging goodbyes before the Hand departs.

*****

Later that night, Aemma listens for the familiar sound of her husband’s bedchamber door closing before tiptoeing her way to her own. However, barring her exit is a stack of books she has never seen before with a small note laced through the twine at the top. Picking the heap off the stone floor, she takes it and sits on the settee, slipping the parchment out from under the string. 

It is not sealed with wax, only folded over on itself, and it reads as such.

‘Dearest Wife, I thought you might enjoy an extended selection of reading material. With love, Baelor.’

And though part of her wants to hurl the wicked piece of paper into the fire, she cannot. Instead tucking it inside the book at the very top of the stack, and shoves the books to her side. 

Carefully, she gathers Daenys in her arms and settles her back in her bed chambers