⚜️DILF's Landing⚜️

You stand where the eye does not reach.

Traitor, disloyal, unworthy. Usurper.

You had grown up hearing such words spoken about your family, in particular your father.

Blackfyre.

The name still hangs heavier than any crown ever could.

Since the downfall of the rebellion, you were forced to renounce your family name and pledge your allegiance to House Targaryen in front of King Daeron II, your uncle by blood. He had spared you, after all. Spared you and bound you to his heir so your father’s blood might never rise against the throne again.

Your father's demise, you believed, would somehow liberate you. It seemed like the perfect reason to seek forgiveness for his misdeeds and to distance yourself from the stain of your lineage, the burden of your name, and most significantly, the sins of your father.

But, on the contrary, for some reason, your life had deteriorated even further since the death of Daemon Blackfyre. The end of the rebellion had been sealed by arranging your marriage union with Prince Baelor.

To keep your remnant family from banishment to distant lands, your own hand had been the price.

The chariot comes to a halt in the courtyard, and for a long moment you do not move, hearing the herald announce your arrival, pronouncing your name.

From House Targaryen, he says. And the words rings so foreign to you that you scarcely realize he is referring to you.

Every time you hear that family name attached to your person, you are reminded that you are a traitor to the ghosts of your fallen brothers. Your father's shadow hangs heavy over you, black wings swarming around, crushing you under the weight of his own doom.

“They’re waiting, my Lady,” your attendant whispers softly.

Of course they are.

The crimson dress you have been forced to wear weighs like scale armor, a taunting reminder of the blood that flows through your veins.

“The Black Dragon’s daughter,” someone sneers from your right. “How dare she wears red?”

The ceremony goes by like a fever dream. The Septon recites sacred words about the union of two bloodlines, about peace and forgiveness, but to you they are nothing but empty words.

You feel Baelor's hand seeking yours to seal the pact; his touch is firm, yet surprisingly gentle. He does not squeeze, he does not claim, he only waits.

When your hands meet, a shiver runs through you, but you keep your eyes downcast on the embroidery of your own skirt.

You kneel when instructed and rise when told and you don't speak a single word to each other. The silence between you is an ocean deep and teeming with ghosts. Neither of you tries to pry the other into conversation, nor do you seek each other's gaze intrusively in the midst of the nobles cheering for a truce born of your own sacrifice.

“In the sight of gods and men, I hereby proclaim you husband and wife.”

The king inclines his head once in approval.

The Court claps even louder, sealing the union and sealing away the sorrow of the past behind it.

An hour later, the banquet degenerates into a torture of fake laughter and hypocritical toasts.

The mood becomes unbreathable, claustrophobic. Every time someone steps forward to congratulate the “Crown Prince and his new wife,” all you want to do is hurl insults and screams.

The Crown Prince.

Baelor... you had only heard of him. The image you had created in your mind is nothing like what he actually is. He has a dignified and charming presence, dark hair, and a pair of exceptionally gentle eyes that, when they're brave enough, fall upon you by his side, occasionally glancing sideways at you to ensure that you are physically still there.

He carries himself with quiet dignity, yes—but not cruelty.

Cruelty would have been easier, cruelty you understand.

The atmosphere in the Great Hall hangs heavy, with echoes of bitter memories flooding back, the sound of whispers of your name and the sting of venomous glances.

So many eyes.

Curious. Suspicious. Appraising.

As Lords Bracken and Peake surround Baelor to discuss matters of the Realm, you begin to feel truly suffocated.

Not thinking twice, you seize the opportunity. Your fingers dig into the fine satin of your dress, you lift your skirt just enough, and your feet fly over the floor.

You pass through the limestone archway, and instantly the clamour of political intrigue and your own marriage fades away, to be replaced by the rustle of the wind in the myrtle bushes and the sweet scent of summer roses. The Royal Garden feels like it did when you were but a child—comforting.

You freeze near a young oak tree, leaning your back against the trunk and focusing on steadying your erratic breathing. Your eyes begin a panicked, unconscious sweep of your surroundings, searching for an exit, a fence to climb over, a way to slip away.

Your lungs burn and your heart thumps in your ears as you stray from the main path and venture into the undergrowth until you come up against a fence of bushes, so tall and thick that it hides any view of the outside world.

Your fingers dig into the branches, looking for a place to hold on as you look up at the height of the massive shrubs, made to be unclimbable.

You quietly curse the weight of your gown and the tightness of your corset. You're figuring out how much it'll cost you to climb over to the other side without breaking an ankle or without messing up your hair—

“If you try to climb up there, I'm afraid the thorns of the hidden roses will ruin your hands before you reach the top, my lady.”

You flinch violently, releasing the branches with a huff of frustration, but you don't turn around just yet; you're too furious, too humiliated for having been caught trying to sneak away like a thief in your own home. And even worse, on your wedding day.

“Well, I prefer thorns to the forked tongues of the Lords in there,” you spit venomously, still with your back turned to him and gazing up at the top of the bushy wall. “And if you’re so keen on giving advice, you could start by learning not to stalk people in gardens. Go lick some Targaryen’s boots and leave me alone. I don't need another guard watching my every move.”

A tense silence falls over the garden, and you're waiting for a reprimand, an insult, or to be grabbed by the arm and escorted back to the castle.

But what you hear is a soft, humorous sigh.

“That's fair advice,” he agrees, and you can sense a hint of a smile in his words. “Although, technically, I'm not a guard.”

You turn slowly, head held high and fire gleaming in your eyes, ready to blast anyone who dares interfere with your escape plan.

“Look, don’t meddle in what doesn’t concern you—”

But the words die in your throat when you recognize him.

Prince Baelor stands before you, his hands interlaced in front of him gracefully. He doesn’t display the stern, triumphant expression you had braced yourself for. Much less does he have the sharp, judgmental tone he should have addressed the usurper's daughter with.

Your eyes widen as you realize, with a sinking feeling in your stomach, that you have just told the future king of the Seven Kingdoms to go lick some boots.

“I don’t want to meddle, but I’m afraid,” he adds with a slight tilt of his head, in your shock-stricken silence, “that I won't be able to have my own wife run away on our first day of marriage.”

The air gets stuck in your lungs, and the defiance you felt seconds ago falls apart in a flash, leaving you with cold chills running down your spine.

There are no guards around him, no White Cloaks, only him and his gaze, one that holds no offense or disdain, but rather sympathy and lighthearted humor.

“I... Y–your Grace...” you stumble, finally releasing the branch of the bush you were still clutching as if it were a weapon. Your cheeks, previously flushed with rage, now burn with crushing embarrassment as you give him an apologetic bow. “Do forgive me.”

Baelor steps forward to lend you a hand in helping you out of the undergrowth and flowerbeds and back onto the main paved path. You accept it immediately, avoiding eye contact as he carefully guides you by his side.

“Anyone would be overwhelmed in your situation, my lady,” he comforts you with his words and his gaze. Then, an eyebrow arches on his forehead, “but I never thought marrying me would cause such distress that you’d wish to run away.”

The ground beneath your feet seems to become wobbly as you walk beside him, and the warmth of his hand on yours is a puzzling contrast to the coldness you would expect from the man who helped quell your father's rebellion.

“It’s not... it’s not marriage that distresses me, Your Grace,” you assure him under your breath, your gaze focused on the tips of your shoes peeking out from under the silk. You feel your throat tighten, but your pride, though wounded, urges you to speak. “It’s—it’s this place. The walls seem to have grown since I was a child; they feel taller, more suffocating... and more red.”

“The Red Keep has that habit, it does,” he concedes, and for the first time you hear a tinge of weariness in his voice, but then he offers you a shy smile, tilting his head to seek your gaze. “But I’ve been told this was your favorite spot. I spent much of the morning making sure the gardeners didn't trim this section so much. I thought you might prefer a bit of... wild disarray, rather than the rigidity of the court.”

“Why are you so kind to me, my Prince?” you blurt out unexpectedly, the question spilling from your lips before you can hold it back.

Baelor’s eyes soften even more when they finally lock onto yours. Standing so close, you notice that each of his eyes has a different color, neither the purplish hue that characterized the other Targaryens, nor matching the dragon’s wrathful gaze. The sun of Dorne lingers beautifully in his complexion, with a sharp bridge of his nose, delicate lips, and expressive eyes.

The intensity of his stare alone sends a tingling sensation through your stomach, and you have to force yourself to maintain eye contact.

“Just call me Baelor,” he says, shaking his head dismissively. His smile morphs into a sheepish little grin, suddenly bashful now that you’re so close to him, looking up at him like that. “And you are my wife. You are more deserving of my kindness than anyone else in all the Seven Kingdoms.”

You had spent weeks building up a shell of resentment and fear, preparing yourself for a tormentor, but Baelor... Baelor is gentleness itself.

“Baelor,” you repeat in a whisper, rolling the name around on your tongue, tasting it. It sounds strange, less intimidating, but much more intimate.

He nods, and you notice how the tension in his shoulders also subsides as he hears you speak his name.

Together, you begin to walk slowly along the stone path, away from the fence you were trying to climbed over.

“I know you didn’t choose this,” he clears his throat, breaking the silence as he comes to a stop in front of a rose bush that exudes an enchanting fragrance. “I know my name is a reminder for what you lost. And I’m sorry about that, I really am. I wish it hadn’t been this way.”

You stand still and glance at him out of the corner of your eye, twisting your head to observe the bees buzzing around the flowers. As you watch the insects get lost among the crimson petals, it occurs to you that they move with a freedom you do not possess.

“You don’t have to apologize for winning, Baelor,” you eventually state. You turn a little to face him, keeping a safe distance. “My father chose his own path. I’m just… what’s left behind. And now I’ll have to pay for his mistakes for the rest of my life.”

“You are not your father,” he says quietly. “Just as I am not my own.”

You let out a brittle laugh. “You say that now. But the court will never forget. They look at me and see rebellion. Treason. They’ll be waiting for me to stab you in the back and betray you.”

“They look at you and see what frightens them,” Baelor corrects gently. “You are living proof that war ends. That enemies can sit at the same table. That blood does not have to answer blood forever.”

He looks like he’s absurdly trying to make this work.

“You are very good at saying the right thing,” you observe.

He smiles faintly. “I rehearse them in my head. Often badly.”

That earns the smallest curve of your lips.

Silence falls again, but it is softer this time, sess suffocating, more comforting. Somewhere beyond the hedges, a fountain trickles steadily as the bees continue their lazy orbit around the roses.

“If you truly rehearse your words,” you break the silence quietly, looking up at him sheepishly, “what did you plan to tell me tonight? Once the doors to our chambers were closed and the Lords were no longer watching us?”

The afternoon sunlight accentuates the Dornish tones of his skin as well as the sincere radiance in his two-toned eyes when they look back at you.

“I had rehearsed a speech about duty and loyalty,” he admits sincerely, breathing a sigh. “About how our families need this union to heal.” Then his fine lips twist into a frown of distaste. “Now I just want to let you know that you don’t have to be my wife in the way they expect.”

You look at him in utter disbelief, your eyebrows raised. In Westeros, an unconsummated marriage is a sign of weakness, a loophole that one’s enemies absolutely relish in exploiting.

“You're a future King,” you breathe, the shock finally overriding your caution. “The succession, the optics... the court would tear you apart if they thought you couldn't—or wouldn't—claim your prize.”

The word 'prize' tastes like ash in your tongue. It’s what you’ve been called in every hushed corridor of the Red Keep since you arrived.

“I am a Prince of the Blood,” he states, “And you are a woman who has lost her home, her name, and her family. I will not add your dignity to that list of thefts.” He pauses, his gaze drifting to the scuffed toes of your shoes—the evidence of your attempted climb. “If the door is locked from the inside, the court will assume what they wish to assume. Let them whisper. They have been whispering since the Redgrass Field; a few more rumors won't break the throne.”

You offer him a warm, genuine smile. “Thank you, Baelor”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Baelor replies, his voice light. “We still have to survive the rest of the evening. And the sun is setting. If we stay out here much longer, my father will send the Kingsguard to find us, and I’d rather not explain to Ser Gwayne why my lady wife has oak bark in her hair.”

You instinctively reach up, your fingers brushing against your temple. Sure enough, a small shard of bark is tangled in a stray lock. But before you can pluck it out, Baelor’s hand is there. His touch is lightning—brief, electric, and devastatingly careful.

He removes the debris and holds it up like a trophy before letting the wind take it.

He offered you his arm and this time, you don’t hesitate. You slipped your hand into the crook of his elbow, the fine fabric of his doublet smooth beneath your fingertips.

You stand by the foot of the massive bed, your fingers nervously twisting the silk of your skirts.

“You look like you’re waiting for an executioner, wife,” Baelor points out, unbuttoning the top buttons of his doublet to breathe more easily, exhausted in the aftermath of the overwhelming experience of the ceremony.

“I expected the executioner to have a less friendly face,” you reply quietly, forcing a small smile as your fingers finally release the silk of your skirt.

Baelor places his doublet on an oak chair and runs a hand through his dark hair, undoing the perfect composure he had maintained through the entire feast. Without the layers of heavy silk and state jewels, he looks less like a legendary prince and more like just a man.

“I’m afraid the only punishment awaiting you tonight is absolute silence and a bed that's too big for one person,” he responds, gesturing gracefully toward the bed as he walks over to one of the tables and pours water into two glasses.

You bite your lip, observing how he moves around the room with peaceful confidence in your direction, offering you one of the glasses.

“Baelor... the court is not naive. Tomorrow they will search for marks, they will search for that... ‘proof’ we spoke of. If the sheets are clean, your father will know.” You shake your head gently, taking a long sip of water. “Your enemies will know. They will say that you are not man enough to claim what is yours by right.”

“Let them say what they want,” he shrugs, unconcerned. “I’d rather they question my manhood than have me question my own honor. I won’t take by force what should be a voluntary act of devotion. You are not spoils of war, even if my father sees you that way.”

After taking a long sip of water himself, he draws a small dagger from his belt, its blade glinting in the candlelight.

Without taking his eyes off yours, he presses the tip against the palm of his hand. A small trickle of red blood, as vibrant as the dress you are wearing, flows from the wound. And with an uncanny sense of calm, he walks over to the bed and presses his hand against the white linen sheets, staining them irrevocably.

“There’s your proof,” he declares, letting out a sigh. “On the morrow, the maids will see what they want to see.”

You approach him quickly, your bare feet scarcely making a sound on the rugs as you dig through a small chest nearby, where you know the maids keep basic supplies. You find a roll of clean linen bandages and a bowl of water that had been left out for nighttime washing.

“My prince, let me,” you plead, carefully taking hold of his wrist.

He seems a little surprised by your initiative, but he doesn't pull his hand away. You sit down on the edge of the bed, right next to the stain he made, and invite him to sit down beside you. With a gentleness you weren't aware you could muster, you clean the wound with fresh water.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you murmur without looking up, focused on the crimson line across his palm. “It's quite a deep wound for a simple deception.”

“A prince must be willing to bleed for his people,” Baelor reassures you calmly, observing how carefully you wrap the bandage around his hand. “And you are my people now. My family.”

Your fingers brush against his warm skin as you adjust the knot of the bandage.

“Thank you, husband,” you whisper in gratitude, your hands cradling his in a tender embrace.

Baelor does not withdraw his hand; instead, he loosely closes his fingers around yours, holding them in a gesture that seeks to offer comfort. Only for a fleeting moment, because right after that, he's already pulling away from you, putting himself on his feet.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he soothes you, smiling sheepishly. “I’ve spent my whole life learning to be a good heir, a good warrior, and a good son. But I think I’d rather learn to be a good man for you.”

Then he explains that he will be sleeping on the settee by the fireplace, assuring you that you can have the bed to yourself, but you barely hear what he is saying, for you can only sit there gazing at him in silence, observing the subtle gestures of his body, the shifting expressions on his face, and the way his eyes linger on your face.

You can only sit there, watching him as though he were a riddle you had not yet decided how to solve.

He moves about the chamber with deliberate calm, removing the last of his rings and placing them carefully upon the table.

“You needn’t look at me as if I’ve grown a second head,” he points out abruptly, and you can notice a faint flush creeping up his neck beneath your scrutiny.

“I’m trying to decide,” you hesitate, “whether you are very foolish... or very brave.”

He pauses, considering that. “I’ve been accused of both before.”

“You would truly sleep there?” you ask, glancing at the narrow settee by the hearth.

“If it grants you peace, yes.”

Peace. That’s what this is all about.

Because peace is safe, peace is distant, it means space.

And you are not entirely certain you want him so far away.

Although you were grateful the bleak canvas had obstructed your view of the warzone, it didn’t help in suppressing the sound of it. Clanging metal and shouts joined with the shouts that erupted throughout the camp. You could see through the flaps of the tent, the soldier standing in darkness with only the flicker of the torch touching his chestplate.

You call out to the man multiple times, asking for help or information. At this point, you prayed for a kind word. Despite it all, it does nothing to move the statuesque soldier who rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. You choose to save your breath and look around now that you’re alone.

Testing the chains at your wrists, you find you can move against the rough splintered wood, dragging your body to rotate around the post and finally face what lay behind. You see the wooden table that Maekar had leaned against, tools left in place. You had only begun to process the possibility of taking action when the sound of a blade being drawn pulls you from your rampant thoughts. 

You don’t have time to turn when a squelch sounds off a few steps away followed by a grunt before the tent flaps are thrust open as a thud sounds off outside. The temperature dropped as two men rounded on either side of your body, their gazes fixed on your position on the floor. 

You didn’t have to look up to know what they were thinking. 

The two share a look that lasted only a moment before they moved in synchronicity, stuffing your mouth with cloth then removing your binding from your hands, and dragging you out of the tent despite your muffled screams. Rough hands are firm in their capture, fingers pinching a yelp out of you. Their movements are consistent while you thrash around, their walk unaltered as they walk over the grunting body on the floor. 

Your suppressed pleas return toward the soldier who clutched the knife embedded in his collar, the handle stained with red. His eyes fixed on your captors as he stumbled to stand. The man to your left stepped forward but a hand against his chest stopped him in his tracks.

“Leave it,” the man’s voice unbothered as he shook his dark hair. “He will die anyway”

Your eyes find the soldiers’ strained gaze just as a blunt hit meets your head forcing your eyes closed.

_______

A rough finger traveling down your calf had your eyes snapping open and your body struggling against earth to get as far away from the source as possible. A hand around your ankle drags you back with a mocking laugh, as if the fear was everything the man needed to have a good time. 

A cold gust of wind cut through the trees around you, the chilly morning creeping over with dawn. You see the  sleeping form of the other man from the tent a few steps away near a dying flame when your attention returns to the other man who pulls off the leather-woven boot from one of your feet and tossed it over his shoulder. The sound of it hitting the dirt is quickly forgotten when he proceeds to rub his face against the sole of your foot. His sweat slowly seeped through the linen fabric with each rub of his face, his other hand coming to grip your calf tightly.

You can’t help your reaction, your face pulling into a deep frown of disgust as your body coils away, your fearful whimpers finally catching the attention of the second man who rolled over in a huff as if being brought into something inconvenient. “Roth, we agreed to leave it until we made it past the wood”

The man at your feet, Roth, pulled away to throw a sneer in the other man's direction before turning and sending you a wicked grin as he grumbled about not having the patience. Roth’s hand tightened on your ankle when his partner mentioned how obviously uncomfortable you were.

His eyes gleamed with pleasure as he leaned back to speak over his shoulder. “If it caused discomfort, I would’ve heard something by now. Ain’t that right, precious?”

Your protests continue though suppressed, you cry as the man crawls over your body and goes to hold your tied hands against your chest with a wicked smile. He tuts while wagging his finger down at you while the other man rose and calm to stand over your frame. 

“Now precious, “ Roth mocks, his sweaty face coming into a fake frown. “Dandy here will ask you a couple of questions and after, you can go on your way!”

You watch Roth’s face sink into a malicious smile as he comes to rest against your ear, his breath panting as he continues. “If you’re good we can even have a little fun before you go on your way”

You weren’t a fool.

There would be no ‘going on’ from this point.

Dandy placed his hand on Roth’s shoulder and instructed his partner to sit you up against the nearest tree. Like plucking a stone from a river, you’re hauled up and pushed up against bark. Roth’s dirt stained fingers remove the cloth from your mouth, you waste no time in shouting out for help until the back of a hand meets your cheek.

Earth imbeds itself underneath your nails when you slam into the ground, your hands coming up to soften the blow to your chest. The taste of copper and dirt peppering your tongue as your face throbs in unbridled pain. 

“Damn you Dandy,” scoffs Roth, the annoyance clear in his voice. “I was looking forward to the cryin’ and beggin’ on a pretty face”

The two begin to bicker, turning into one another completely forgetting you in the midst of it all. The beginnings of a ramble about their direct orders was heard when you managed to slowly crawl back a few shuffles away. 

Your body is up and dashing through the trees before you register what you have managed to get done. Your heart is screaming out as you put one leathered boot in front of your bare foot over and over. A hiss and a curse follow behind you shortly after.

Over vine and under branch, you managed to cut through trees in what you hoped would be the right direction. You hadn’t thought it all the way through–how you would get your hands untied or how you would come to survive the chase.You hoped you would survive the chase.

The cold air burned your throat as you maneuvered your body around trees and did your best to yell for help while running. You knew better than to look back, it wouldn’t make any sense and it was too risky. That’s what you screamed in your head when you unconsciously took a peek over your shoulder. You’re relieved to see that Roth and Dandy were paces away, a small bubble of hope thrumming within you when your legs tangle and you fly forward, unbalanced. Twigs, branches and rock slam into your skin as you tumble forward and roll into the ground. 

Of course.

You scramble up once more, ignoring the pulsing pain in your lungs from the wind that knocked out of you. Pain ripples on your palms as fingers weaved into your hair from behind and yanked back, dragging you along. Your mouth is covered just in time to suppress your wail, tears cascading your face. Roth is the one yanking you around, his disgruntled breathing fuming with frustration.

“What did I just say about being good!?” he hisses, panting from the rage into your ear.

You’re made to face the man fuming, his sneer cutting more than your bravery down. He leans his face close as he grips your hair tight, the splitting pain pulsing through your skull. The world blurs as Dandy approaches, no longer running but walking as if it was just another day in the woods. 

He doesn’t spare you a glance when he finally makes his way up to his partner and tells him to kill you. Saving ourselves the trouble, he rationalized. 

“I don’t know, Dandy, skins’ too soft” he groaned, pressing his nose against the curve of your neck and dragging it up and down. It leaves a sickening feeling on your skin and in your heart. 

You may have not known the reality of war but you knew the reality of men.

This was it.

You steeled yourself as you watched Roth pull out a blade from his doublet, the silver shining with the rising sun's reflection as he brought it down against your gray shift.

You don’t give the men the satisfaction of crying despite how badly you wished to scream, cry and throw up. You think yourself brave despite the fact that your body just involuntarily stilled. The sound of tearing fabric fills your ears as your eyes travel to the tree branches up above you. 

You watch the way some leaves detach and flutter down the open air, swirling and seemingly dancing as they descend to the unforgiving earth. It was beautiful, until it wasn’t. A face comes into view effectively blocking the only solace the world could muster for you in this dark time. Dark beady eyes hold yours as Roth grips your face to keep steady with his while Dandy hovers just above with an interested look, gripping your tied hands and pulling them above your head. 

The cold air meets your bare chest as you struggle to curl into yourself. The men work fast despite your pleas, the fear from before making you somewhat brave enough to cry out. When your shift is ripped further down was when you began to fight against the hands. Your leathered boot comes up just enough to send a kick to the man's stomach even though you were aiming for his groin. Roth rolled onto his back and let out a laugh.  He stands up, dusting off his hands a bit before giving you a chilling smirk.

“You’re going to regret doing that,” he spat.

Roth’s body suddenly flies forward awkwardly that you think he missed a step. Leaves fly up in his tumble down, when he meets the ground, you finally catch a figure behind.

The better part of you knew to get away so you began to search around for anything to get you free when your eyes landed on the knife that matched the one the soldier had embedded in his collar. You rush toward the small blade, fixing your eyes to your only means of getting out. In your rush you fail to notice Dandy coming at you with a swinging sword over his shoulder.

You cross your arms in the form of an ‘X’ and go to accept your death when something comes out and blocks the assault.

There in an unbreakable stance stood Maekar Targaryen. 

The prince wastes no time in tossing the blade back against Dandy, his body fixed between the two of you. You allow yourself a breath before you use the prince’s blockade to your advantage and rush back to the knife. 

Your hands strain against the other as you grip the blade awkwardly, the thick rope tearing ever so slowly. Grunts and curses echo against the blowing wind as you cut away at the tight rope. 

A large rock just beneath your arm dug deep but the pain didn’t register, all you could focus on was the knife that seemed to never loose the cord. You hear it snap, an excited huff escaping you just as another body hits the ground with a loud thud. The blade is clutched and pointed in your hands as you swing around and face the victor of the duel.

Maekar stood imposing, the all too familiar scowl ever present on his face as he glared down at the two men. You note how his leathers were slashed in some places, the white shirt underneath bleeding through the black doublet but what caught your surprise was at his side. 

He had fought the two men, all while keeping his sword sheathed.

His eyes linger on the ground with distaste for a moment before his gaze drags up to you. You register the sag of relief in your chest at the sight of Maekar, despite the fact that you were once his prisoner.

Before the two of you realized what was happening, your body had moved forward. The two of you stood in disbelief as you processed the knife on the ground and your arms around his body.

You hear a loud shriek, the cry so crisp it takes a moment before you realize it came from you. Pain shoots through your fingertips, clawing at the fierce grip that weaved into your hair. You are yanked forward and thrust into mud, barely managing to make out the soldier sending for someone before your body is kicked down at the center of your spine.

Noises came muffled and distorted while pain rattled through you, your body throbbing as you felt prickles of intense stares. You didn’t need to look up to see their fear, you could taste it in the air. Your body began to shiver and shake when everyone's attention was pulled to the sound of thundering horse hooves that approached from behind where you slumped.

“Clear the way for His Royal Highness, Prince Maekar of the House Targaryen! Commander of the Loyalist Vanguard!”

Horses thundered in on either side of the checkpoint, hooves drumming out louder than the rain making people jump out of the way to avoid being trampled. Soldiers and commonfolk alike kneeled to the ground, while others fell face first into the mud to show their undeniable loyalty. 

You don’t know where the sudden bravery came from, maybe it transferred from the soldier earlier when he gripped your arm, but you slowly found yourself looking up from the mud, squinting until you catch a sight to remember.

Your eyes first land on a stallion made for battle, its huffs fanning out white breath against rain as it trotted forward through the other horses as if it was their king. Then you looked higher and under hair that resembled liquid starlight rested a scowl so fierce it chilled not only your bones but the air. 

There was no doubt about it, that was the prince.

Your glimpse became a stare and however brave it felt, it was cut short when a hand attached itself to the back of your neck, nails pinching flesh as you are dragged forward through the mud like a dog and made to cower before the prince. The black stallion simply stepped to the side a little before it huffed out once more, not at all bothered by the sights it was made to witness, no doubt used to it.

“Your Highness! I’ve captured a Blackfyre spy trying to smuggle past our lines!” 

Whispers erupted all around, circling you like a noose around your neck. The weight of stares pushed you lower despite your whimpers. 

“A Blackfyre spy,” he repeated, his voice coming out low and rough. You could feel his words bite.You could only shake your head and try to  sob out how this was all a misunderstanding. 

The weight of the princes’ stare on your frame is just as heavy as his silence, the rain only adding to the intensity. 

No one says a word when Maekar nods out to one soldier before they approach you. You are made to stand, your foot slightly slipping in the brown muck in your attempts to pull away. 

No one would listen.

What would you even say?

You had no one to vouch for you.

Your panic comes in shallow breaths, the strain in your lungs growing harsh until Prince Maekar Targaryen finally speaks. 

“You found this one suspicious?” 

The prince’s voice seemed to hold such disdain that even you sinked back into yourself. The soldier stepped forward and spoke for a moment but to you, all words were jumbled ringing. Your eyes catch the soldier's mouth moving but even then you couldn’t make anything out.

You knew you shouldn’t hate–the vows you’ve yet to take coming to honor mercy and duty. But in that moment, your heart filled with such hate for the man. It was misdirected, the anguish but his curled lip makes you sick to your stomach. The merciful part of you sang songs of how the soldier was doing his duty to the realm, to protect the innocent from the probability of a threat but, the louder part of you got swept in your rage and hurt of the past few hours and all you could muster was silent suppressed rage.

Apparently, not suppressed enough as when the prince and soldier looked back, all they saw was your face filled with hot rage that they had no doubt of your guilt. 

“Take the traitor to camp. I will investigate there”

Without another word, the prince galloped off and out of sight.The last thing you saw when you were dragged away was Edrin accepting a small pouch while Mira avoided looking in your direction entirely. —

Time passed differently in the tent at camp. You could hardly keep track of your thoughts with the sounds of boots circling just beyond the plain canvas sheet.

‘A blackfyre spy has been caught’ one had boasted, his grin could be heard through the pinned fabric of the tent. A scoff cut through before a reply filled with hate spat out. ‘A waste of space, no doubt’

A weight settled in your chest the longer you sat tied up, making you huddle closer into yourself. Surely, once everything was explained, you would be let go.

But then the minutes turned to hours, exhaustion pulsed through you the longer you listened to the rhythm of boots sloshing in the mud, the ground no doubt torn up and worn. Your body aches and your mind scatters the longer you sit in vigilance. You don’t realize your eyes have started drifting closed before you end up asleep leaning against the post.

You really were foolish.  —

“You seem quite calm for a prisoner claiming to be innocent”

Your body lurched up before you could recall where you were, your hands behind your back snagging on chain and bringing you back to the post harshly. Your eyes snap open in pain as you look around disoriented before they land on a soldier coming inside the dark tent with a torch. 

He wasn’t the one to speak.

Your eyes slowly travel to the figure in a chair just off to the side of where you were chained up. Light slowly fills the tent and your chest blooms with intensity at the sight of the prince who sprawled in his chair in boredom, the scowl from before ever present on his face. Your eyes catch the severity of his expression, violet eyes passing between stern and annoyance.

Your heart was in your throat while you listened to the rummaging behind you. A sickly sweet humming came from the man as he placed items on what sounded like a wooden surface, the clatter mimicking when you would carry in crates into the motherhouse only to drop them onto the hard surface. 

“Please,” the word cracking through your hoarse throat. “I am no traitor I only—”

Your pleas are cut short when a hard grips your face from your side, the soldier who entered had now crouched beside you, his dark beady eyes filled with malice as he gripped tighter.

“Our prince does not just punish lies, he pulls them out at the root,”  He turns your face to look at the stern expression of Prince Maekar before jutting his head at him. “So if you want to keep your tongue, I suggest you don’t waste his time”

You had stopped crying a while back, tears running out within the first few hours that passed. Now, with reality staring you in the face, a view of war and fear riddling you, tears freely trickled down your face.

He releases your face harshly before he turns, bows and exits the tent, leaving you alone with the prince.

It wasn’t obvious at first, the way the air shifted once the two of you were alone. Instead of filling the silence with your explanation of what transpired at the checkpoint, you took the opportunity to watch the shadows of the flames flicker over his face. Your eyes were once again drawn to the otherworldly existence of his white starlight hair. Not a grayish-white that you’d seen on the elderly but a flashing white that shined despite the dark. It caught your breath and attention despite the situation.

It was Prince Maekar that finally broke the silence, which surprised you because you hadn’t noticed the silence, the lack of boots marching outside. It was like the world stood still for you not only in that tent but everywhere outside of it.

“Whose silver did you use to pay for passage—Bracken or Blackfyre?”

You don’t miss the way his voice had cut through the silence like a scream despite having spoken in a low register. You do your best to stand as you shake your head and try to sputter out the truth. You forget yourself and get pulled back down to the floor with the clatter of your chains. 

“I-I am not what you think, please understand your highness—

His body is quick in standing from his seat, rising to tower over your body and glare right into the depths of your soul.

“I am the prince of the blood royal”

You quickly apologize and keep your eyes on the man despite how blurry your eyes got from tears. The air in the room seemed to snap against your lungs and your body weighed down from the fear. He snarls before he walks past where you could see. Fear danced on your tongue at the sound of objects being moved across wood, the dragging making your chest tighten.

“I was to be a septa” you rush out, huffing in air regardless of how much it hurts. “Just beyond the square in an orphanage–under Septa Ysilla”

You hear a blade drag across stone, the strike chilling your skin to drip in cold sweat. Your chains tighten against your flesh as you strain to look back. You only catch a glimpse of Maekar’s rigid back as his hands work on something on the table, tools displayed neatly on either side of him. Not having any other choice, you turn back and sob into yourself. 

“How convenient that you name yourself as a lay sister just as you are to be punished for your insolence” his tone is amused as he lets out a dark low chuckle.

Objects are suddenly slammed down making you jump. Maekar, coming around on your other side slowly, lowers himself just beside you into a crouch whilst looking at your face. You knew you looked strange, only glancing at him from the side but fear wouldn’t let you turn. As if turning would secure your death. 

“If your faith is with the fatherless, why are you wandering the roads alone and paying for passage?”

You quickly spout out all information, no torture technique needed. You recall every instance of the morning you were turned out of your motherhouse due to your vows yet to take place because of the war, the passages you took to reach the checkpoint and your bargain with the couple to join their family. In your explanation, Maekar watched your face silently. He listened with an expressionless mask resting over his face. A small spark of hope budded in you at the way he looked off in thought, stretching the distance between the two of you to walk behind where you couldn’t see him. In your mind, he would see the error of your panic-filled attempt to flee toward safety. 

“That could very well be true,” he reasoned, your heart jumping in joy at the lucky break you got—but it was short-lived at his next statement. “Or it could also be that you blackfyre loyalists know we honor our devout?”

You have to bite back a sob, for some reason still clinging to your dignity. Despite your fear, you try to lean back to see the prince, neck straining for a glimpse of him in order to read the situation as best you could. You catch him in thought, his wide back facing you. You settle yourself back into your spot and think of what could be done. 

When Maekar comes back around to stand before you, you prepare for your sentence when shouts erupt from all around.

“Attacks from the south-east! Prepare for battle!”

With one last look, Maekar departs the tent with a shout for the person outside to guard the tent at all costs. 

Little did he know, he would not find you upon his return.

note: I am already working on the next part because my akotsk rewatch with my sister motivated me more than before // let me know what you think!

You didn’t think things would get as serious as they did when the rebellion first started, naivety still fresh in your bones when rumors of war began circling. 

You held on to naivety when families boarded up their homes and gathered what they could before they scrambled out of the city. You still held onto naivety when the Mother Superior was called away without warning, the septas somber expressions brushing off of your shoulders as you went back to bed that late night. 

Now you feel foolish to think peace would ever last.

If you could call scavenging for supplies peace.

Until recently life was simple, you had earned your keep by teaching and tending to the children at the local orphanage with what the motherhouses could provide. Soon you would take your vows to remain as a septa and care for the children. But then things became a mess. 

It had happened on a stormy morning, just after giving the children their daily meal. The sudden shouts and horse hooves outside sounded off loud enough to rattle around the impoverished walls and scare the children into a small corner of the room. Not a few moments later, Septa Ysilla rushed in and ordered all the silent sisters and children into the back rooms where they were to wait.

It was when she stopped you from joining them that dread settled into your heart.

“The light of the seven will protect you on your journey” was what she reassuringly mumbled to you as she claimed ‘only septas and silent sisters were to remain in the motherhouse’. It didn’t matter how much you begged and rationalized your devotion, it was simple to Septa Ysilla. 

You are not a septa.

You hadn’t taken the vows with Mother Superior.

With Septa Ysilla as the ruling verdict, you held onto a small sack filled with your only belongings and bit back tears as you said goodbye to the children. It got that much harder when they clung to the grey shift and apron you wore that you had no choice but to keep. 

“The Kings Gate has been shut but this should help you find a way to Tumbleton, if it’s any safer” came her hoarse voice, her brown tired eyes glazed over. Her wrinkled face looked up at you with sorrow as she placed a few coins in your hand and walked you to the back exit of the building. She squeezed your hand once before she shut the door and secured the latch on the other side, effectively locking you out.

It feels like you swallow your heart when you face the rampant streets of bustling soldiers, mud and chaos as you try to figure out which way is safest to go. Clutching your small pouch and making sure to face the ground, you choose to follow the small alley until you reach a safe spot to determine your next move. 

In a matter of seconds, you are drenched and cold. The fear has spiked as you hear berating coming from refugees and soldiers shout at beggars to make way. The smell of grime and muck filled the air while you shuffled around waste that littered the muddy roads. You finally come to a halt when you overhear soldiers speaking of an infiltration.

“The blackfyre bastards are within the city” spat one soldier, his face scrunched in disgust as he spat at the mere mention of the name. Unexpectedly, another soldier commanding with presence marched forward. “All travelers are to be inspected! Anyone traveling alone shall be detained for questioning!”

Commands began ringing all around you while commonfolk scattered like rats to avoid the onslaught of aggression from the soldiers donned in black, the red dragon in the middle of their chest plates glistening with the help of the rain. 

“Form a line across the road! Nobody passes until they’ve been questioned!”

“Keep the smallfolk moving in a single file!”

“Eyes open for weapons!”

You watch as the orders made everyone scramble closer to their loved ones while you could only cling to yourself. You had been dropped off at the motherhouse after birth so all you have ever known was the septas and the children. 

You push further down the back streets of the city until your attention is pulled to a mother soothing her child while bouncing her baby in her arms, the fear evident on her face as she claims everything was okay. Without a second thought, you make your way swiftly to her and crouch down to her small child.

“W-what are you–”

“Please, I need to head to the Roseroad,” you cut her off, rubbing the small child's arms as you glanced up with pleading eyes. “Toward Tumbleton. I have no family”

She began to shake her head, grasping at her child's arm to retreat when you were pulled back by the collar of your shift and made to face a man with a sneer. You note how quickly he put himself between you and the small family, checking in on the woman while keeping a firm gaze on you with a protective arm out. He must be the husband. 

“Please, I aim to leave the city for Tumbleton. All I ask is your help to get through the inspection” You pull forward the coins Septa Ysilla handed you just a mere hour or so before. “I have no family and I can pay, please?”

His gaze immediately fixed itself on the coins, the woman behind him no longer bouncing the babe. The sound of rain filled the silence for an agonizing few moments before his fingers grasp the coins from your hands and he nods once before speaking.

“ Let me do the talking. Take the young one and make no sound. If this should fail—you are on your own. I won’t risk my family.” 

Given the circumstances, you openly thank the man with tears brimming your eyes before you pick up the child and fall into a routine of soothing their cries. The man sends his wife a look before nodding and beckoning you two to follow toward the streets leading out of the city. 

-----

You make sure to stay close to Edrin and Mira, keeping your head low while you move up the line. Thunder rumbled overhead making the young one in your arms cry out, earning you a few looks from others. ‘This will be over soon’ was what you whispered over and over. You tell yourself it was for the child but deep down, you knew it was also for you. When they settled, you were left with your thoughts once more. 

Something will go wrong.

Something in you rattled with doubt, like you were to be made the second you come up to the front. One look at you and a soldier would say something like ‘Look at her boys, traveling alone during the war? She has to be with Blackfyre’.

You push down the paranoia and trudge forward through the mud once more.

----

Unease gripped your throat as the shouts and cries grew louder the closer you got to the checkpoint, noting how others shifted and huddled closer together. Your hand came to cradle the small child's head into your neck, partially to secure them but primarily to cling to something as you came to the front. 

This was it.

Two soldiers beckon the lot of you forward with a nod before two more soldiers appear from behind and seize all belongings and begin rummaging through each satchel and pouch. You swallow the growing fear in gulps as you comply with the soldiers demands. Ahead of you, the soldiers begin their questioning.

Edrin explains how you all are but a small family trying to make your way to safety as quickly and as far as you could, never once wavering in his tone. You try your best to pay attention to the rest of the conversation but the sudden feeling of the child being ripped from your arms brought you to the present. 

Cries of ‘momma’ shatter your ears as the child does its best to cling to you, small hands weaving into the strands of your hair as the soldiers demand compliance. Pain ripples through your scalp as you try to soothe the child, shushing them slightly as you gesture to the soldiers your attempt to cooperate. 

Mira appears just as you settle the child to the floor, gripping their hand fiercely as she keeps her eyes on you. 

“Well? Out with it, where are you headed?”

You could feel your eyes widen as the thunder crashed aloud the second you realize the question was directed at you, not Edrin. You swivel to look up at the towering soldier who seemed to grow more suspicious with the speckle of silence you let fester. 

You had been too preoccupied with the child that you missed what Edrin had told the soldiers.

You realize you took too long when the soldier takes a longer look at your face, to the child and woman, then back to you. The smile he gives you doesn’t reach his eyes as he speaks.

“You must be scared beyond your means, us tossing your bags, huh?”

You force yourself to keep your eyes on the man as you nod, words dead in your throat. The man gives you a mock pout before standing straight and gesturing for your bag to a nearby soldier. When the bag is placed in your hand, you grip it tightly to your chest and nod to the man. He leans down to come face to face once more.

“May the roads be kind on your journey to Tumbleton” comes his sickly sweet voice, a smile still on his face.

You remain quiet and nod as you watch him stand, take a step back and turn to leave. Your heart seemed to race even quicker as he began to walk away, rain slowly building. He takes a few steps when he stops suddenly. 

“Oh, wait!”

Chills travel through you when the soldier turns on his heel with a wide smile on his face, his hand coming up to smack himself on the forehead with a mocking playfulness. His body comes to stand in front of you once more, his body crouching down to rest his palms on his knees. 

“Your buddy over there said you all were traveling as far as you could. Now tell me," He comes in closer to whisper with just a breath of space between you two. 

“Why would someone wanting to travel as far as he can go settle for Tumbleton when BitterRidge was furthest?”