roe

The first week of his marriage passed in a blur of council meetings, intelligence reports and the endless, grinding machinery of ruling a kingdom. He barely thought of his wife at all. She was a problem he would deal with eventually, a loose thread to be tied off when he had the time. In the meantime, he gave her the courtesy of his absence and trusted that she would find ways to occupy herself.

He did, however, send a raven to watch her.

It was standard practice. He set ravens to watch everyone: the king, the council, the lords and ladies of the court, the servants, the foreign dignitaries, the merchants at the docks. His wife was no different. She was a new variable in the complex equation of the Red Keep, and Brynden did not like unknown variables. He selected a raven from his flock: a sturdy, unremarkable bird, and instructed it to follow Lady Oakheart wherever she went, to observe her actions, to report back to him.

The raven obeyed. It was a good raven, well-trained, inconspicuous. It perched on windowsills and rooftops and watched the new Lady of the Tower go about her days.

She did not do much.

She wandered in the gardens, sitting alone on stone benches while the other ladies walked in chattering clusters. She visited the library and read histories of the Seven Kingdoms until the light failed. She knelt in the sept before the Maiden's altar, her lips moving in silent prayer. She returned to her chambers and sat by the window, staring out at the sea.

She did not seek out company. She did not gossip with the servants. She did not attempt to curry favor with the queen or befriend the other highborn ladies. She simply…existed. Unobtrusively. Like a ghost who had not yet realized she was dead.

Brynden watched her through the raven's eyes and felt a faint, distant flicker of what might have been guilt. He crushed it without difficulty. He had not asked for this marriage. He owed her nothing beyond the basic courtesy of his name and his protection. If she was lonely, that was her concern.

He turned his attention back to his work.

After a couple more weeks, the raven stopped reporting useful intelligence.

At first, Brynden assumed the bird had simply grown bored. Watching a lonely woman sit in a garden was not stimulating work, even for a raven. But when he reached out to check the bird's position, he found it perched on the windowsill of his wife's chambers, eating a strip of meat from her outstretched hand.

He stared through the raven's eyes, nonplussed.

She was speaking to it. Soft, meaningless words, the kind of chatter one might direct at a pet. She asked if it was hungry. She asked if it was cold. She told it that its feathers were very glossy and that it must be a very clever bird to have found its way to her window.

The raven, his highly trained, carefully conditioned spy raven, was preening under her attention like a common pigeon.

Brynden withdrew from the bird's mind and sat back in his chair, considering his options. He could replace the raven with another, one that had not been compromised. He could instruct the bird to keep its distance, to observe without interacting. He could abandon the surveillance entirely. She was clearly no threat, and there was little point in monitoring a woman whose greatest act of sedition was feeding dried meat to the local wildlife.

But he hesitated.

She had spoken to the raven. She had smiled at it. She had touched its feathers with gentle fingers, her expression soft and unguarded in a way he had never seen it before. Perhaps, unsuspecting, she would reveal more to it.

He decided to let the raven stay.

He began to listen.

It was not a conscious decision. He was working late in his solar, his eye burning with exhaustion, his mind numb from hours of reading reports and drafting responses. He reached out to the raven out of habit, a brief check to confirm its position, and found himself lingering in its mind longer than necessary.

She was sitting by the fire in her chambers, the raven perched on the arm of her chair. She had given it a name. Pebble, of all things, because its breast feathers reminded her of the stones along the Mander. She was speaking to it in the soft, confidential tone of a woman sharing secrets with a trusted friend.

"He is polite," she was saying. "My husband. He is very polite. He bows when he sees me, asks after my health and holds doors open for me. It is more than I expected, truly."

Brynden felt his brow furrow. She was speaking about him. To a raven.

"I know he does not want me here," she continued, stroking Pebble's breast feathers with one finger. "I know this marriage was not his choice. The whole court knows he asked for Shiera Seastar a thousand times. The whole court knows I am a punishment for my family's treachery, dressed up to look like a reward." She laughed humorlessly. "A reward he clearly did not want. Like giving a man a sack of grain when he asked for gold."

Pebble croaked sympathetically. Brynden, watching through the raven's eyes, felt that flicker of guilt again. Stronger this time. Harder to crush.

"But he is kind," she said. "In his way. He does not mock me or ignore me or make me feel small. He treats me with courtesy. I am grateful for that." She paused, her hand stilled on the raven's feathers. "I wish I knew how to talk to him. I wish I knew what to say. He is so intelligent, he must be, to do all the work he does, and I am afraid that if I open my mouth, I will say something foolish and he will think me an idiot."

She was afraid of sounding foolish. She, a highborn lady of House Oakheart, educated by septas and tutors, was afraid that the bastard sorcerer would think her an idiot.

Brynden withdrew from the raven's mind and stared at the wall for a long moment. Then he returned to his work.

He did not sleep that night. But that was not unusual. He rarely slept.

A couple more weeks later, he learned that she had been reading histories of the Seven Kingdoms.

She mentioned it to Pebble one evening: "I have been reading about the Conquest. And the reigns of the early Targaryen kings. I thought perhaps if my husband ever chose to speak with me about matters of state, I would not stare at him with my mouth open like a fool."

She paused.

"Not that he ever speaks to me about matters of state. Or about anything, really. He is always busy. I see him in passing, he bows, and he asks after my health, and then he is gone. But I want to be prepared. Just in case."

Brynden, sitting at his desk three floors above her, set down his quill. She was reading histories. She was educating herself on the affairs of the realm. She was doing it so that she could talk to him, if he ever chose to talk to her.

He did not know what to do with that information. He filed it away in the part of his mind reserved for intelligence he did not yet understand.

Then she began showing Pebble her dresses.

She laid them out on the bed one afternoon, a rainbow of silk, velvet and embroidered linen, and asked the raven for his opinion. Pebble, who had no opinion on fashion but a very strong opinion on anything that might contain hidden food, hopped from gown to gown with his head cocked, occasionally poking at a ribbon or a bead with his beak.

"The lavender is my favorite," she said, holding up a pale gown the color of twilight. "And the green. The pale green, not the dark one. The dark one makes me look sallow. But the pale green brings out my eyes. At least, that is what my mother always said."

She held the green gown against herself and looked in the mirror. "They used to compliment me in the Reach," she said quietly. "My friends, my family, the lords who came to visit. They said I was beautiful. I believed them."

She lowered the gown. Her reflection looked back at her, pretty and utterly miserable.

"Here, no one says anything. I suppose I am not worth noting. Not compared to…" She trailed off. She did not say the name. She did not need to.

Shiera.

Brynden felt the name like a blade between his ribs. He had not thought of Shiera in weeks: a startling realization, given that he had spent years thinking of little else. But Shiera was in Lys now, or perhaps Volantis, or perhaps somewhere else entirely. She was not here. His wife was here.

His wife, who believed she was not worth noting. His wife, who thought herself a sack of grain compared to Shiera's gold.

He withdrew from the raven's mind and sat in the darkness of his solar, the candle burning low, the silence pressing in around him.

He did not know what to feel. He was not accustomed to feeling anything at all.

But the real headache was yet to come.

It was evening. She was sitting by the window, Pebble on her knee. The sun was setting over Blackwater Bay, painting the sky in shades of rose and gold, and she was stroking the raven's feathers with absent-minded affection.

"He has very striking bone structure, my husband. Don't you think?" she mused.

Brynden lost his train of thought entirely.

"His cheekbones," she continued, oblivious to the fact that her husband was now listening with every fiber of his being. "And his jaw. It is very sharp. Very defined. Like a statue. And his hair...I have never seen hair that color. Silver, but not old. Like moonlight."

Pebble croaked. She scratched under his chin.

"I wonder about his birthmark. The servants whisper that it is shaped like a raven. I have never been close enough to see for myself. He always keeps his distance. But if it is true, if it really is shaped like a raven, what a marvel that would be. A man marked by the gods, carrying his sigil on his skin."

Brynden touched his own face. His fingers traced the edge of the birthmark, the wine-stain blotch that had made children scream, ladies flinch and grown men cross the street to avoid him. She thought it might be a marvel. She wanted to see it up close.

"Of course, I will probably never know," she added, her voice turning rueful. "He flees my company at every opportunity. I am surprised he has not taken to climbing out of windows when he sees me coming." She sighed and lifted Pebble to eye level. "You are very handsome as well, you know. For a raven. Your feathers are so glossy. Do you think my husband would notice if I got him a new doublet? Something with silver embroidery? He only ever wears black. It is very severe. Though I suppose it suits him. Gray as well, sometimes. But it is such a dull color."

She was talking about his wardrobe. She was talking about his cheekbones, his hair, his birthmark and his doublets. She thought he was handsome.

Brynden rose from his desk and crossed the solar to the small mirror that hung on the wall. He rarely looked at himself, there was little point, given that he only had one eye and half a face worth looking at, but something had compelled him tonight.

He stood before the mirror and studied his reflection.

The birthmark was livid against his pale skin, a splash of dark red that covered half his cheek and crept down his neck. The scar where his missing eye had once been was a hollow, puckered ruin. His hair was silver, yes, but it was the silver of a corpse, not the silver of moonlight. His cheekbones were sharp, but they were sharp in the way of a man who did not eat enough, not in the way of a statue.

Foolishness. She was a lonely girl pouring her heart out to a bird. She was grateful for his courtesy and had mistaken it for something more. She would come to her senses soon enough.

Yet, he stood before the mirror for a long time, her words echoing in his mind.

Like a statue. Like moonlight. A marvel.

He did not sleep at all that night.

He found himself seeking her out.

He began to take his meals in the small dining chamber adjacent to the Tower, knowing that she would be there. He began to linger in the corridors when he knew she would be passing. He began to ask after her health with something more than perfunctory courtesy, waiting to see if she would say something, anything, that would give him an excuse to stay.

She never did. She answered his questions politely, kept her eyes on the floor and did not presume upon his time. She had been trained too well for that.

But sometimes, when he turned to leave, he would catch a glimpse of her face: the brief, fleeting expression of disappointment before she smoothed it away, and it would lodge in his chest like a splinter.

He did not know what to do about it. He did not know what to call it.

He only knew that when he reached for the raven's mind each evening, it was no longer out of habit or duty. It was because he wanted to hear her voice. He wanted to know what she was thinking, what she was feeling, what she would say next to the little bird who had become her only confidant.

He wanted to know her.

Eventually, the topic of bedding came up.

It was the one topic she had avoided until now. She spoke of his appearance, his intelligence, his work, his courtesy. She spoke of her loneliness and her fears and her hopes. But she had never spoken of the marriage bed, of the fact that her husband had not visited her chambers since the wedding night, or rather, had not visited them at all.

Tonight, she spoke of it.

"I am not a fool," she said, her voice very quiet. She was sitting in her nightgown, Pebble perched on the headboard above her. "I know he does not want me. I know he loved another woman. I know I am nothing like her."

Pebble made a soft, questioning sound. She reached up and stroked his breast.

"But if he ever did come to me...if he ever did choose to consummate this marriage...I am afraid he would find me lacking. I am afraid I would not know what to do. I am afraid he would compare me to her and find me wanting." Her voice cracked and she pressed her hand to her mouth. "I am afraid he would leave and never come back. And I would be alone again. I would be alone forever."

She was crying. Silently, without fuss, the way she did everything. Tears sliding down her cheeks and dripping onto the front of her nightgown, her shoulders shaking with the effort of keeping quiet.

Brynden withdrew from the raven's mind so abruptly that he knocked over his inkwell. Black liquid spilled across his desk, ruining three reports and a letter. He did not notice. He was standing in the middle of his solar, his heart pounding.

She was afraid. She was afraid of him, but not in the way he had thought. She was not afraid of his sorcery or his spies or the dark rumors that followed him through the castle. She was afraid that he would find her lacking. She was afraid that he would compare her to Shiera and find her wanting. She was afraid of being alone forever.

She was afraid, she was crying, and she had no one to comfort her except a raven.

A raven that he had sent to spy on her.

The guilt that he had been crushing for weeks rose up and swallowed him whole. He stood in the darkness of his solar, ink dripping from his desk onto the floor, and he felt something that had been frozen for a very long time was beginning to thaw.

He did not sleep that night either.

The next morning, he decided he would speak to her.

He opened the door of his solar and stepped out. He knew she was outside on the stairs. He did not know what he was going to say. He only knew that he could not let her cry alone in her chambers one more night, pouring her heart out to a bird who could not answer her.

"My lady wife," he said.

"My lord." She scrambled to her feet and dropped into a curtsy, failing to hide her surprise. "Forgive me, I did not mean to disturb you. I was only…"

His gaze had moved past her to the raven. He opened his mouth to speak, and the words he had prepared about duties and obligations and the expectations of their marriage, died on his tongue.

Pebble was worrying at a shred of capon, his beak tearing at the meat with smug contentment. Except Brynden could hardly recognize the creature. To some degree, he had been aware that she was overfeeding the bird, and therefore had stopped feeding him himself. But that had caused Pebble to cease returning to the Rookery altogether. And it would appear that left in her care, he had gone spherical.

"That is my raven," he blinked.

"Yes, my lord. I hope you do not mind. He comes to my window, and I…"

"He is fat."

a/n: And we all know how the rest went...

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She had barely talked to you since yesterday’s events, when you had been curt and cold, hoping she had pried and questioned you about that damn guard. Oh, you could not wait to be over with all this and finally be able to tell her that you had meant none of it. Would she forgive you ? You could only hope that eventually, she would – that she’d realize you had no other choice at that time.

“Eldyn. Please.” You had whispered as Briggs, the austere housekeeper of the castle, was sat at the end of the table.

Your friend’s soft eyes slowly rose to meet yours, her fists turning white as she leaned forward. “The Prince will hate you for hiding the misdeeds of that man – you and I damn know that he’s trying to trick you !”

“Shh !” You urged her, looking behind you to make sure that none of the other servants were listening in.

“I told you to stay away from that knight ; I felt all those things, I warned you, but you did not listen. Worse, Rivers, you’ve let him get inside your head.” She ominously said, sincerely scared for your well-being.

“I’m doing this to spare- I’m trying to do the right thing.” You whispered, guilt morphing into anger and frustration. “Trust me, it is no what-”

“Ladies ? What is this ? Has no one ever told you that whispers and gossips are a most unbecoming habit, unfit for a servant of Summerhall.” Briggs declaimed ; she had gotten up and had walked toward you, severity and harshness lining her face and tightening the line of her mouth.

“I was just telling Rivers that difficult tasks are better done with the aid of a helping hand. Doing everything on your own can prove to be… Unsafe.” Eldyn spoke, eyes not leaving yours. A worried frown marked her face while her mouth was upturned in apparent disagreement.

“Rivers here is a brave and capable girl – you should follow her example and mind your business. Now go to work, the both of you.” Ordered the housekeeper in her usual patronizing tone, voice harsh and cruel.

Eldyn looked at you with her fists clenched at her side, biting her tongue, eyes glossed with tears before turning around without giving you the opportunity to say more.

“Eldyn ! Wait !” You cried out, heart sinking in your chest as you watched her go. You were about to follow her, but Briggs sharply grabbed you by the arm.

“Let me go !” You bellowed, violently snatching your arm away. The housekeeper gasped, unused to any resistance from your part. She stumbled backward, her calloused hands going to her chest in shock.

“Eldyn !” You called, running past the flabbergasted housekeeper and going to your friend. You left the kitchens, almost running while trying to avoid pots and servants alike. Pushing the door open, you briskly walked before an armored arm blocked your path. You yelped in fear, thinking that it was him – the knight.

“Where are you running like that ?” A man you recognized to be Maekar’s guard interrogated you, his face half obscured by a large helmet.

“Seven hells.” Was all you could say, wondering with a frown how you were going to get rid of that man.

━⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅━

You were deep in thoughts while dusting Prince Daeron’s bedchambers. He was Maekar’s firstborn son and his eldest child, who was now a grown man. He dwelled in Dragonstone with his wife, and had not come back for a while, it seemed. Someone, whether Maekar or his son, had ordered the room to be cleaned now and then but without touching the “organized disarray.” At first glance it seemed a very cluttered environment, but the more you dusted the little trinkets, and the notes, and the books, you realized that everything had an order despite the appearances, and was at its rightful place.

From time to time, a servant would come here to aerate the place, to sweep rugs, and to shake duvets and pillows. Today, that servant was you. You, who dusted and opened windows, letting the summer sun illuminate the room. You, who had to leave an old, carved dragon standing on the edge of the desk, a precarious place between safety and a great fall.

You also noticed one too many bottles, some empty, some half full, all stashed in ingenious places. Instructed not to touch any personal belongings, you left them hidden as well.

Almost done arranging the crimson bed canopy, you heard armor clinking in the hallway, the sound barely muffled by the thick wooden doors. You sighed, once again reminded of the issue created by the presence of Maekar’s guard. Yesterday, you had said nothing, both moved by Maekar’s protectiveness but more importantly silenced by the knight’s threats. Had you denied Maekar his wish to have you protected and surveilled by one of his guards, the Targaryen Prince would have only grown more curious and wary. Yet today, with this broad, armored man following you like a shadow, you felt trapped beyond measure.

Soon, anyone who had seen a maid with a guard at her side would talk. And in a couple of hours, everyone would know – the knight with them. Who knew what he would do to Eldyn ? To Daella ? What if he decided to send a raven to your stepmother ? Cunning and sly as she was, you imagined she had spies and men ready to do her biddings for bread, ale, and a few coins.

Groaning, you sat on the edge of Prince Daeron’s bed, putting your face in your hands, feeling caged and trapped.

Memories flooded your mind : being exiled, forced to leave your home, forced to abandon your titles right after you father had unexpectedly passed… You could not stand the idea that she would hurt people you cared for, innocent lives that were in danger because of her machinations.

You rose, and was taking your rusty dustpan and brush in hand when an idea suddenly crossed your mind. Desperate anyway, you took a few steps toward the center of the room and threw the two items on the floor — they crashed loudly against the hard stone. You went to the floor with them, lying on the cool tiles.

Of course, you heard the guard asking you if you were fine ; he called once, twice, and when met with only silence, did he open the door, clambering to your side.

“Sevens, what ails you, maid ?” He said, red in the face and confused.

“Mae- Maester… Alwin…” You croaked, pretending to be half there, groaning in phantom pain while clutching your stomach that was perfectly fine.

“I’ll- I’ll fetch him right now ! I’ll call for someone, just a moment !” He had the urgency of the young and naive, rising to his full height and calling for a servant as he went.

As soon as you heard him being far enough not to see you anymore, you ran to Daeron’s desk and used a quill and ink to write a note on an old piece of parchment. You described all the misdeeds that the guard had done and wanted to do, adding a line to explain that it was your stepmother who had ordered him to steal Daella’s ring, as well as why : that woman had entangled herself with the Blackfyres, the rebels who wanted to seize the Iron throne.

Done writing, you grabbed the dustpan and brush before leaving the Prince’s room, swiftly taking a hallway that went the opposite way, therefore creating distance with Maekar’s appointed guard.

You went toward the kitchens, where you would leave and follow the path that led from the yard to the guard’s barracks. There, you would leave that note to the Captain of the Guard and nobody would ever link you to all this. The last thing you needed to do before all that was to get the raven’s message from your stepmother as compromising evidence. That knight had caught you in this room before you could find it yesterday, and it was crucial for you to find, as it was irrefutable proof of all their machinations.

With the same hastened pace, you climbed down the servant’s stairs, almost breaking your neck when you tripped on the last staircase. You thankfully caught yourself on the wall and crouched to fix your shoelaces.

“I heard them quarreling this morning, and guess what ? You were mentioned, you idiot ! Listen, we need to show that wench that you meant every word you said to her ; that you won’t tolerate any mistakes, and you know, scare her a bit.” A mature, female voice whispered, prompting you to hide behind a couple of heavy wine barrels. “She might not have betrayed the pact yet, but they know that something is happening.”

You knew who that voice belonged to…

“She’s feeble, weak-hearted and scared enough — trust me.” The man was mocking you with his gravelly voice. “Worry not mother, she fully believes that I was sent by her stepmother and never questioned it once. And had she revealed anything to her friend, don’t you think that I would have taken care of the red-haired wench by now ?”

“Alright. And the Prince ?! My little bird saw him going after her last night. Are you really that blind, son ? Don’t you think there’s a correlation between that and the fact that a guard was seen trailing her ? You let her pretty face blind you and that could cause our downfall.” A shiver of disgust made you shudder – you had to bite your tongue to stay silent.

“Mother, if she had told him about our plans, my head would be on a pike by now. He’s just a jealous prick ! I’d say we’re safe for now.”

“The Prince is possessive, paranoid, and excessively careful. With him suspicious… Damn it, had you controlled yourself… Had you not angered him…”

“That Targaryen savage deserves everything that comes his way. You should have seen him all red in the face and enraged yesterday…”

“Enough ! We better be safe than sorry. I want you to take her friend to the old barn — the one in ruin behind the Windmill farm. That way we’ll have leverage if you don’t have that ring by midnight, or if she breaks under the pressure.”

“She won’t, mother, she won’t.”

“Never trust a bastard.”

You could not believe your eyes and ears. Still hidden, you watched them through the tiny space that separated the two wine barrels.

The fucking housekeeper, Briggs, that guard’s own mother, was holding his forearm with her calloused hand.

You stumbled backward, catching yourself with your hands, breath hitched in the back of your throat, mind trying to make sense of the scene before you without fully understanding what you had just seen and heard.

All this time… You thought. She had watched and observed everything. She had masterfully planned all this.

Had she hit you square in the face, the effect would have been the same — you suddenly felt dizzy, nauseous, faint... Worse, your lungs were empty of air, and each breath you took seemed vain, as if you were choking on nothing.

They both left, going out through the door that led into the kitchen’s yard.

Panting, you anxiously waited in your corner to make sure they weren’t coming back. Counting to one hundred, you stayed hidden, curled up and immobile until your limbs and extremities were numb.

Finally, you painfully stood, pins and needles making you limp while your mind was racing.

So all of it, you realized, the raven from your stepmother, the threats of revealing your closeness with the Prince… It had been bait. Bait you had eagerly taken. And her little birds ? Spies had been watching you ?

You absolutely had to tell Maekar that his daughter, he, and his entire seat were in danger ; that everything he did was potentially being surveilled. Informations sold not to your stepmother, but directly to the Blackfyre rebels.

Darting your eyes toward the yard you had initially planned to leave through – you couldn’t risk seeing them outside. Yet, if you went back from where you came, the guard might potentially catch you… Could you trust him ? Could you tell him that you needed to see Maekar ? Paranoia, doubts, and fear paralyzed you.

The door that led up ? The door led out ? Which one should you choose ?

You had to hurry as Eldyn was in danger. What if they changed their mind and decided to harm her before you had a chance to stop them ?

Sevens, where can Maekar be at this hour, you wondered, knowing the man was always busy somewhere. And how can I meet him without raising suspicions ? Who will help ?

A face appeared in your mind. The face of the man who, despite his flaws, had taken great care of you.

━⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅━

“Finally ! I was wondering when I would see you again. You should have come sooner ! Your wound might be healed, Rivers, but it could scar badly if you do not take care of yourself properly. I thought that you had gotten it after that whole ordeal…” Maester Alwin’s big, bushy eyebrows moved up and down as he talked while looking up at you, leaving his body onto the door’s threshold.

“Yes, yes. Let’s get inside if you don’t mind.” You rushed him, looking left and right before welcoming yourself into his study.

“Well, w- what are you doing ?” Demanded the Maester, pushing his lonely goggle on his hairy nose. You pushed your back against the closed door, still unsure if you could trust him or not.

“Briggs.”

“Briggs ?” He repeated, scrunching his nose as if it would help him understand you.

“Yes.”

“The housekeeper ?” The bewildered old Maester asked while scratching his balding head.

“Yes.”

Maester Alwin stared at you without blinking, waiting for you to go on — which you didn’t – as you were strategically waiting to see what he would say to that. You had no better plan, just an inkling that he wasn’t one of her little bird.

“Rivers, is the- is the fever back ? Let me see-” His withered hand went to your forehead, but you batted it away.

“You don’t- I need to see Maek- Prince Maekar at once, it is of the gravest, utmost importance.” You explained, fat beads of sweat dripping from your brow. “There is- Sevens- There are spies in this castle. The housekeeper and her son, you know, the one who injured me- they- they are plotting with the Blackfyre rebels… They forced me to steal the signet ring, ‘want to sell it to the rebels. They told me they would hurt- Daella might be in danger too, my friend and the Prince-“

“Sit, child. Breathe.”

“You have to help me.” You grabbed both his hands, your desperate and urgent tone finally getting through to him. “Ask for him, find an excuse, anything ! I know- I know how outlandish this must seem but please, you have to believe me, there are traitors to the crown among us.”

The old Maester took a step back, prying his withered hands from your grasp, his lower back hitting the edge of the desk. His entire face fell, lips parting, shoulders sagging — you had never seen him so serious, so grave. He turned his back to you, passing a trembling hand on his lined face.

“The Prince is not here, my dear. As we speak, he is overseeing the final preparations of the envoy that is to leave tonight for the damaged garrison on the eastern front. Later, he will give his orders for the fortifications of the granary, of the village… The storm is heading toward us now – crows are flying for the western lands.” His eyes were focused on the wall behind you, lids fluttering as he thought of a solution.

“Fuck.” You cursed, biting your lip and shaking your head. “Eldyn… They want to keep her as leverage...” You barely managed to say. “And to think that I am to meet that man in only a couple of hours when I’ve already hidden the damn ring in his quarters ! He’ll know that I’ve bettayed him if he finds it, he’ll- Eldyn…”

“I’ll send a raven to the Prince this instant. Then, I’ll tell Ser Garrick to take the Princess to a safe place until things are sorted out – he has known Maekar since childhood and is a safe ally. And you, you will give…” Maester Alwin almost ran to his shelves, finger pointing at several vials until he found the one he was looking for. “Sweetsleep, give some to that guard ; diluted in wine, he won’t taste it.” The Maester gave you the little glass bottle. “A few drops will neutralize him for the night and will afford us precious time until we are able to find someone reliable to deal with him. You’d better keep him alive, the Prince will want to interrogate him duly.” Observed Maester Alwin while going behind his massive desk. He opened one of the drawers and took out a wine bottle with a shameful expression on his face.

“I will break a few of these vials on purpose and then will demand the housekeeper’s assistance. Briggs must have told you that she is the one I always trust – well, trusted – with the cleaning of my study… Had I known…” He gave you the wine bottle before looking down at his feet, sighing. “I had suspicions but I- I should have been less… Cloistered. Braver…” Regretted the old man, inhaling before pushing his goggle back in place.

“Don’t, Maester Alwin. Don’t. I’m most thankful for everything you did and are about to do for me. Had you not been there, I would have surely died the other night.” You squeezed his forearm before hiding the vial in your apron pocket. “And were you not here tonight, I would have despaired.” You assured him sincerely, looking at him in the eyes and seeing in him a man far stronger than his appearance let on.

“Go now, Rivers, this needs to be sent right now.” The old Maester said, voice cracking as he grabbed parchment and quill.

“Good luck.” Maester Alwin nodded while writing, and you went to the door, opening it carefully to see if anyone was here. The hallway was empty on both sides and you went to the left, knowing that you’d find a set of double doors that led to the outside of the castle and to the guard’s barracks.

Sighing, you gathered your wits and went, sending one last look toward Maester Alwin, who encouraged you with a smile that helped you move forward.

━⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅━

The room was lit this time, but it was no more welcoming than it had been just a day before. The knight’s room smelled of sweat and of rain-soaked dirt. Crossing the threshold, a wave of unease passed over you, like the feeling of a bad storm about to be unleashed from the skies.

Untying your hair, you sighed ; the heavy and humid summer heat made everything much more difficult than it already was. Taking out the two mismatched goblets you had snatched from a tray while passing another maid, you arranged them on the desk, which seemed more like a table than anything else. Done, you waited no more and quickly searched for the ring, breathing out in relief when you found it in the same place you had left it.

It was terrifying to think that such a tiny object, in the hand of a Blackfyre rebel, for example, would potentially engender terrible, terrible things. That ring could seal forged letters, sign orders, allow anyone with Valyrian hair to pass as the princess… Thinking about it made you nauseous and unwell.

You chose to sit on the only chair available and crossed and uncrossed your legs, feeling the edge of your knife rubbing against your skin.

After a while, a set of heavy footsteps you had learned to recognize – and dread – echoed outside, which startled you and made you stiffen. Inhaling deeply, you felt a muscle twitch in your cheek.

Just imagine that it is Maekar you are speaking to, you told yourself while trying to loosen your posture.

The door opened, and he entered of course, instantly filling the room with the darkness he brought everywhere with him.

“You’re here early.” He observed, his long, dark hair partially hiding his face ; the bruise that Maekar had put on his face had faded, but his eyes were still empty, dark, and detached.

“Early is better than late ; serious business is at hands.” You mused, crossing your arms. “Doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun, Ser.” You locked eyes with him before sending a pointed look toward the bottle.

“You mean to poison me with that ?” He told you, half jesting, half serious, the soles of his boots grating against the unpolished wooden floor. “I thought you smarter, cleverer.” The knight taunted you, taking off his gloves with his teeth and then throwing them on the desk.

You took the bottle and tried to uncork it with your teeth – it shifted, but barely. Not ready to admit your defeat, you put it between your thighs and pulled with both hands. The cork finally came loose and you cheered, at least pretended to.

You poured yourself a glass, and though you had always hated the tartness of wine, you drank it all for the sake of your lies while fighting a wince.

“More for me then. Here’s your ring.” You took the ring from the confines of your bodice and slapped it on his desk – it rolled in circles before falling flat.

The knight slowly walked to his desk, trying to look unhurried, he took it in his dirty hand and lifted it toward the lit sconce. He eyed your reaction before appraising the signet ring until satisfied.

“I knew you could do it. You’re more bastard than Lady.” He smirked, approaching you. “You’re safe then, for now.”

You chuckled at that, an unladylike snort coming from your nose.

“And you’re more bandit than knight, Ser.” You laughed, reaching for the bottle to serve yourself another glass. The man let the remark slide and took the bottle. For a moment, you were afraid he would throw it to the floor, but he just gave it to you, tilting his head toward the other goblet, silently ordering you to pour him a glass.

“You did well by staying quiet – otherwise you wouldn’t be so bold right now.” He was right beside you, his hand gripping the back of your chair while he talked. How could you put drops of the sleeping draught in his goblet if he loomed over you, his gaze never leaving you ?

Both of you suddenly turned your heads toward the door — a group of guards had erupted in crude laughter while climbing the stairs.

“You should lock the door.” You poured the crimson liquid in his copper goblet. “If anyone comes in, they’ll tell on us or they’ll ask questions.” You send him a worried look, creasing your eyebrows and grimacing to emphasize your point.

“Hmm.” He nodded and went to the door. With trembling hands, you took the vial and successfully uncorked it with your teeth before spitting the oaken seal. You shook the small glass bottle, and purplish drops of Sweetsleep fell in the wine while the tall knight turned the key into the lock. With great speed, you hid back the vial in a pocket of your dress, hiding your apprehension with a nonchalant smile.

You gave him the goblet without sparing him a glance and crossed your legs, leaning back in your chair as he took off his boots before sitting himself on the edge of his bed.

“Yesterday, when we spoke, were you ever sincere or was it all an act ? Be truthful.” The man inquired, his voice suddenly devoid of any sarcasm or threat.

“Had I known you like I know you now, I would have persuaded my father without waiting. But then, I thought myself destined for grandness – I was wrong, foolish.” You confessed while holding your goblet. “At that feast, I had no idea that eleven years later I’d see you again, now a knight of the Summerhall guard... I can’t stop thinking that fate has made our paths cross for a reason.” You lied, knowing that you would have never chosen him even if you had to be exiled again – rather a beggar, you thought, than your betrothed.

You watched the knight empty his goblet in two large gulp. He paused, humorously savoring the expensive taste. But a second later, something flashed across his eyes – recognition. At that, a shiver of dread coursed through you. Had he recognized that something in his drink tasted peculiarly ? The man stilled, and the room suddenly seemed colder.

“Say that again.” His voice was deep, cold, and as sharp as the edge of his sword.

“Fate has made our paths cross again...” You repeated, feeling your breathing and heartbeat quicken. Had you said something wrong ? Sevens. What was making him tick ?

“No. Before that.” The Ser commanded you, a menacing storm brewing behind his deceiving stillness.

“Eleven years ago, that feast, I should have known...” Again you repeated your statement, less confident now, bile rising in your throat while you cursed yourself for asking him to lock the only exit.

“Yesterday you told me that you remembered my face, my nose unbroken — that the wine had not erased everything, that I-” His eyes slowly raised toward your face, his expression sinister and chilling. You breathed deeply, silent, waiting for him to finish with an apprehension so great you felt yourself combust in anguish.

“I broke my nose thirteen years ago, ‘fell flat from my horse during a tournament in the Vale.” His nostrils flared, his chest plate rose and sunk at a pace faster than yours. “You never remembered me.” His fists curled.

“It’s- surely I’m mistaken- my memory’s not that reliable, you noticed it yourself !” You laughed tensely, wondering how to fix the present situation.

“You said you had remembered me !” He barked, abruptly getting up, voice so loud it rang in your ears. “You never did ! You- you- you…” He raised both hands in the air in frustration, groaning as he realized you had lied all along.

Under him, the wood creaked and protested as he suddenly started to pace like a caged lion. Slowly, you leaned toward your boot, hoping to discreetly pull out your knife.

“Liar !” He billowed, pointing his index at you, his other hand hovering against the hilt of his sword. He suddenly halted in his tracks, and you could see the resolve in his dark eyes as he started to walk toward you. Shit. Shit. Shit. You almost fell forward, crouching to take your knife before rising from his chair.

“I’ll make tou regret, you b-” The man stuttered, the words suddenly stuck in his mouth ; his pair of reddish brown eyes instinctively went to the bottle, widening and then going back to you. “You-” he charged toward you, unsheathing his sword while you lifted the chair before running to a corner of the room, holding it up as a shield. His sword clashed against the wood, breaking one of four legs.

“You’re not-” The sentence never ended – his legs buckled and he ended up kneeling in front of you, sword clattering at your feet. Wasting no time, and taking no chances, you went behind him and pushed him between the shoulder blades — pushed him as he had pushed you. “Bastard…” He groaned, fighting against the sleeping draught.

“This bastard never remembered you. And if this bastard’s father refused to consider your proposal, it was never about your rank — I’m sure he could see in you the same darkness and malevolence I see. Had you been a Prince or a King, he would have refused to send his daughter to the devious little coward that you are.”

The man mumbled unintelligible insults, his four limbs splayed on the floor. Only when he was asleep for good did you tie him like a roasted boar, using a set of rope you had stolen while passing the stables. Done, you grabbed his sword from the floor and fastened it to your white kirtle – which was hidden under your long sky-blue skirts. You wiped your sweaty face and hand with your apron, still trying to catch your breath — that man was heavy, and every muscle in your body was sore.

Carefully, you took the ring and attached it back to your necklace. You went to the door after verifying one last time that the man was still in the same place ; you turned the key and took it, got out, and locked the door before finally leaving. No one suspected you or even batted an eye as you went out. To them, you were just a maid — weak and helpless.

━⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅━

Outside, the sky was getting dark with giant grey clouds hiding both moon and stars. Gushes of strong winds blew through your hair and skirts, sending shivers through your entire body as the air came in contact with your sweaty skin. For the first time in weeks, the air was breathable. Refreshing.

Looking at the patches of dark blue obscuring the sun, you hoped the coming storm hadn’t delayed the raven from delivering his missive and that the Prince would come sooner rather than later.

Around you, the yard was eerily empty – storms were considered bad omens by most, and tonight, more than ever before, you hoped the weather was just a coincidence.

Daella is safe with Ser Garrick, you reminded yourself, Maester Alwin is hopefully still busy with occupying Briggs, the knight is dealt with for now… Only Eldyn still needs help. They had implied that she’d be left alone, but they could very well have asked someone of their likes to stay with her.

Far in the distance, you eyed the old windmill – you would have to find another ruse to deal with whoever was with her, and then help her escape. Maekar could arrive in hours, and if the housekeeper realized that you had tricked her before that, Eldyn would suffer the consequences.

Grabbing your skirts, you started to walk discreetly, but with a newfound determination. After passing the edge of the castle’s walls, you breathed in relief, knowing you were now hidden from all the windows and anyone who might have seen you and told on you.

But then, something – someone – grabbed your arm.

You turned, rage and fury rising in you like a burning fire. Something wild and rebellious had started to take hold in you, and you knew then that you wouldn’t stay small, silent, and complying anymore.

But behind you saw no foe, no enemy, no monster ready to claw at you – it was Maekar.

Maekar who looked at you as if you were the most precious thing in the world, as if he had lost and then found a treasure he’d sought after for a lifetime.

The wind suddenly blew wilder, stronger and more erratic. Maekar’s silver-blond hair moved in harmony with the element, but him, he did not move an inch as he took you in. No, he was a monolith of a man – solid, guarding, shielding.

You saw the relief and the fear, the anguish and alleviation all drawn over the apparent severity of his noble traits, each muscle and expression telling a story he wished to keep for himself. But unfortunately for him, you were not to be fooled by placidity – yes, you could read the book of him. Somehow, you spoke his language without having ever tried to learn it.

“Turn around.” He simply said, and for a second, you thought it was you who he was referring to, but then the alert and armed men executed his order, all of them turning their backs to you. “Walk ten steps.” They all did, obeying without a question.

As if your arm was a rope, Maekar grabbed it softly, pulling you toward him inch by inch until your body met the cold, hard steel of his intimidating armor. There you were safe, you thought, safely nestled at his side.

He breathed out in your hair, mumbling unintelligible, strangled words. His gloved hands pressed your face and waist to him, as if the wind could suddenly make you fly far – too far away from him. As if you being away was painful. Unbearable.

He swiftly kissed the top of your head, your temples, and your cheek before turning your head, and without any hesitation, he silently claimed your mouth.

His beard grazed your skin like hundreds of little dragon claws while his hands were holding you, pinning you and pressing you against him as if he wished two could become one.

Maekar’s kiss was fierce and burning, disoriented and rough, but never bruising. He breathed you in, and so did you, aware that you had so little time – that this moment was stolen, forbidden, dangerous. You kissed him back with a fervor equivalent to all the pent up emotions you had bottled since meeting him – since that first day in the study – all while grabbing his collar as if you were hanging off of a cliff. You felt the sharp edge of his teeth and teasingly bit the plush flesh of his lips with yours – you moved in unison, entranced. How could you keep lying to yourself anymore ? You wanted him more than anything else, needed him close, felt the urge to be in his presence. The feelings consumed you every single day : you saw the outlines of his face in clouds and longed just to see a glimpse of him. It had broken you to push him away and to put any kind of distance between the two of you. To act as if the pull, the attraction, the familiar comfort you felt at his side was possibly to be buried deep and to, one day, be forgotten was pure fallacy.

Maekar reluctantly broke the kiss and let go of you. His face was red and his eyes fleeing – you understood that he needed a little space to regain his- his composure. He leaned back against the castle wall ; the two of you were out of breath, drunk from one another, almost faint and a little lost, as if you had just stumbled back in your bodies after sharing one with the other.

“Positions.” The Targaryen Prince demanded, turning his gaze back to you. His men stepped backward to their original positions, all of them surrounding you with their backs still facing you, swords brandished and ready.

“Daella-”

“She’s safe.”

“Eldyn-”

“My men went to scout the old barns – she must be with them now.”

“Maester Alwin, he’s still with Briggs. We need to send someone.”

“My men are searching her room as we speak – we’ll find all of those who participated in her schemes. Leniency will be shown for the unwilling, but to those who followed without coercion… They’ll see.” Promised Maekar, severe and solemn. “And she, of course, who masterminded the entire conspiracy against mine own blood, against House Targaryen, will see what it costs to plot against me.” He added menacingly, standing tall. “As soon as she is brought out and her cunt of a son is found, I’ll have you escorted to the infirmary. You’ll be able to see your friend. You’ll be safe.”

You avoided his watchful, lilac gaze, trying to hide your guilt ; Maester Alwin had not shared the part of the plan you had to execute, and it was you who’d have to tell him now. He knew you had lied to him, but not to which extent. Oh, what if Eldyn had been right – was Maekar going to resent you for keeping secrets from him ? Was he going to hate you ?

“My Prince,” you poorly tried to flatter him while clasping your hands behind your back. “I… Sevens…”

“What did you do ?” He asked apprehensively, eyes fixed on you like a hawk.

“He’s right there,” You admitted sheepishly, showing the guards’ barracks with a tilt of your head. “I tied him up in his rooms – he lays there incapacitated by a sleeping draught.” You blurted out casually, as if it was going to make the admission glide smoother. Taking the key that opened the guard’s door out of your pocket, you handed it over to the Prince.

His men looked at each other, a few of them confused and a few surprised, their shocked expressions impossible to hide.

Maekar’s eyes narrowed at you, and he sighed while taking the key – his sigh was as long and loud as his apparent disappointment. He took a few steps back and pinched the bridge of his nose. To say he was displeased was an understatement.

“Ser Arras, take this and go fetch him. And you, come here.” Said the Targaryen Prince through gritted teeth.

Though he had just kissed you, Maekar’s ardent expression had quickly turned sour. Of course, you knew why : you had looked him in the eyes, and you had not told him the entire truth.

His pained expression made any relief wilt, and instead, guilt bloomed in your beating chest as you followed the men and your Prince, who led you in the inner yard, right where you had been standing but a moment before.

You sat on a decorative boulder, limbs rigid and sore, biting your nails in apprehension. A heavy weight had been lifted from your shoulders right before, but now that the events of the day were setting in, you realized that there would be a before and after tonight. The aftermath of the secret you had discovered was finally coming to bite you and everyone involved.

Maekar told something to Ser Arras and the other knight who would accompany him. When he was done, the Targaryen man walked toward you, halting and stepping back before finally coming to face you, obviously trying to rein in his consuming anger.

“You know nothing of the pain, of the fear, of the terror I felt while reading that raven’s message !” Maekar bot whispered and shouted. “For Daella, for my child, my girl, who slept in a castle full of rats for an entire year. She is twenty, but had she been forty or a hundred, she is still my girl, and I- I failed her. I swore to her mother, on her deathbed, to protect our children from the dangers of this world – at any cost. Before she was gone, I vowed to spare no efforts to keep our six children safe and to raise them in the best conditions.” His voice broke, and he inhaled while looking at the cloudy sky. “I have failed them countless times – but tonight, tonight I realize I failed them, and their mother, more than I ever could.” His shoulders were tense, and his face was now half-hidden behind his gloved hands. He seemed to fight himself from within – fight pain and guilt tenfold greater than yours. He looked ill almost, as if the shame was burning him from inside out.

“And you… Sevens- you ! I imagined you slain, taken, maimed ! And to think-” He growled before catching himself and whispering again.

“To think that I believed you, that Iyou entangled yourself in this folly with just a guard at your side. A guard you discarded as soon as you could ! Ruse after ruse, lie after lie… And there I was believing you were safe while he could have- if he had- if you had- Fuck !” Maekar shook his head before sending a look behind to make sure no one was listening in. “You do not know, you do not realize the extent of my feel- the way you-” The words had been flowing like water out of a broken dam, but the end of his last sentence never came. You did not need him to finish it, though. You knew what it would have been – what the words would have sounded like in his mouth. You knew he couldn’t say what he surely had not often heard in his life, words he had not been taught to say. “You should have come to me as soon as he approached you.”

The wind blew your hair in your face, and you were thankful, for it hid your silent tears.

Maekar did not hate you – he hated himself. It was even worse to witness. You wished to take his pain away, to bear it for him.

“Your wife would be most proud of all the hard choices and sacrifices you have made to keep your children safe – things few men would have done. Things only a devoted father would do.” You whispered, hoping he’d get the allusion to what he had done all those years ago to protect his son Aerion at Ashford. He loved his children unconditionally.

Maekar took a meaningful pause. What you said was not lost on him ; it seemed to go right through his heart – his face relaxed, his posture too.

“Why could you not trust me ?” He finally asked, his voice but a breathy whisper.

“They promised to exact all the things I fear most in this life. And had I told you anything, they’d have known. Daella, you and Eldyn – they knew I couldn’t take any risks.” You could not look at him while saying that, the admission was too great. “The mere idea that-” You couldn’t even imagine it. “I tried Maekar. With all my heart. I tried do the right thing by all of you.” You shuddered and your shoulders slumped, like a cliff that’s been hit by too many crushing waves. “I’ve lived without loving and it is a sad thing – a meaningless thing. See, if I felt strong enough to take on such dangers, it’s because I’ve already taken the greatest risk of my life by loving a man I can never be with. And if, in the end, I managed to crush those who wished me ill, it’s simply because I had people to care for.” You looked at the horizon where lightning coincidentally pierced the sky like a silver arrow. A few seconds passed before the ground shook in an explosive, ear-splitting sound.

Maekar looked as if the lightning had struck him instead ; his entire countenance crumbled, the fortress of his guarded heart tumbling down as time slowed for a second. His lips parted, his burning lilac eyes slowly raised to catch yours for reassurance that he had not misheard you.

“Here she is, my Prince.” Proclaimed a guard in the distance, breaking the moment. Thunder struck once more, the sound so deafeningly loud you had to cover your ears. Everyone turned toward the main entrance of Summerhall : two guards were walking toward your group, holding the housekeeper by the arms. “She hit Maester Alwin in the back of the head. He wouldn’t wake and was promptly sent to the infirmary.”

“Bring her to me.” Demanded Maekar while brushing the tip of his nose with his gloved fingers.

Your heart sank, and rage coiled in your stomach as she passed you by. But Briggs smiled at you, proud as she was of her despicable actions.

“Good evening, my Prince, how shall I help you ?” She provoked him, her face reminding you of the castle’s gargoyles she had once made you clean.

“Name your rats, and you shall live.” Maekar offered her, cutting to the chase, his implications clear.

“Rats dance when the cat is away, ‘tis but human nature. Would you fault me for being human, my Prince ? Have you never given in to temptation yourself ?” She asked, her beady eyes turning toward you. Maekar snorted, unimpressed by her tactics.

“Very well, a traitor’s death you shall have.”

“The rats ? I’ll gladly give their names… But only if you spare the lives of me and my son.” Briggs countered. Her voice sounded so different now that she did not have to hide her true nature anymore.

“Send them all to the dungeons.” Maekar finally ordered without any hesitation ; he refused to play her games. “I’ll deal with you tonight.”

“Send me to the dungeon and I will never tell you where the Blackfyre forces are hiding.” The housekeeper turned traitor was slowly losing her confidence now that she faced the implacable and impassible gaze of Prince Maekar Targaryen.

“Do you truly think that I need you or your cunt of a son to do – or learn – anything about the last remaining shitstains of the pitiful Blackfyre rebellion ?” Maekar laughed, mocking her with a sarcasm and lethal exactness only he had.

She snorted as only response and shook her head in feigned defeat. A sinister snide escaped her mouth – like a rattle snake hissing from a dark, echoing cave. She then lifted her head and ever so slowly, her eyes rose to you ; they were as empty and vacant of humanity as her sons’ and seemed to pin you in place while her sickening smile grew and grew.

“His Grace has nothing to learn from me, it seems. But you, little bastard, you do.” Briggs raised her eyebrows, taunting you. You scoffed, smirking at her poor attempts at saving herself.

“Enough. Take her to the dungeons.” Ordered Maekar.

“So you never thought it strange ? That all of a sudden, your father became ill ? That he died when she had last relented in her decades long attempts to mould and ply him ? She envied you. She did.” The guards were about to haul her away, but you sent a look to Maekar, who sighed and raised his hand, which made his men pause. “And had you no suspicions when he agonized, though a week before he had been healthy and stout ? You knew not the letters she had found – letters to your mother. He wanted you far from your stepmother, safe away from her. I have proof of my claims and will share them if you tell the Prince to spare us.”

Something broke in you. Each sentence like a thousand hits, each ruinous claim a terrible blow, each word a cut to the thick, scarred skin of your wounded heart.

All she had said, a deep, cloistered part of you had always secretly suspected. But for your own sanity, you had never dared to even think of that terrible theory.

And while her admissions rang in your ears, the world shifted around you. It felt like being finely cut before being reassembled piece by piece into someone new. Time had slowed, but it also flew too fast. Maekar was saying things but you did not catch any of it. Unable to breathe, you choked on nothing and stood still while watching the way each of her teeth shone when lightning struck.

Sinister was her smile – wicked, monstrous. The same smile you had seen on your stepmother when she had forced you to leave all you knew.

The cracking sound of thunder erupted once more, the sound muffled in your ears. It was piercing and bone-chilling. No light accompanied it. Not this time.

It was no thunder you realized – it was you, screaming.

There was no thought that went through your head after that – just pure and unaltered, feral rage. Becoming a beast yourself, you lunged at her. In the corner of your eyes, you saw Maekar’s eyes widening, understanding what you were about to do a second too late. His arms went to restrain you, but you ducked, running toward Briggs.

You jumped and fell to the ground with her under you ; she was still smiling, obviously pleased with herself. Pleased with the hurt she had inflicted upon you, with the seed of something that couldn’t be unheard. The surprised guards who’d been holding her grabbed you by the shoulders, and you felt as if they were carrying away a petulant child.

Yet you felt like a child indeed, the image of your father coming to you as your body went limp in their grasp. The need to hear and speak to him was crushing, and you decided to let go – you were not going to give her more of your attention. Your reaction would only fuel her fire.

A strong pair of hands grabbed you by the waist, pulling you from the scene, whispering in your ears, trying to appease you.

A torrent of tears had flooded your face, wetting your matted, untied hair. Wetting the black leather of his gloves as he tried to wipe them all.

They had poisoned your father.

They had killed him.

And somehow life had gone on for two years. The sun had risen and set. You had slept, and eaten. You had thought him at peace, had found comfort in a terrible, terrible lie.

You looked up at Maekar with the last of your strength ; it was at least moving to see that he cared more about comforting you than being appropriate in front of the dozen pairs of eyes that were on you.

“They shall pay, all of them.” He promised you. “They shall pay. Yes, they shall.”

You nodded, knowing he meant all of it.

━⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅━

That night, storm and rain washed over Summerhall ; water fell and fell from the skies. Lightning struck again and again while you watched from the infirmary’s small window. Behind you, Maester Alwin was still unconscious.

Eldyn was safe, standing next to you with her head on your shoulders.

In the morning, the sun pierced through the thick grey clouds as if they were but an inconvenience. The storm had come and gone, dissipating into nothingness, leaving the earth replenished and the springs running.

You closed your eyes and only then, did you fall asleep, thinking about the few notes played on a harp that had led you where you were now.

That was a lot, I know 😮‍💨 I really hoped you enjoyed this new part! I also wanted to thank all of you for the support that you’ve shown for this fanfiction. 💕 It’s my first long fic and it is really testing my english and writing skills lol. Anyway, any feedback is appreciated, as always. I’ll post the penultimate chapter very soon. I think part 9 will be the last. Lmk if you see any mistake.

As always, if you want me to tag you, do tell me ♡ here is my masterlist and requests post if you’re interested for more.

tag list 🦢: @saltycomicsparentingfish , @evyiione , @bbblackmamba , @theprophaecy , @flockoff-featherface , @nalitali 🪉

The loss of his wife had left him entirely empty. Once a man who would easily throw on a smile, cover the burdens that rested upon his shoulders and carry on with life - Baelor now found himself sitting in his solar, an uncomfortable feeling never leaving his chest. Couple that with the two babes - entirely reliant upon him - and Baelor could not take another moment of crying babes nor the realm needing him. He had not felt such a loneliness, nor a desparation in so very long and yet now his days were filled with nothing but loneliness and desparation. Though his marriage with his wife may not have been entirely one of love alone, it did not stop him from feeling so cold upon her loss.

It was then that his father approached him. Still sat in his solar, a tray of food cold and untouched as a familiar knock on the doors announced his arrival,

"Come i- Ah, Father. What brings you here today?"

He tries so very hard to plaster on a smile, but all he manages is a thin line that is not quite a frown. It shall have to do, he supposes, as his father walks in,

"Baelor! Your mother and I miss you dearly, you know."

"I must apologise, Father-"

"-and Maekar keeps grumbling to everyone and-"

"I can imagine, but-"

"-and I cannot stop Rhaegel from wandering the halls again and- Ah, I have overwhelmed you - my apologies, son. Please sit, I promise I have come here with something other than our troubles to add to your pains."

Both men takes seats beside the fire (which had dwindled substantially over the day, now mere embers barely keeping their warmth. Still, they tried their best to glow and warm.). It is then that Baelor finally mentally acknowledges the chill that had surrounded him, and a shiver drives up his spine as he takes his seat. King Daeron, for his part, seems to be in good spirits. Perhaps the news he brings is one that will finally resolve whatever emptiness he has tried to fill over the last six moons. Somewhat unfortunately for Baelor, his father makes him wait - summoning a new tray of food to replace the previous one. He urges his son to eat, waiting patiently as he drinks his tea. When Baelor is around a third into the meal that sits in front of him (a hearty lentil soup, that seems to ease the hunger he did not know he had felt), Daeron finally speaks to him,

"You are to be wedded again!"

The spoon drops as Baelor looks at his father both with confusion and indignation. Marriage? Already?

"Repeat that to me?"

"You are betrothed once more, Baelor."

"Betrothed?"

"I apologise - I come to you both as your father but as your king too, my son-"

"It has barely been six moons-"

"-and between the needs of the realm and those of your sons, this is the best solution! Valarr and Matarys require a mother, and it would not be a bad thing to reaffirm our ties with the Baratheons."

"I am to be wedded to a Baratheon? Not that.. not that it particularly changes anything, I suppose.."

"Yes, Lyonel Baratheon's sister - you remember her, yes? You danced with her at her nameday tourney-"

"Many years ago, Father! She must have changed so very much since!"

"As have you, my son. Listen - the betrothal is already fixed. She will come to us in two moons - do with that what you will. Of course, you cannot go to Storm's End, but you can pen letters, and-"

"I have no choice, do I?"

"The realm requires it, Baelor."

The soup that sits in front of him has gone cold already. His head hits the back of the chair as he slowly exhales from his mouth. For a moment, Daeron's own heart pangs. It could not have been easy for Baelor, suffering like this, only to be told that he was now to wed another so soon. But Westeros cared little for how one felt, and more for what befitted the realm. Baelor does not move from his chair, not until Daeron's hand finds his,

"Have faith, my son. Somewhere along the line, everything will finally click into place."

Baelor does not trust his own voice to respond, forcing a smile onto his face as he hums and nods. The King leaves, and Baelor is once again left to his own thoughts and the silence that only seems to scream around him.

Storm's End was never quiet. Between you, your brother, your brother's lovely wife and their gaggle of children - to gain a moment's rest in the castle was to have your prayers heard and answered by the Gods themselves. Something that was seldom heard of. Tonight was an entirely new matter that you had been (somewhat) dreading over the years. Your brother had finally secured you a betrothal that he swore would be the key to your future, your happiness and the success of House Baratheon.

Baelor Targaryen. Baelor 'The Hammer' Targaryen, Baelor 'Breakspear' Targaryen. Most known for his strong success during the Blackfyre Rebellions - in particular, the Battle of Redgrass Field, which had essentially determined the end of the First Rebellion.

You remembered the boy who had just been a few moons older than you, and danced with you at your nameday tourney. How he had made you laugh, made you giddy with joy and made you feel in ways that you could not explain.

Yet he owed a duty to the crown, and to the realm. And so you were not considerably shocked upon his betrothal to another - though you could not deny the pangs in your heart. You heard of his sons - Valarr and Matarys, the older being two and the younger barely being a few moons old - and the realm knew of his loss, so it was only a matter of time before he would take another wife. But taking the Baratheon Brat? The 'Delight of Storm's End'? Part of you wondered if it was his own decision, and another part of you wondered if he even remembered you - after all these years. Your brother snapping his fingers brings you back,

"Hellooooo dear sisterrrrr~! Are you there? have you already started dreaming of your half Dornish husband to be's well endowed co-"

"Lyonel!"

"You've heard the tales, surely?"

"Who hasn't- That's beyond the point!"

"So then what is it, sister dear, that has you so very lost in space, hmm?"

"I just- this is not a joke, is it? It would be awfully cruel of you to play such a joke on me, you know."

"Nay - I have the King's letter approving the betrothal right here, if that may soothe your mind?"

He slides the letter across the table. It is marked with the Targaryen sigil - the black and red three headed dragon. On one end, the wax stamp (marked with the initials 'D.T') that had been carefully lifted with a knife remains intact (your brother, unknown to most, was a fond collector of such stamps. Any and all letters that arrived in Storm's End were therefore opened carefully, so as to keep the stamp intact and safe for his collection.). The letter unravels in your hands, and in neat cursive, you read the words that glide across the page,

Dear Lord Lyonel Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End,

This is an official letter from the office of King Daeron II, at the Red Keep, acknowledging the agreements between House Baratheon and House Targaryen. I (King Daeron II) approve of the betrothal between my son and your sister, and the two shall be wedded in two moons at the Great Sept of Baelor. We eagerly await your arrival, and the beginning of a new life of joy for the lovely couple.

Hopefully, my son should send your sister some correspondence soon - I had hoped we may have some more time, so that the two may meet before being wedded to one another, but I am entirely confident that they will make it work! After all, we all remember fondly how they had danced together upon your sister's nameday.

I must end this letter with my sweet congratulations, and blessings upon yourself and your House,

King Daeron II.

It was real. It was as real as you, as the cold stones that made the castle around you. As the wild sea that crashed outside, practically screaming its joy to the world. You were to marry Prince Baelor within two moons. Your brother threw his head back - laughing wildly as the realisation set in your mind,

"A drink for my sweet sister! And drinks for all - for we must celebrate the beginning of forever!"

Baelor sat at his solar. He had written three letters - all of which did naught to make either him nor his soul feel any better. Not one letter read as a husband eager to meet his wife, but as a man who had long forgotten how to court. In frustration he groaned and lowered his head to the table - unintentionally getting ink on his forehead.

It truly was just his luck then that the doors to his solar opened. No warning, no knocks and a sense of entitlement that could only belong to the youngest of four princes,

"Brother."

"Maekar."

"You were not at dinner. Again."

"Ah, has dinner already passed?"

"I- What the fuck have you been doing today?"

"You have heard the news, have you not?"

"Of fucking course I have! She is good for you."

"Well, yes, but-"

"What?"

"…I fear I have forgotten how to court a woman, Maekar."

"…"

"…"

"…you cannot be fucking serious, Baelor. Say something pretty, say something sweet - you were always better at this shit than I was! remember how I made you write my letters to Dyanna?"

"That was before I had forgotten, Maekar."

"Then fucking remember! You have a chance to make things right, to fix whatever stupid hole is in your heart! Leave the grumbling and sulking to me - that's my job, Baelor."

"…"

"What have you got so far?"

Baelor finally raises his head from the desk, and his brother pulls a face of sheer disdain at the ink splotch on his forehead - throwing a handkerchief at him and gesturing to his forehead. Baelor pushes the crumpled letters towards his brother, before finding a mirror and scrubbing at his forehead to clean the mess that adorns it.

With every sentence he reads, Maekar's face only worsens. At one point he groans, and says. 'It cannot get worse than this'. Two moments later he answers himself, 'It has gotten worse. Seven fucking Hells, Baelor.', to which Baelor does not respond, only pouts and stares at the new sheet of paper that sits in front of him.

Blank.

Almost how his mind felt, at this moment.

"You danced with her at her nameday-"

"As everyone seems so keen to remind me of - yes I did. What of it?"

"Did you speak? Any authors she particularly enjoys? Poems, songs - anything you can work with? And get rid of the soppy shit."

"I thought that would appeal to her-"

"No!"

"Fine. I suppose there were a few.."

"Then include those, you fucking idiot!"

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and then tearing the letters that Baelor had worked so hard on - receiving a sound of protest from his elder brother. But Maekar does not care, and throws the torn up shreds into the fire, before pointing at his brother,

"Write better! She is to be your wife, and I know you are capable of better."

With that, Maekar leaves, and Baelor is alone in his solar once more. He thinks that perhaps a change of scenery will help him write better, and takes his brother's advice - turning to the library of the Maidenvault in hopes that he may find some kind of inspiration there. The library was tall and imposing - with shelves of books stacked high. In between bookshelves were desks, barely lit up with dim candles (old wax that had melted off the candles created a tall mountain where the candles would reside) and spaces for ink pots and quills. Baelor grabs several books and finds a desk, and what initially begins as a simple evening spent in the library becomes hours peering over books, staring at poems so that he may derive meaning from them.

The hour of the wolf has long passed, and his third candle has almost completed a full journey when he finally finds the poem most suited for a letter to you. It is well known, yes, but he recalls how your eyes had lit up when he recited the poem to you. As he scribbles it down, he pauses to think. For the first time since.. well, everything, Baelor finally felt a little lighter. He finally felt as though he may be worthy of a fresh start, and a small part of him felt both nervous and excited at the idea of sending you his letter.

It is not entirely shocking, then, that the Prince falls asleep in the library - found by the Grand Maester doing his rounds. The man does not distrub him in the morning, but drapes a blanket over him before returning to his duties.

A little over a day has passed since you had been told of your betrothal. Most of Storm's End has been filled with joy - rejoicing at the glad news. But you have been uncharacteristically quiet - waiting at the window for sight of a raven from your betrothed. All who had seen you saw not the 'brat', who would dance, sing and tease all around her, but instead saw the girl who would hide behind her father's legs as a child. The girl who would sooner bury herself under books than greet lords and ladies. The girl who was so very nervous, and overthought every possibility.

Your youngest nephew - Ormund, a babe of just ten moons - sat beside you. His pudgy fingers tugged at your gown, demanding your attention as you continued staring out into the skies. The sun cast a warm glow over the Stormlands, as evening skies slowly rolled in. A soft red streaked across the sky - a gentle fire, not unlike your betrothed.

A warmth settled over your heart at the thought of him - quickly tugged away by the babe who screeched and begged for you to play with him. Finally, after so long of staring out of the window, you granted him your attention - playing with the babe, helping him walk by holding his hands and leading him around the room. It is somewhat funny then, that the one time you look away from the window is when a raven arrives in Storm's End.

"Sister! Come quick, a raven has arrived for you! From King's Landing!"

You stopped - lifting Ormund to your chest as your thoughts went entirely blank. It most likely was a letter from Baelor, the official beginning of your (short) courtship. With your sweet nephew still clinging to you, you rushed through the halls, down to your brother (who had taken to feeding the raven that sat perched upon his shoulder). Lyonel handed the letter to you, taking his son as you carefully opened and unravelled the message sent just for you.

It had the same sigil, the same wax stamp (albeit with the initials 'B.T' instead of 'D.T') and the paper felt the same in your hands. But the handwriting.. something about it felt personal. As if you could tell that whoever had written it had taken time. Had really, truly thought about how to write it. Your brother (not subtly, mind you) was peering over your shoulder before you twisted away from him, putting yoursefl against a wall. He sighed and rolled his eyes, but ultimately allowed your privacy as you read,

To my dearest betrothed - the kind Lady Baratheon,

I must begin by acknowledging our betrothal. Though it is a small surprise to me, it is not one I am upset by. If anything, I feel somewhat glad at the agreement set by both of our houses! I am sure you remember the time we danced at your nameday (or, if your House is anything like mine, you have been incessantly reminded of it by everyone around you!). I must say - if I am being entirely honest, I found you quite endearing then, and am sure you are even more endearing now.

I also must apologise for the rushed nature of our courtship - I suspect part of it is to do with my children. Valarr and Matarys are quite young, and I believe that may be the motivation and push behind this. I do wish we could have the time to meet properly and for me to actually court you properly. Nonetheless, Storm's End is not far by raven, and we shall have to settle for courtship via raven! Oh, before I forget (for I have attempted to write this letter four times now, and I am dangerously close to falling asleep at this incredibly uncomfortable desk in the library) - I do not expect you to immediately become a mother to my children. Of course, it would be ideal, but they are not your responsibility to shoulder alone. Please do not think that is the only reason we are to be wedded.

I seem to recall you were as fond of poetry as I am. In particular, you enjoyed a certain poem - perhaps you remember too? Though it is very well known, and all of Westeros could recite it by heart, I cannot forget how your eyes lit up so sweetly, so very long ago when I recited it to you. The way you grabbed my hands on the balcony, as the moon cast a gentle glow upon us - far from this hubbub and distraction of the bustling hall below. Do you recall that night? How the stars shone so bright? It is one of my fondest memories, my Lady, and I sincerely hope you do not mind that I am reciting it again - even in written form.

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o’er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

I would like to write more - but somewhat unfortunately, sleep seems to be taking my hand, and my brain (as you can see from my much messier hand here - I apologise, it is not usually so messy). The candle has almost completed its cycle, and the cold is beginning to seep through the walls. I think I heard the howling of the winds not long ago. My next letter will be less uncontrolled, I promise you this. Nonetheless, I shall think of you, and eagerly await your response to me.

Awaiting you, with love,

Baelor Targaryen.

You read the letter three times. Each time, your smile widens a little more, and heat rises across your neck and face. Lyonel watches eargerly - thinking at first to tease you, until he sees the look in your eyes. Something that cannot be faked, something that cannot be reasoned with.

A feeling blossoms in his heart - joy. Joy, that his sweet sister had found something of her own (even if it was somewhat thrust upon you). The smile that beamed across your face was not your usual smile of mirth and mischief, but one of true happiness. A smile that truly signified the beginning of something you had long awaited.

As soon as you had read the letter, you rushed up towards the library - Lyonel following close behind,

"Sweet sister - surely you shall indulge me upon the contents of your letter!"

"Never you mind that! I have a Prince to write to!"

He sighs, rolling his eyes and attending to his son as you search through the library. The Gods watch as you practically mirror Baelor - stacks of books piled on high beside you as you find the correct response to your betrothed. The hours pass by with ease. Your brother and his wife bring their dinners to the library - feasting with you as you continue your research. Soon enough, you are alone again - and have found the perfect poem. A sonnet, in fact, for you recall the Prince's appreciation of a good sonnet.

To my sweet betrothed - the gentle Prince Baelor,

It pleases me to hear from you after so very long, and to be betrothed to you. I have never forgotten you, nor how we danced at my nameday. How you kept whisking me away from the lords that took me to dance. How our eyes searched for one another throughout the tourney, and how you kept making me giggle throughout the feast afterwards! I also remember making you blush, and how your cheeks reddened more than the skies upon sunset - but I suppose that should be a conversation for another time~

As a result, I too am pleased by our betrothal, and am somewhat excited (and perhaps a little nervous, though I hope that stays between you and I, my Prince!) by the prospect!

I am grateful for your reassurances, and though I am sure I shall need time to adjust to King's Landing and the court, I am not opposed to getting to know Valarr and Matarys. If you do not mind my saying - I would like to keep their mother's memory, but also be… something similar to them. Whatever is most comfortable for you, of course. I also understand the rushed courtship - though I believe there may be another added reason why! My brother has not celebrated something in the full Baratheon manner, and I do believe he may be longing for another grand celebration (and quite frankly, this reeks of his scheming! I can already hear him demanding more wine of the servants as he dances along the halls - I must apologise in advance, though I am sure you are aware of how he parties).

Your letter brought me much joy, my Prince. I read it three times, before keeping it safe in my private journal (far from any prying eyes, of course) - and I do remember how you recited that poem to me! In particular, I remember how your gaze softened when I joined you, and how we spent (what felt like) hours under the moonlight - debating poetry and defending literary works against one another. I must admit - when I read the poem again, I found myself imagining that night once more…

And so I shall respond to you with a poem of mine own. I do not know if you know this one, but I recall you enjoying sonnets…?

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea

But sad mortality o’er-sways their power,

How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,

Whose action is no stronger than a flower?

O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out

Against the wrackful siege of batt’ring days,

When rocks impregnable are not so stout,

Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?

O fearful meditation! where, alack,

Shall time’s best jewel from time’s chest lie hid?

Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?

Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?

   O, none, unless this miracle have might,

   That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

Perhaps this is a poem more suited to Storm's End. Though, I hope you see the beauty within it that I do.. The hour is late, my Prince, and my handmaids have called for me to rest twice already. Outside, the waves crash against the stone, and cold should fill the room around me - yet I cannot help but to be surrounded by warmth.

Thinking of you,

Lady Baratheon.

Your handmaids had called you twice already - you had not lied. In fact, they were on their way to call you again when you finally left the library (after sealing the letter and attaching it to a raven, who dutifully cawed and made his way towards King's Landing).

As you lie in the bath - the warmth of the water surrounding you easing your aching muscles (that you did not even know ached like that) - your mind floats away. You wonder what he looks like - had the few years that passed between you changed him? Fatherhood probably did, and the Rebellion most definitely did. Yet he was still likely to be handsome, you thought. The water grew colder, and time passed quickly as your thoughts left you. Before you knew it, your maids were helping you back out of the bath and into nightclothes. Sleep found you quickly, and you were grateful for it.

Away in King's Landing, Baelor sits with his sons in his arms. Though the two were very young, and most definitely did not understand the words he spoke to them, he still explains the situation in full detail. To be entirely fair - the young Prince Valarr nodded dutifully (though Baelor presumed that was more of habit, than actual understanding),

"It is.. difficult, my sweetlings. I miss your mother, but perhaps this will be good for us - and the realm, of course. You will understand as you grow, but I will not force anything upon the two of you."

Valarr responds with a noise - something that sounded incredibly profound, as if he had gained sudden wisdom. Matarys, on the other hand, was sucking on Baelor's thumb,

"I know, I know - we shall all endeavour to be good, yes?"

Both boys respond by reaching out to their father, sleepy and tired from a long day of doing nothing. As he rocks them both to sleep, his mind drifts off to you once more. He had not felt so nervous in a long time - did you read his letter? Did you appreciate the poem, or did you see him as some bubling fool? He tries to still the panic rising in his heart, but every few moments it returns to him once more. Eventually, even the heir to the Iron Throne must rest, and he succumbs to his sleep.

The morning light peeks in through red curtains - casting a glow across his chambers. Baelor awakens gently (unlike the previous moons, where he had both struggled to sleep and struggled to awaken). The day's schedule cycles through his mind as he dresses himself and makes his way to break fast with his family. Every face he passes in the corridors on the way is filled with either surprise or a sense of pity that he is eager to dispel - he needs not their pity. No, what he needs is joy and normalcy.

Unfortunately, his own family are not much better. King Daeron jumps from his seat - pulling his eldest into an embrace that he cannot escape from as his siblings stifle their own laughs. Queen Myriah is next, tugging him to the seat beside him,

"You must sit with your mother today! I shan't hear a thing against it!"

He did not try to fight her. Instead, he took his rightful place - ignoring the playful jeers from his brothers, and enjoying breaking fast with his family.

The remainder of his day was surprisingly relaxed. Even the small council meeting, for once, was not incredibly stressful. Everyone was agreeable, and no one really protested each other. Yet Baelor could not wrangle his thoughts away from you. Not even now, as he watches the evening skies - not yet the signature dark purples with blankets of stars glittering across them, but the softer blues of the sun relinquishing its rule over the day, slowly succumbing to the night.

"She will not respond that quickly, Baelor."

"I know, Maekar. Yet still.."

"Yet still you stand there like a green fucking boy!"

"…"

"Honestly - one day you're spiral into confusion and the next you're stood at the window like some wife longing for her sailor husband! Baelor - you have got to get a gri-"

"A RAVEN! I mean, a raven! A raven, Maekar."

"So it is.."

"Yes, it is!"

Baelor unfastens the letter attached to the raven, feeding it some feed he had stolen from Brynden Rivers long ago (who had been very aware of it, and the only reason he had not mentioned it was because it made his life ever so slightly easier with the ravens). He waves the rolled up letter in Maekar's face (much to his irritation) and specifically points out the wax steal with a stag (within which your initials are stamped in),

"Now, unless Lyonel Baratheon has a) changed his name and b) wishes to personally contact me, I believe this may be from my betrothed!"

"Fucking open it already!"

He grumbled, slumping into a chair and crossing his arms as he threw his legs onto the desk. Baelor grabbed his letter opener - treating the letter with more care than he had ever done. His thumb trailed over the stamp as he imagined you (or rather, what he had imagined you would look like after all these years) pressing the stamp into wax). The letter unraveled, and a few rose petals almost dropped out - until Baelor quickly moved the letter over the desk. Maekar leaned forward - carefully inspecting the petals as Baelor read the letter,

"She sent petals."

"Mhm."

"Petals????"

"Sure."

"She sent. Rose petals. With her fucking letter."

"Yep."

"…"

"…"

"You are both as in-fucking-sufferable as each other."

"Whatever you say, brother."

"Fuck me, you haven't even met her!"

"And yet she writes, and I feel ten years younger - dancing with her on her nameday once more. What can I say, Maekar?"

"You can start by saying thank you! It was I, if you remember correctly, who told you to send the poem!"

"Of course - thank you, my oh, so very wonderful brother without whom I would be entirely lost!"

The sarcasm is not lost on Maekar, who rolls his eyes and huffs,

"Well?"

"Hmm?"

"What has she written? Honestly, Baelor-"

"She wrote of being glad for the betrothal - which is to be expected. Nobody would exclaim dissatisfaction like that. But she also- actually, it might just be easier for you to read it - here."

He hands the letter to his younger brother, before opening up his drawers. There was an empty box, which required filling, and the rose petals (with the wax stamp) felt apt. As Maekar read (face twisting into a grimace not because the content was particularly distasteful, but because his nature was not so flowery), Baelor poured them both an evening tea,

"Seven fucking Hells - you both truly do deserve each other!"

There is no malice in his words. To a stranger, he may seem somewhat grumpy, but Baelor knows his brother well enough to know that his words are filled with love. Perhaps even joy, but that might be pushing the limits a little,

"Should I write back?"

"Wait until the morning this time. Write in the morning, and send it slightly later - so that it may reach her at a normal fucking time."

"Hmm.. that may be a good idea."

"Of course it's a good fucking idea!"

"Whatever you say, brother dear."

And with that, the two brothers enjoy their tea, before leaving to their respective chambers for the night.

You were reading over his shoulder, a letter from the Warden of the North, something about grain stores and winter preparations, when his fingers slipped beneath the hem of your dress. The touch was casual, almost absentminded, as though he were stroking the arm of his chair rather than the inside of your thigh. You shifted slightly, surprised but not displeased, and his hand moved higher.

His fingers found the slit in your smallclothes, and then they found you, warm, dry and entirely unprepared.

You opened your mouth to speak: a question, a protest, you were not sure which, but the word dissolved into a sharp intake of breath as his thumb pressed against your pearl. He did not look at you. His eye remained fixed on the parchment before him, his quill still scratching across the page, but his hand was moving now, stroking you with a slow rhythm that made your thoughts scatter like startled birds.

"Brynden," you managed, but the word came out strangled.

He did not answer. His thumb circled your pearl, feather-light, then two of his fingers dipped lower, slipping inside you with an ease that made your face burn. You were already growing wet, your body responding to his touch with a readiness that was at odds with your confusion. His fingers curled, finding that spot inside you that made your vision blur, and you bit down on your lip to stifle the sound that wanted to escape.

He worked you steadily, methodically, his thumb stroking and pressing while his fingers pumped in a rhythm that was almost leisurely. The pleasure built in waves, coiling tight in your belly, and you felt yourself approaching the peak, your breathing quickening, your fingers digging into the arm of the chair...

He stopped.

His fingers stilled inside you. His thumb lifted from your pearl. The sudden absence of sensation was jarring, like a door slamming shut in your face. You made a sound, a small, desperate whimper, and tried to shift your hips, seeking the friction he had denied you.

His arm tightened around your waist, holding you still.

"Brynden, what..."

He pinched your pearl. Not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to make your words dissolve into a high, breathless squeak. His fingers twisted inside you, and the sharp jolt of sensation somewhere between pleasure and discomfort, stole the rest of your sentence from your throat.

You slumped against him, panting. He released the pressure and resumed the gentle stroking, his thumb soothing the ache he had just created, his fingers moving in that same unhurried rhythm.

He still had not spoken. He still had not looked at you. His quill was still moving across the page, though you noticed now that his handwriting had grown slightly less precise, the letters a fraction larger than usual.

The pleasure built again. You tried to stay quiet this time, tried to prepare yourself for the moment he would stop, but when his fingers slowed and his thumb lifted, the denial was just as jarring as before. You let out a sound that was almost a sob, your head falling back against his shoulder.

"Please," you whispered. "Please, I..."

Another pinch. Another twist of his fingers. The words shattered on your tongue, replaced by a moan that you could not have suppressed if your life depended on it.

He gentled his hand again, returning to the slow, steady massage of your cunny, and you realized with a kind of dazed wonder that he was not going to let you speak. Every time you tried to form a word, every time you opened your mouth to ask a question or voice a protest, he would pinch your pearl or twist his fingers or press down hard on that spot inside you until your voice failed you entirely.

This was on purpose. This was calculated. This was, in its own strange way, a kind of conversation, one in which you were not permitted to participate.

The cycle repeated. Over and over. He would stroke you to the edge of release, his touch steady and relentless, and then he would stop just before you could fall, leaving you gasping, trembling and clutching at his arm. You tried to be quiet, tried to hold still, tried to prove that you could endure whatever strange game he was playing, but your body betrayed you every time. You whimpered. You begged. You moaned his name.

"Brynden. Brynden. Please, husband..."

He inhaled sharply at that, husband, and for a moment his fingers stilled entirely. Then he resumed his stroking, slower now, gentle, you felt the tension in his shoulders ease a fraction.

But he still did not let you peak.

By the time the candles had burned down to stubs and the fire had settled into a bed of glowing embers, you had stopped trying altogether. You were slumped against his chest, your head lolling on his shoulder, your body a trembling, over-sensitized wreck. Your mind had gone blank and hazy, all thought dissolved into a fog of thwarted pleasure and exhaustion. You could not have formed a sentence if you tried. You could barely remember your own name.

You did not understand. Your husband was strange, you had known that from the beginning, had accepted it, had learned to love it. He had his moods, his silences, his moments of peculiar intensity. But he had never directed anything of the sort toward you before. He had always been gentle with you, even in passion. He had always explained himself, even when the explanation was difficult. It was one of the cornerstones of your marriage, this habit of laying your minds bare to each other, no matter how ridiculous or uncomfortable the thoughts might be. It was what had brought you together in those early, uncertain days, and it was what had kept you together through everything that followed.

Yet now he would not speak. He would not look at you. His brow was furrowed as he read the text in front of him, a different letter now, something about trade routes in the Stormlands, and his jaw was tight. His fingers were still moving inside you, and you did not know what you had done wrong.

The tears came without warning. One moment you were drifting in the fog, and the next you were crying, silent tears sliding down your cheeks and dripping onto his doublet. You sniffled, a wet, pathetic sound, and your shoulders shook with the effort of keeping quiet.

Brynden sighed.

It was a soft sound, more weary than exasperated, but it made you flinch anyway. His hand stilled. His quill stopped moving. For the first time since you had settled on his lap, he spoke.

"Silly girl," he murmured.

His voice was low, almost tender, but there was an edge to it that you did not recognize. He sounded...miffed, you thought. As though you had somehow disappointed him, though you could not fathom how.

But even as he said it, his thumb found your pearl again, and this time he did not stop. He stroked you with a firm, steady pressure, his fingers curling inside you in just the right way, and the release that had been denied so many times crashed over you like a wave. You cried out, your back arching, your hands clutching at his arm, and he held you through it, his touch gentling as the last tremors faded.

You were too exhausted to move. Your limbs felt like water, your eyelids too heavy to lift. You were dimly aware of Brynden setting down his quill, lifting you in his arms and carrying you through the darkened Tower to your bedchamber. You were aware of him laying you on the bed and drawing the blankets up to your chin, of him pressing a kiss to your forehead and murmuring something you were too tired to hear.

Then you were asleep.

The next day, he acted as though nothing had happened.

He was already gone when you woke, his side of the bed cold. You lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the night before. The memories came back in fragments: his hand beneath your dress, the endless cycle of pleasure and denial, the tears on your cheeks, the sound of his voice calling you a silly girl.

Your body still ached faintly, a pleasant soreness between your legs that made your face heat when you shifted under the blankets.

You dressed slowly, your mind turning the puzzle over and over. Perhaps he was simply stressed. The realm was always demanding, and the Hand of the King bore the brunt of it. There had been tensions with the Iron Islands, trade disputes in the Vale, the usual undercurrent of conspiracy that ran beneath the court like a hidden river. It was possible that he had needed an outlet, some strange release from the pressures of his office.

It was possible. But it did not feel like the whole truth.

You found him in the great hall at midday, breaking his fast with the king and the small council. He looked up when you entered, and his single red eye met yours across the room. There was nothing in his expression to suggest that the night before had been anything out of the ordinary. He nodded to you, a brief, courteous gesture, and then returned his attention to Lord Velaryon, who was expounding at length about something to do with shipwrights.

You relaxed, a little. Perhaps you had imagined the strangeness. Perhaps it was only one of his moods, and it had passed.

But that evening, when the summons came again, your stomach tightened with a mixture of anticipation and unease.

You went to him anyway.

The second night was worse.

He did not even bother with the pretense of working. When you settled onto his lap, his hand went immediately to your thigh, sliding beneath your dress with a purposeful efficiency that made your breath catch. His eye was fixed on you now, not on the parchments on his desk, and his gaze made you feel like a mouse pinned under the shadow of a hawk.

You tried to be still. You tried to be quiet. But when his fingers slipped inside you, already wet, already aching from the memory of the night before, you could not stop the small, desperate sound that escaped your throat.

The cycle began again. Pleasure, building and building, and then the sudden, jarring halt. Pinching. Twisting. Denial.

This time, you tried to scramble off his lap.

You twisted in his grip, your hands pushing against his chest, but his arm tightened around your waist like an iron band. He did not yank you back or hold you down by force. He simply…held you. His arm was immovable, his grip unbreakable. You looked up at him with wide, bewildered eyes. He arched a single silver eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Did I displease you somehow?" The words burst out of you before you could stop them, high and trembling. "Have I done something wrong? I do not understand what is happening. I do not understand what you want from me. Please, Brynden, just...just tell me what I did..."

"You did nothing wrong." His voice was calm, measured, entirely at odds with the chaos he was wreaking on your body. His fingers were still moving inside you, slow and steady, and it was almost impossible to think through the haze of sensation. "I simply want your thoughts on me."

You stared at him, uncomprehending. "My...my thoughts?"

"Your thoughts." He repeated the words as though they should be self-explanatory. His thumb traced a lazy circle around your pearl, and your hips jerked involuntarily. "I want your thoughts on me. Your mind. Your attention."

"My thoughts are already on you." Your voice cracked with frustration. "They are always on you. You are my husband. My dearest friend. My closest confidant. The father of my daughter. Of course my thoughts are on you. I have not been refusing my wifely duties. I have not been refusing to bed you. I do not understand what you..."

He was not listening. Or rather, he was listening with only one ear, his attention divided between your words and something else entirely. His eye had dropped to your chest, to the emerald necklace that rested against your collarbone, the oak leaf pendant he had given you years ago, the one you had worn almost every day since.

You fell silent, your protests dying in your throat. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong, you did not know what it was, and the man who had always explained things to you was staring at your necklace as though it held the answer to a question he had not asked.

Then he spoke.

"Do you ever imagine a different life?"

The question was so unexpected, so disconnected from everything that had come before, that you could only blink at him. "What?"

"A different life." His fingers stilled inside you, but he did not withdraw them. His eye lifted to meet yours, his gaze was cold and searching but terribly fragile. "Some days. When you are alone. Do you imagine what your life would be like if the king had never decreed that you be married to a bastard sorcerer as punishment for your family's treachery?"

Your heart stopped.

"If you had married a pretty Reach knight instead?" His voice was quiet, almost conversational. "A man with a bright smile and a lively laugh? Sunlit curls and a face unmarked? You would live in his castle, surrounded by green fields and summer flowers. You would bear him children who shared his comely likeness and a legitimate name. You would wake every morning to a handsome face on the pillow beside you, instead of..." He gestured vaguely at his own face, the birthmark, the scarred hollow of his missing eye. "Instead of this."

You stared at him. The haze of pleasure had evaporated entirely, replaced by a cold, creeping understanding.

The lord from the Reach.

He had arrived at court three days ago. A young man, newly come into his inheritance, with hair the color of honey and eyes like summer sky. He had been charming and polite and almost impossibly beautiful, the kind of beauty that belonged in songs and tapestries, the kind of beauty that made people stop and stare.

You had been charmed by him. Not in the way Brynden feared, not in the way of a woman tempted to stray, but in the way of someone who had spent years surrounded by the muted colors of the Crownlands and who had suddenly been reminded of the vivid greens and golds of home. He had spoken of the Reach, of Oldtown and Mander and Arbor, and you had drunk in his words like a woman dying of thirst.

You had also, you remembered with a sinking heart, commented on his appearance.

He ought to have a dozen portraits commissioned of himself, you had said to Brynden, after the lord had taken his leave. It would not be vanity. He is simply breathtaking to look at. Like a painting come to life. Like a statue by a master sculptor. I have never seen a face so perfectly proportioned.

You had meant it as an observation. An aesthetic appreciation. The way one might admire a sunset, or a particularly well-constructed bridge, or a bird with exceptionally glossy feathers. The lord was beautiful in the way that a mountain was beautiful: impressive, awe-inspiring, and entirely irrelevant to your personal happiness.

But Brynden had not heard it that way.

You looked at your husband now and you saw what you had missed before. The tension in his jaw that was not from the pressures of the realm. The way his hand trembled slightly where it rested on your hip. The fragile, defiant misery in his single red eye.

He had heard your words and he had understood them in the only way he knew how. He had heard you praising another man's beauty, and he had remembered every time he had burned for Shiera Seastar, every time he had begged for her hand and been refused, every time he had watched her choose another man over him. He had remembered what it was like to love a great beauty and dream of her, and he had assumed that you were doing the same.

That you were dreaming of a prettier life. A prettier husband. A prettier face to wake up to.

"Oh, Brynden," you breathed.

His expression flickered. "I am not asking for reassurance. I am asking a question. Do you imagine it? Do you wish..."

"No." The word came out stronger than you expected. "No. I do not wish for a different life. I do not imagine being married to a pretty Reach knight. I do not dream of sunlit curls and bright smiles. I do not want a castle in the Reach or children with his comely likeness. I want you. I have always wanted you. You are my husband, my friend, my home. How can you not know that?"

"You said he was breathtaking."

"I said the sunset over Blackwater Bay was breathtaking last week. Do you think I wish to marry the sunset?"

"That is not the same."

"It is exactly the same." You reached up and cupped his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. "He is beautiful in the way a painting is beautiful. Something to admire and then walk past. He is more beautiful than either of us. It means nothing. He is not you."

Brynden's mouth opened but no sound came out.

"You have spent so many years believing you are hard to love," you continued, your voice trembling. "You have spent so many years measuring yourself against beautiful things and finding yourself wanting. But I do not love you for your face. I love you for your heart, your mind, your strange and stubborn soul. I love you for the way you lean down to kiss me. I love you for the way you look at our daughter as though she is the most precious thing in the world. I love you for the way you said 'silly girl' last night, even when you were being cruel, because I could hear the tenderness underneath it."

His eye was very bright. "I was not being cruel."

"You were being frightened." You stroked your thumb across his birthmark, the way you had done a thousand times before. "You were frightened that I might want someone else. Someone easier. Someone prettier. So you tried to…what? Keep my attention? Prove that you could hold it, even if you could not hold my heart?"

"I was not..." He stopped. Swallowed. "I do not know what I was doing."

"Yes, you do. You were trying to make sure I could not think about anyone else. You were trying to fill my mind so completely that there was no room for pretty Reach lords or imaginary lives." You leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his. "But my mind was already full of you. It has been full of you for years. You did not need to do any of this."

He was silent for a long moment. His hand was still inside you, you realized distantly, though it had gone still and slack. The absurdity of the situation struck you suddenly.

"I am an idiot," he said finally.

"You are a man who has been hurt very badly and who never quite believed he deserved to be loved." You kissed the corner of his mouth. "But you do. You deserve to be loved. And you are loved. By me. By Alysanne. By that wretched raven, in his own way. You are loved, Brynden Rivers, and no pretty Reach lord is going to change that."

His hand slipped out of you, you felt the loss of him like a small ache. He wiped his fingers absently on a handkerchief and then wrapped both arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest. His face pressed into the curve of your neck, his breath was warm and unsteady against your skin.

"I am sorry," he said, the words muffled. "I should have spoken to you. I should have explained. I should not have..."

"No, you should not have." You stroked his hair, the silver strands slipping through your fingers. "But I forgive you. Just…next time, use your words. You are very good with words when you choose to be."

"I am out of practice with difficult ones."

"Then practice." You pulled back and looked at him, your hands still framing his face. "We will practice together. As we have always done."

He looked at you, the misery in his eye fading. "I do not deserve you."

"You say that so often that it has ceased to have meaning." You kissed him deeper and felt his arms tighten around you. "Now. Are you going to finish what you started, or are you going to leave me aching for a second night in a row?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "That depends. Are your thoughts on me?"

"My thoughts," you said, "are so full of you that there is no room for anything else. There never has been. There never will be."

He kissed you and his hand found its way beneath your dress again.

The first time Pebble stole a strip of bacon from your breakfast plate and flew off with it still dangling from his beak, you assumed he was simply being greedy.

The second time, when he snatched a chunk of chicken and vanished out the window without so much as a parting croak, you assumed he was being greedy and ungrateful.

By the fifth time, you knew something was amiss.

"He is not eating it," you said, standing at the window of the solar with your hands on your hips, staring at the empty sky where your raven had disappeared. "He takes the food, flies away, and does not come back for hours. He is not eating it here. He is taking it somewhere else."

Brynden did not look up from his desk. "He is a raven. Ravens cache food. It is what they do."

"He is not caching it. I followed him once...well, I tried to follow him. He flew over the rooftops and I lost him near the kitchens." You turned to face your husband, your expression accusing, as though he were personally responsible for Pebble's mysterious behavior. "Something is going on."

"He is a raven," Brynden repeated, his quill scratching steadily across a parchment. "He does raven things. You are overthinking this."

"I am not overthinking. I am observing. You are always telling me to observe."

"I tell my spies to observe. You are not my spy."

"I could be your spy. I am very observant."

Brynden set down his quill and looked at you. His expression was the one he wore when he was trying to decide whether to be amused or exasperated. "You wish to be a spy now?"

"I wish to know what my raven is doing with all the food I give him." You crossed your arms. "He is not eating it. He is taking it somewhere. What if he is in trouble? What if he has gotten himself caught in something and he needs the food to...to bribe a cat, or something?"

"My love..."

"Ravens are intelligent. He could bribe a cat."

Brynden pinched the bridge of his nose. "My love. You are aware that I am currently attempting to prevent a war between the Iron Islands and the North. There are Greyjoy longships massing near Bear Island. The Master of Ships is in a panic. The Warden of the North has sent three ravens in as many days demanding the Crown's intervention. And you wish me to divert my attention to investigating the dietary habits of your pet raven."

"He is not a pet. He is a companion."

"He is a stout bird who has you wrapped around his talon."

"He is not..." You stopped, took a breath, and tried a different approach. "You can see through the eyes of your ravens. You do it every day. It would take you five minutes. Less than five minutes. You could send one of your working ravens after him, follow him to wherever he is going, and then you would know. I would stop asking, and you could go back to preventing the war with the Iron Islands."

Brynden stared at you. You stared back.

"I will stop asking," you repeated, "if you just look. Once. Please."

The silence stretched. Ravens on the perch had gone silent as if sensing an argument.

"Very well," Brynden said with the voice of a man who had weighed the costs of resistance and found them too high. "I will send a raven after your errant bird. But when we discover that he is simply hoarding food in a gutter somewhere, I expect you to concede that you were being ridiculous."

"I will concede nothing until I have evidence."

"You are the most stubborn woman I have ever met. I love you. Now shoo and let me work."

The next morning, you fed Pebble an extra portion of shredded capon, the tender meat you had specifically requested from the kitchens. He wolfed down a few bites while perched on your wrist, his black eyes bright with satisfaction, and then he snatched the largest remaining piece and launched himself out the window.

"Now?" you asked, turning to Brynden.

"Now," he agreed and closed his eye.

You watched him as he reached out with his mind, his consciousness slipping into the network of ravens that blanketed the city. His expression went distant, his body still and relaxed in his chair, his breathing slow and even. It was a strange thing to witness, the man you loved, present and absent all at once, his mind soaring over the rooftops of King's Landing while his body sat motionless before you.

Minutes passed. You twisted your hands in your lap and tried to be patient.

Then Brynden's eye opened.

"He has a family," he declared.

You blinked. "What?"

"A family. A mate and three hatchlings. He has been taking the food you give him and bringing it to them." Brynden's voice was flat, but his expression was bewildered. "They are living in a crevice in the Tower of the Hand. Three floors down. He has been commuting."

You stared at him. "Pebble has a wife?"

"A mate. Ravens do not marry."

"Pebble has a mate and children and he did not tell me?"

"He is a raven. He does not speak. He cannot tell you anything."

"He could have indicated. He could have…I do not know. Drawn pictures in the dirt. He is very intelligent."

Brynden leaned back in his chair and regarded you with an expression perilously close to amusement. "You are upset that your raven did not inform you of his marital status."

"I am not upset. I am…surprised." You stood up and began to pace, your skirts swirling around your ankles. "All this time, I thought he was lonely. I thought he needed my attention. I brought him into our bed because I thought he was sad and cold. And the whole time, he had a family three floors down."

"A family you fattened him up for. He has been using your generosity to provide for his mate and offspring. It is rather resourceful, when you think about it."

"He has been using me."

"He has been accepting your offerings and distributing them to his dependents. It is what any good provider would do."

You stopped pacing and turned to face your husband. "I want to see them."

"The hatchlings?"

"The mate. The hatchlings. All of them. I want to meet them."

Brynden sighed. "They are wild ravens. They are not accustomed to human interaction. They will not perch on your finger and eat from your hand the way Pebble does."

"Brynden."

He held up his hands in surrender. "When the hatchlings are old enough to fly, I am sure Pebble will bring them to meet you. He has brought you everything else. Dead mice. Shiny buttons. The occasional stolen ring. His offspring seem like the natural next step."

You sat down heavily in the chair across from his desk. "Pebble has a family," you repeated. "He was not lonely after all."

Brynden rose from his chair and crossed to you. He knelt before your chair, his hand finding yours, his single eye searching your face.

"You were lonely," he said quietly. "When you first came here. You were lonely, and you found comfort in a raven because there was no one else to give it to." He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. "But you are not lonely now. You have me. You have Alysanne. And Pebble, it seems, has a family of his own. Perhaps that is not a betrayal. Perhaps it is simply…growth."

You looked at him. "When did you become so wise?"

"I have always been wise. I simply did not always apply it to matters of the heart."

"Because you were too busy applying it to the Greyjoy longships."

"The Greyjoy longships are significantly less complicated than you are."

You let out a wet laugh.

Three weeks later, Pebble brought his family to meet you.

You were in the nursery, playing with Alysanne on a blanket spread across the floor. She was sitting up on her own and grabbing at everything within reach, her silver hair sticking up in soft tufts and her eyes bright with curiosity. She had recently discovered the joy of blocks, small wooden cubes painted with letters and animals, and was engaged in the serious business of knocking over every tower you built.

Then you heard the familiar scratch of claws on the windowsill.

Pebble hopped through the narrow opening and landed on his customary perch. But he was not alone. Behind him came another raven, smaller and sleeker, her feathers a glossy black with a blot of white on her left wing. And behind her came three young ravens, their flight still a little unsteady.

You stared.

Pebble puffed out his chest and made a sound that could only be described as smug. Look, he seemed to be saying. Look what I made.

"Pebble," you breathed. "Are these your...is this your family?"

The female raven cocked her head at you, her black eyes assessing. She did not seem afraid, only curious. The hatchlings, fledglings, you supposed they were now, huddled together on the perch, peering at you with the wide-eyed uncertainty of children meeting a stranger.

Alysanne let out a delighted shriek and waved her blocks in the direction of the ravens. "Ba!" she announced, which was her current word for everything.

"Yes, birds," you said. "They are birds. Very good, sweetling."

Pebble hopped down from the perch and waddled across the floor to where you sat.

"You want me to feed your children?"

Pebble croaked.

"Your children who you did not tell me about. Your children who you have been feeding with the food I gave you."

Another croak, this one slightly more insistent.

You looked at the fledglings, still huddled on the perch. They were watching their father with expressions that clearly said, Father, why are you talking to the large featherless creature?

"All right," you said, picking up the dried meat. "But only because they are your children. And because they are adorable."

You held out the meat toward the fledglings. They did not move. The female raven, Pebble's mate, you supposed, gave a soft caw, and one of the fledglings, the boldest of the three, fluttered down from the perch and landed on the floor a few feet away from you.

"Hello," you said softly. "I am your father's…person. I am the one who has been feeding him all these years. You have my food to thank for your survival."

The fledgling hopped closer. Its eyes were bright and curious, so like Pebble's that your heart warmed. It snatched the meat from your fingers and fluttered back to the perch, where its siblings immediately began squabbling over the prize.

Pebble watched this with an air of paternal satisfaction.

Brynden found you an hour later, still in the nursery, surrounded by ravens. The female had come down from the perch and was sitting on the arm of your chair, allowing you to stroke her breast feathers with a tentative finger. The fledglings had grown bold and were hopping around the blanket, investigating Alysanne's blocks and pulling at the fringe of the rug. Alysanne herself was in raptures, her tiny hands reaching for the birds with the focus of a child who had inherited her father's determination.

"What," Brynden said from the doorway, "is happening."

"Pebble brought his family to meet us." You looked up at him with a smile that was only slightly sheepish. "This is his mate. I have not named her yet. And these are the children. Also not yet named."

"You are going to name them."

"Of course I am going to name them. They are Pebble's family. They deserve names."

Brynden looked at the ravens. The ravens looked at Brynden. There was a moment of mutual assessment, the Hand of the King and the flock of birds regarding each other with identically tilted heads.

"Pebble has found himself a handsome family," Brynden said finally, nodding toward the fledglings.

"They are beautiful," you agreed. "What about Pearl for the wife? For the white on her wing. It looks like a pearl against the black. The little one with the white spot on his breast, I am thinking of calling him Speckle. The smallest one shall be Pudge. And the bold one who came down first, perhaps Pebble Junior. Though that might be confusing."

"You are going to name the bold one Pebble Junior."

"He is very like his father."

Brynden crossed the room and knelt on the blanket beside Alysanne, who immediately grabbed a fistful of his silver hair and yanked. He endured this with the stoicism of a man who had long since accepted that fatherhood involved a certain amount of physical abuse.

"Your mother," he told Alysanne, "has adopted an entire flock of ravens."

"Ba," Alysanne agreed.

"Indeed." He extricated his hair from her grip. "Alysanne, there is something important I need to tell you about your mother and these ravens."

Alysanne looked at him with the grave attention of a baby who understood none of the words but appreciated being included in the conversation.

"You must not tell anyone about this," Brynden said, his voice very serious. "When you learn to speak...and I suspect you will learn early, given your parentage, you must not tell the lords and ladies of the court that your mother talks to birds. Do you understand?"

"Ba."

"People will think her mad if you tell them. They already think certain things about this household. They think your mother is being held captive by a ruthless sorcerer who does terrible things to her in his tower. They do not need to know that she spends her afternoons naming ravens."

You snorted. "They think you are torturing me?"

"Rumors persist. I have not bothered to correct them. It is useful to be feared." He glanced at you and his expression softened. "Though I would prefer that our daughter not grow up believing her father is a monster."

"She will not." You reached over and covered his hand with yours. "She will grow up knowing her father is clever and sometimes terrifying, but also kind and gentle and deeply loving. She will know him for who he truly is."

Brynden was quiet for a moment. Then he turned back to Alysanne, who was now attempting to put a wooden block in her mouth.

"The point," he said, "is discretion. The ravens are a family matter. They are not for court. They are for us. Do you understand?"

Alysanne removed the block from her mouth and said, "Bird."

You and Brynden stared at her. She could not yet pronounce the letter r properly, it sounded more like bighd, but it was close enough.

"Did she just..."

"She spoke."

"Her first word was 'bird.'"

Alysanne, apparently pleased with the reaction she had garnered, pointed at the fledglings on the blanket and repeated, "Bird. Bird. Bird."

They responded with caws.

Brynden pinched the bridge of his nose. "Her first word was not 'Mama' or 'Papa.' It was 'bird.'"

"To be fair," you said, "there are a lot of birds in her life."

"This is your fault."

"It is Pebble's fault, actually. He is the one who brought his whole family here."

Alysanne, having grown bored of blocks, crawled over to her father and climbed into his lap with the determination of a tiny conqueror. "Bird," she informed him.

"Yes," Brynden said, wrapping his arms around her. "Bird. There are many birds. And your mother loves them all, and your father loves your mother, so the birds are here to stay. But remember..." He touched a finger to the tip of her nose. "...discretion."

"Bird," Alysanne said firmly.

"That is not discretion."

Alysanne reached up and patted her father's face, her small hand landing squarely on his birthmark. "Ba," she said.

"I will take that as agreement." He pressed a kiss to her silver hair. "You are a good girl, Alysanne. The best of girls. And one day, when you are older, I will explain everything. The ravens, the dreams, the blood of the old gods that runs in our veins. But for now, this is our secret. Yours and mine and your mother's. Can you keep a secret?"

Alysanne looked at him solemnly. Then she turned and pointed at Pebble. "Ba-ba."

"Close enough." Brynden rose to his feet and offered you his hand. "Come. The small council is meeting in an hour, and I need to brief the king on the situation before then. You should eat something before the meeting."

"I am not attending the small council meeting."

"You are attending the small council meeting. You have a better understanding of Reach politics than half the lords on the council, and I need someone in the room who will not spend the entire time arguing about grain tariffs."

You took his hand and let him pull you to your feet. "Is that the only reason?"

"No." He leaned down and kissed you. "I also like having you there. You make the meetings bearable."

"What about Alysanne?"

"The maids will watch her. And our esteemed guests," He glanced around the nursery, at Pearl on the headboard, Speckle and Junior on the windowsill, Pudge on the rug and Pebble on his perch. "shall have to relocate to the Rookery."

Part 5: coming soon...

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