It's loving hours.

literally….the idea that having your father’s last name is ~just as bad~ as having your husband’s last name has always been wacky as hell to me because regardless of where it came from, that’s the name I’ve been called since birth. it’s not any less “my” name than it is my brother’s name just because I’m female. I reject the idea that I don’t truly belong to my family of origin just because of my gender. If anything, that reinforces the idea of daughters as expendable possessions to be sold into marriage.

PLOT! the five times Egg realizes his father was in love with his aunt and the one time he realized how truly doomed they were.

pairing: maekar targaryen x reader

word count: around 5.4k

a/n: NO TARGCEST. this is the first time i wrote in a while, so might not be my best (i also wrote the first part and the ending first and then got lazy writing the middle)

SOME LOVES ARE LOUD ENOUGH TO SHAKE KINGDOMS. Others live and die in stolen glances, in half-finished sentences, in the spaces between what is felt and what is never allowed to be spoken.

Daeron Targaryen x fem!reader

In the kitchens of the Red Keep, a young maid from Duskendale is sent to deliver meals to the withdrawn Prince Daeron Targaryen, only to discover she shares his troubling gift of foresight. While he is haunted by visions of fire and fallen crowns, she senses smaller moments before they unfold. As court duty and prophecy close in around him, a quiet bond forms between them—one that may change both their fates.

Word Count: 4.8k

[One Shot]

Slight angst and fluff. A little hope for my hopeless prince. Will this have a part two? Who knows. Maybe it'll come to me in a dream.

 ›

The first thing she learned about the Red Keep kitchens was that everything burned.

Not just the ovens — though those roared from before dawn until well past moonrise — but hands, tempers, bread, reputations. Steam clung to the ceiling beams. Cooks shouted over one another. Boys ran with baskets of onions and nearly collided with girls carrying tureens slick with grease. The air was always thick with smoke and salt and something on the edge of ruin.

She had never seen so much food in her life. Back home, her mother boiled linens in lye until her knuckles cracked and her shoulders bowed. Here, whole haunches of venison turned slowly over flame. Honey was poured as if it were water. Oranges and  Lemons from Dorne sat in bowls just for the looking, sitting in the warmth of summer just to rot.

“Girl, don’t stand there gaping,” snapped Bessa, the undercook with arms like hams. “If you want to keep the place, you move.”

It was her third day, and she still didn’t know which corridor led to which tower without guessing. She had learned the rhythm of chopping and stirring, the hierarchy of who shouted and who was shouted at, but the castle itself was another beast. It swallowed girls like her and spat them out thinner.

“Tray for Prince Daeron,” called a voice near the hearth.

A series of annoyed murmurs ran through the scullions. “Again?” Bessa muttered. “He’ll not eat it. It’ll be such a waste.”

The tray was assembled with little care. A heel of bread, a wedge of cheese sweating at the edge, a slice of cold capon. And a silver flagon of wine — more than the rest of the tray was worth.

“Who’s closest?” asked the steward’s boy. No one answered quickly enough.

“You,” he said, pointing at the new girl. Her stomach dropped. “Me?”

“You’ve legs, don’t you? Take it to his chambers. And mind you, but do knock twice. I’d personally advise you to not stand directly in the middle of the doorway—if he throws something, duck.”

There was hearty laughter from everyone in the kitchen at that. She wiped her hands on her apron, lifted the tray, and followed the boy’s directions through two narrow passages and up a winding stair that seemed to grow quieter with every step. The noise of the kitchens faded behind her, moving to the quiet corridors of the keep. At the end of a corridor hung with faded tapestries, she thinks she had found the door.

She knocked twice on the wooden door gently, only to be met with silence. Her hands shifted the weight of the tray when she felt it slipping, then knocked again.

“Go away,” came a voice from within, sounds like it’s muffled.

She hesitated. “My prince, your food.”

“Leave it.”

There was no narrow side table set outside his door, oddly enough, no waiting page to relieve her of the weight in her arms. Only the heavy oak door banded in black iron, its hinges dull with age and faintly rusted at the seams. The corridor itself felt too quiet compared to the kitchens below—the air cooler, touched with a draft that carried the distant salt of Blackwater Bay and something sour beneath it. She shifted the tray against her hip, fingers already aching, and glanced at the hinges as though they might offer any kind of instruction.

“I’ve nowhere to leave it, my prince.”

For a heartbeat there was no answer. Then a muffled thud from within—a heavy item slowly being dropped to the floor, it seems, followed by the faint scrape of something dragged across the floor.

After a pause, his voice came, roughened at the edges even after a cough to clear the airway. “Enter, then.”

The smell met her before she fully crossed the threshold. Wine. Stale and sharp, soaked deep into rushes and fabric. Not the bright sweetness of a freshly poured cup, but the thick, fermented reek of it left standing too long in warm weather. It clung to the air, to the curtains, to … him.

The chamber was dim despite the hour. Candles had burned low in their holders, wax spilling over in pale rivulets, wicks bent and guttering. The curtains were half-drawn across the tall window, allowing only a thin wash of afternoon light to spill across the floorboards in tired streaks. Dust drifted lazily through it.

Books lay scattered across the floor and along the hearth — some open, pages splayed as if abandoned mid-sentence, others facedown with their spines strained. A chair had been nudged askew. Near the hearth, a silver goblet lay on its side, a dark stain spreading through the rushes beneath it, seeping in uneven circles.

The room did not look ravaged. It looked neglected.

Prince Daeron Targaryen sat near the window in a high-backed chair carved with twisting vines. One boot lay discarded a few feet away; the other remained half unlaced. His shirt hung loose at the throat. His pale hair fell unbound around his face, catching the weak light like spun silver. He did not look toward her as she entered, only stared at something beyond the glass—or perhaps at nothing at all.

She had seen princes before, from a distance—the new girl is not yet allowed to serve any member of the royal family, they said. They rode past in procession, armor gleaming, cloaks bright as banners, hands raised in easy acknowledgment of cheering crowds. They glittered like something made for songs of glory. But this one looked like a man who had not slept properly in days.

Careful not to disturb the fallen goblet, she crossed the chamber to find an empty table, her steps soft against the wood. Up close, the smell of wine was stronger still, threaded with smoke from the hearth and the faint metallic tang of cold ash. She set the tray on a small table within his reach, steadying the rattling cups before they could betray her nerves. “Shall I pour, my prince?”

A breath of laughter left him, it was humorless but not unkind. “It’s already poured.”

She followed the direction of his gaze to the goblet bleeding into the rushes by the fire. “Yes, my prince, my apologies.”

At that, he turned his head.

His eyes were clearer than she expected — violet, though shadowed at the edges, like bruises fading under pale skin. He studied her as though she were an unfamiliar object placed before him without explanation.

“You’re new.”

“Yes, my prince.”

“From where?”

“Duskendale, my prince.”

His gaze lingered a moment too long for her to feel at ease. It was not a leer, nor was there any condescending cruelty in it. He did not look at her as some highborn men looked at servant girls—as though they are nothing but walking flesh and target practice. This felt more like scrutiny.

“They’ve sent children now,” he murmured at last. “Have I grown so fearsome?”

“No, my prince.”

One pale brow lifted slightly. “No?”

She hesitated, heart knocking against her ribs, and reached for the first honest word that came to her. “Only a little bit untidy..”

Then, unexpectedly, the corner of his mouth curved. “Untidy,” he repeated, as though testing the shape of it. “That is rather merciful than what some others would say, I believe.”

The silence that followed felt like stepping blind from a ledge and waiting to see if the ground would meet her. Heat flooded her face. She dropped into a hurried curtsy she should have made upon entering. “Forgive me—forgive me, my prince, I did not mean to be—” For one terrible breath, she thought she had overstepped in a way that could not be mended.

Relief made her knees feel unsteady.

“For what?” he went on, leaning back in his chair, the carved wood creaking softly beneath his weight. He tipped his head against it and closed his eyes. “Speaking truth?” A faint exhale left him.

“If the kitchens send you again, tell them I’ve no appetite.”

“Yes, my prince.”

She remained where she was, uncertain whether she had been dismissed or merely answered. The candles crackled faintly in their holders. Somewhere beyond the thick door, footsteps passed along the corridor and faded into quiet.

After a long pause, without opening his eyes, he said, “You’re still here.”

“I must collect the tray, my prince. If you will not eat.” His eyes opened then, sharper than before, settling fully on her. In the low light, their violet seemed darker — deepening toward indigo.

“You assume I won’t.”

“They said you wouldn’t.”

“They,” he echoed softly.

“The other servants, my prince.”

He studied her for another long moment, as though turning over something unseen in his mind. Then, without breaking her gaze, he reached for the bread. He broke it cleanly in half and took a bite. She did not mean to stare—but there is a certain way in which he ripped the piece in two equal pieces precisely. He swallowed and gave a faint, almost boyish shrug. A crumb caught briefly at his lip before he brushed it away with the back of his hand.

“Well,” he said, mumbling with the bite still in his mouth, “now they’ll have to think of something else to be right about.”

The next day, she was sent again, clutching the tray as though it were heavier than the day before, the stew sloshing slightly with every careful step she took through the maze of corridors. “Why me?” she whispered to Bessa as they passed the boiling cauldrons and stacks of rolling pins, steam curling in lazy spirals around their heads, sticking to the stray wisps of hair that had escaped her braid. 

Bessa only shrugged and shoved the bowl of thick barley and herb stew into her hands, the heat radiating through the wood and ceramic, rich and savory, mingling with the scent of salt pork and onions. “Because at least he took something other than the wine,” Bessa said, her tone matter-of-fact, “and because you didn’t come back crying. First after six.” 

The tray before her smelled of warmth and something faintly sweet, the bread still warm and dusted with flour, the wine flagon catching the light of the low-burning torches in the kitchen, glinting like dark glass as if warning her of the prince’s possible temper. She wound through narrow corridors, past arches carved with creeping vines, past the sloped stairwell that smelled faintly of cold stone and soot, still trying to memorise the twist of the walls as she went, the sound of her slippers against the floorboards echoing softly in the otherwise silent hallways. 

At the door, she knocked twice, lightly, almost timidly, but sharply enough to announce her presence. “Enter,” his voice called, more impatient and clipped than the day before, and she hesitated only a heartbeat before pushing the door open, stepping inside. 

The room was darker much now, the curtains fully drawn across the tall window, blotting out the pale afternoon light and leaving the space lit only by the flickering red glow of the hearth embers, which seemed to pulse like a heartbeat in the dim room. Shadows pooled thickly in every corner, swallowing books scattered haphazardly across the floor and half-burned candles whose smoke curled upward like wraiths against the rafters. The smell of wine struck her once again, still the same sharpness and sourness, soaked into the carpeted rushes and heavy velvet curtains, mingling with the smoke and the faint metallic tang of the hearth. 

Prince Daeron stood near the fire this time, sand-colored hair catching the ember-light and turning copper at the edges, hands clasped loosely behind his back as he stared into the coals as though they might reveal something hidden, something he was waiting for. She set the tray down on the small scarred table carefully, the wood worn smooth from years of use, and as she did so, he spoke without turning. 

“I did not ring,” he said, flat and even. “No, my prince,” she answered softly, aware of how her voice sounded in the thick air. 

“Yet you came.” 

“Yes,” she said, and he turned to face her, pale violet eyes shadowed beneath lids heavy with exhaustion, a faint dark line tracing beneath them. 

“Why?” he asked, and she blinked, uncertain, and whispered, 

“Because it is the hour for supper.” 

“Is it?” 

“Yes, my prince,” she said, and he considered her, tilting his head as if weighing her honesty against some invisible measure, before crossing the room and collapsing into the chair near the hearth with a groan of fatigue. 

She lifted the ladle from the bowl, steam curling in thin wisps around her fingers, and poured the thick stew into a small dish, noticing for the first time the fine tremor of his hands. Not enough to make him drop the spoon, but enough that the surface of the stew quivered faintly when he grasped it. She lowered her eyes and tried not to stare, to pretend the tremor had gone unnoticed, but it persisted, subtle and unnerving. 

He took the spoon without a word and ate slowly—one bite, then another, three—before his gaze drifted toward the flagon of wine. Instinctively, she reached for it, but his hand shot out faster and caught her wrist. She jumped slightly at the contact, the pressure neither painful nor light, and their eyes met, holding for a strange suspended moment, the silence heavy and almost sacred.  For a heartbeat, she felt as though she had stepped into something already in motion, a current of inevitability that neither of them had named. Daeron released her wrist and waited, watching her pour the wine into the goblet as he drank slowly, the deep liquid sliding down his throat, leaving a faint sheen on the pale skin of his neck as he swallowed. 

The firelight flickered across his face, catching in the violet of his eyes and the sharp line of his jaw, illuminating the small, quiet motions of a man who had lived much and slept too little, whose world was both heavy and fragile. Outside the drawn curtains, the Red Keep continued on unaware, corridors and kitchens filled with noise and smoke and the smell of bread, but in this dim chamber, she watched him, memorizing the set of his shoulders, the way the light hit his hair, the tremor of his hands and the stillness of his gaze. And for the first time, the act of carrying a tray, of pouring a bowl of stew, of standing in a quiet room beside a prince, felt so monumental and fragile all at once.

The next morning, she woke before dawn, the room still dark and the air cool against her skin, with the taste of honey lingering on her tongue. Not real honey—the memory of it, sweet and sticky, clinging to the corners of her mind like a dream she could almost reach. She dressed quietly, sleeves tugged down over her wrists, shoes soft against the stone floors, and made her way to the kitchens while the household still slept. Steam rose from pots and cauldrons, filling the room with the scent of bread and onions and roasting meats. She moved among the cooks and scullery girls without thought, following some instinct she could not name, and when the trays were being prepared, her fingers reached out before she realized what she was doing, dipping into a small pot of honey and spooning it into his tray.

Bessa’s hand slapped hers sharply, thinking she had wanted a taste for herself. “That’s for the king’s table.”

“Prince Daeron wants it,” she murmured, flushing immediately, “I mean—he might.”

Bessa grunted but said nothing further, letting the honey remain.

When she carried the tray up, the castle still hushed in the pre-dawn gloom, he was already there, seated at the window, the weak light washing over his pale hair, fully dressed and alert.

“You’re early.”

“So are you, my prince,” she replied, balancing the tray carefully.

He glanced down at the food, eyes sliding over the bread, the stew, the wine—stopping at the honey. Silence stretched like a living thing between them.

“I did not ask for that,” he said finally, low and almost careful.

“No,” she admitted, gaze still lingering on the floor.

“Why is it there?”

“I thought—”

He rose slowly, the chair scraping faintly against the floor, and stepped closer. The air seemed to thicken, charged, as though they were standing on the edge of something that might snap at any moment.

“Thought what?”

“That you would want something sweet,” she said.

He held her gaze for a long, quiet moment. Then, almost delicately, he dipped a finger into the honey and tasted it. His shoulders eased, just barely, the tension in him softening in the faint light.

“I dreamt of honey, for once.” he said, voice soft and distant, almost to himself. “Strange.”

She swallowed hard, unsure what to say, feeling the warmth of relief and the odd shock of intimacy wash over her all at once. She couldn’t possibly tell him that she woke up with the taste of honey on her tongue, can she not?

One evening, the rain fell hard enough to hammer the castle windows, masking even the distant roar of the sea. She carried a tray of stew thick with onions and salt pork, the aroma felt very strong in the close room, but he did not touch it. He sat hunched over the hearth, staring into the fire as though it held all the answers he sought. 

“I saw a great structure burn,” he said without preamble, voice low, almost a whisper. She stood uncertainly near the table, hands clenched around the tray’s edge, watching the way the flames flickered across his face. “Dragons above it,” he continued, “screaming. And the men beneath were screaming much louder. A crown fell into the fire but it did not melt.” 

“I see them every night,” he went on, “things that have not happened. Things that may never happen. And they sit in my skull like rot. I do not know which one would happen and which one would not. I do not even know if I am understanding any of them correctly or not.” He turned his head slowly toward her, violet eyes catching the firelight. “And you.” Her breath caught. 

“You brought honey when I dream of sweetness. You could have brought me other desserts and sweets. But I dreamt of honey, and you brought me honey.” Her heart pounded, loud enough that she felt certain he could hear it. 

“They are nothing, my prince,” she said quickly. “Just foolish things.” 

“Nothing?” He rose to his feet, the room seeming to shrink around him, heavy and urgent. “Tell me,” he said softly, “right now. What do you know?” She shook her head. “Nothing.”

He came closer, deliberate and careful. “Look at the table,” Daeron instructed. She obeyed, eyes scanning the scene: candles burning low, stew steaming gently, his untouched wine gleaming dark. 

“What happens next?” he asked. “I don’t—” “What happens?” Her throat tightened, fear pressing at her chest. She saw the candle gutter, the flame flicker uncertainly, the stew cool untouched, and he would drink and say something cruel and regret it. The knowing settled over her like cold water. 

“The candle,” she whispered. “It will go out.” They watched the tiny flame quiver, once, twice, then die, curling smoke into the still air. Silence followed, pressing against her ears and chest. Her gaze lingered at the wick as though she herself had extinguished it by will. “It is nothing,” she said again, but the words sounded distant, hollow even to her own ears. “The candle was short and it already seemed like it w—”

He moved toward the table slowly, like approaching some altar of reckoning. “What else?” he asked, quiet but insistent. She shook her head, backing away. “I don’t want to.” “What else?” His voice needed no volume to command attention. Her eyes burned as she realized the truth. 

She did not move toward the table. She did not lift the cup. She remained where she was, hands folded before her, as though she were reciting something already written.

“You will not drink,” she said softly. Prince Daeron looked up. “You will sit there and stare at it,” she continued, eyes steady, voice calm, “as if it might change its mind and become something else. Water. Medicine. Anything but what it is.”

He studied her now; knowing the truth that now only the two of them know. “And then?”

She hesitated, only a breath. “Then there will be three knocks,” she said. She lifted her hand and tapped twice against the window frame, then another one that came a second too slow. Tap. Tap … Tap.

He did not smile. “And who will it be?”

“Two guards,” she replied. “From the eastern passage. One with a scar on his chin. The other will not look directly at you. I could not remember his name.”

His brows drew together. “Something like … ‘Prince Daeron. His Grace commands your presence in the solar. At once’, they would say.”

They stood still, straining for the sound of approaching footsteps. Daeron’s eyes were fixated towards the door, wanting to test the words he just heard. Though his hand would reach out for a goblet within his arm’s reach, but halfway through, he stopped and set it back.  Silence pressed in around them for another minute before it finally came.

Three knocks, measured and certain. Tap. Tap  …  Tap. Daeron’s breath stilled.

“Prince Daeron,” a man called through the wooden door. “His Grace commands your presence in the solar. At once.”

“Impressive,” he murmured, though whether he meant her or the timing of the knock was unclear. The guards knocked again, more firmly this time. 

“Yes, yes, I know. Give me a moment.”

Instead, he turned back to the other side of his chamber, to where his wardrobe is—one would expect to be dismissed when the Prince had his fingers fiddling around the buttons around his collar. The moment he shifted, she dropped her gaze at once, as though caught staring at something forbidden. A flush crept swiftly up her neck and into her cheeks, warmth blooming beneath her skin. She pivoted instinctively toward the hearth, giving him her back in a gesture that was half decorum, half self-preservation.

Behind her, she heard the soft rustle of fabric. He crossed to a carved wardrobe near the wall. The scent of stale wine that had lingered in the room was disturbed briefly, then overlaid by something cleaner—linen and faint cedar. 

She fixed her gaze determinedly on the dying embers in the hearth, fingers idly messing with the fabric of her apron. Daeron noticed that through the silence.

“Should I be offended,” he asked mildly, “that you will not look at me?”

Her breath caught. “It would not be proper, my prince.”

There was the faintest sound of amusement in his exhale. “You were quite bold a moment ago.”

She felt the heat in her cheeks deepen.

“I spoke only what was true.”

“As did I,” he replied.

She could hear him moving—cloth shifting, the sound of sleeves pulling over arms. When she dared a glance sideways despite herself, she saw only the edge of pale linen as he drew a fresh shirt over his shoulders.. He fastened it with steady fingers and shrugged into a dark doublet trimmed in black, its lines clean and sharp. The faint scent of cedar gave way to something subtler now—lavender oil, perhaps, or simply clean skin. When he tied his hair back properly at the nape of his neck, the transformation was almost startling. The man who had sat among spilled wine and guttering candles was gone; in his place stood someone composed, like a true prince this time.

“You may turn around,” he said at last.

She did so carefully, and her eyes lifted only as high as his collar before retreating again. He noticed.

“If you keep staring at the floor,” he added lightly, adjusting his cuffs, “the guards may begin to think I have you here for punishment.”

Her head snapped up in mortified alarm before she could stop herself. He caught the movement and, just for a moment, allowed himself a proper smile—small, but unmistakably pleased with the effect, as it is not something that happens to him too often.

“I jest,” he said, though the warmth in his expression lingered. “You need not look so stricken, I am not my brother.” She swallowed and composed herself as best she could, folding her hands again to still their nervous fidgeting.

By the time he reached the door, he did not immediately open it. Instead, Daeron rested his palm flat against the wood, feeling the faint vibration of waiting presence on the other side. For a brief second, he allowed the stillness to settle once more.

Instead of opening the door, he turned back into the room.

She had not moved from where he had left her. Her hands were folded neatly before the apron on her waist, fingers laced together as though to keep them from trembling, eyes lowered to the rush-strewn floor. There was something in her stillness, as if she feared that meeting his gaze too boldly might disturb whatever fragile understanding had just taken shape between them. A servant girl looked smaller in that moment, not because she was slight, but because the room itself seemed to press inward, straight to her chest.

For a long while, he simply watched her.

There was no sharpness in his expression now, no searching suspicion, no guarded doubt. What settled across his face was quieter than that—quieter and more uncertain. It was the look of a man who had stumbled upon something he had long believed impossible and did not yet know whether to trust it.

“You knew,” he said again, and his voice had softened. “Before I did. Did you dream of them? Did you see it too?”

She lifted her eyes at that, though only just enough to meet his. The movement was cautious, almost reluctant, but there was no falsehood in her gaze. “I do not dream, my prince,” she murmured. “It’s just … there. I just seem to know it.” The words were simple, inadequate to the weight of what had occurred, yet they were the truest she could offer.

He inclined his head once, a small, thoughtful gesture, as though her answer aligned with something private and long-held. Outside the chamber, the guards still waited; their presence could be felt like a pressure against the door. The world demanded its prince in councils and corridors, in matters far larger than a guttered candle and a little bit of honey.

Yet he did not move.

“You know things,” he said slowly, as if testing each word before allowing it to exist. “Things that have not happened.” A faint curve touched his mouth—not quite a smile, but not bitterness either. “So do I.”

Her breath caught, soft and nearly soundless, but the shift in her expression betrayed it. Until that moment, she had not known whether his visions were metaphor, memory, or just her mind slowly trying to drive herself to madness. To hear them named so plainly unsettled something deep within her.

“For years,” he continued, his voice low and even, “I thought it was a curse meant to rot me from the inside.” His fingers tightened briefly against the door, the wood creaking faintly beneath the pressure. “To be alone with it.”

When he looked at her then, the intensity in his eyes was no longer interrogative. It was searching in another way—almost vulnerable in its steadiness, or perhaps it is comfort to know that he is not the only one.

“And now, you walk in carrying bread and honey, and suddenly I am not.”

The knock came again, sharper and more insistent than before, splintering the stillness between them. The world would not wait forever. He drew in a slow breath and finally turned the handle. The door opened inward, admitting a sliver of brighter corridor light that cut across the dim chamber floor.

But before stepping through, he paused and glanced back over his shoulder.

“Next time,” he said, in a tone so light it might have belonged to a conversation about supper or weather, “you will tell me what happens after.”

“Yes, my prince,” she replied, her voice steady despite the quickened beat of her heart.

He hesitated there in the doorway, the faintest flicker of something unspoken crossing his face.

Then, very softly, he added before closing the door, “And you will come yourself. No need to come under the disguise of supper.”

For Lucy had lived in Narnia for longer than she lived in England. All her siblings did. But Lucy was the only one who had only ever belonged to Narnia. 

The others remembered, vaguely, that they had come from some place else. They had gone to School and been given Responsibilities. They had understood the news reports on the radio and why Mother had sent them to the Country. England had left its mark upon their minds, and a mere fifteen years in Narnia could not erase it, even as it faded it. They could call themselves Peter Pevensie or Susan Pevensie or Edmund Pevensie and remember what it meant to be a Pevensie from Finchley. Vaguely they could recall who their parents were and what they did, their friends and relations and the family down the road who they couldn’t stand. 

A few years more, perhaps, and the lingering traces of Pevensie in their minds might have faded beyond recognition. A few more years and Peter and Susan and Edmund might have belonged to Narnia without a trace of England left in them, as Lucy did. For she had grown up in Narnia and could only ever think of herself as Lucy of Narnia.

Her mother had not raised her; her father had not raised her; she had not gone to School, had not begun to learn the History of England and its Empire. She had not yet learned that “English” was an adjective which applied to her, nor understood all that came along with it, so she eagerly attached “Narnian” to herself with none of the struggle her siblings endured. 

Even Peter and Susan had not raised her. For they were busy with the affair of Ruling Narnia, of protecting and nurturing their nascent country. 

It had been the Trees who raised her, the Rivers and Wells, the Talking Animals. They had all raised her. She grew up running wild through the halls of Cair Paravel, along the shore of her Eastern Sea, among the trees in the surrounding woods.

She had sat at the feet of ancient Trees and learned the History of her new home; she had learned dancing from the Dryads, with all its looping circles and windswept grace, and music from the Fauns, their mesmerising fluting that commanded crowds, and storytelling from the Birds, with its captivating sharpness and melody. And she had learned bladework from the Dwarves, who had taken one look at the small child with too many enemies to count and known that the fauns and the centaurs wouldn’t be able to teach her anything of use for years, and so had taken her and taught her how to turn her short stature into an advantage, to fell towering adults of every race as easy as she plucked flowers for her hair. 

She learned rhetoric and strategy and spellwork from the Centaurs alongside her siblings, and suspicions and deception, politics and lawmaking, from the councilors and tutors flooring into Narnia, desperate to gain influence in the nascent court of the child monarchs of a country marked for great influence. They instilled within her a fierce protectiveness of her own mind and opinions. 

And somewhere during those early years she learned math and geography and needlework, Calmoren and Galmen, Teribinthian and the languages of the Seven Isles, along with their history and culture and laws.