“I do not care if you have to search for him in every inn in Flea Bottom or if you have to scour the entirety of the Street of Silk, find him, for fuck’s sake”. 

The prince storms through the never-ending halls, yelling commands to the knights of the Kingsguard to find his son at once. Of course he had to be missing today of all days, mere hours away from their departure from King’s Landing to Storm's End. 

In Daeron's defense, he had not failed to communicate his wishes beforehand — to stay at the keep and drink his nights away, that is. The young prince was nowhere to be found in the keep, the guards told Prince Maekar once they were sent to fetch him, only to find his chambers devoid of life, with three empty bottles of Dornish red lying carelessly by his unmade bed.

These are not my usual dreams. 

Daeron thinks to himself as he lies unconscious on the wooden table of an inn he frequents, confused once again by the contents of his usually tortured mind. There is no fire now. In its place, pouring rain and thick fog. He feels his cloak weighed down by the rainwater he’s currently drenched in. He does not know where he is, though the place is familiar, and he finds himself looking around for something. Anything. 

Everywhere he looks seems the same: black rock, covering anything and everything. Focused on the bleak landscape, the prince fails to notice the rainwater beginning to turn blood red, and by the time he does, it seems to be entirely too late. The water continues to rise at an alarming pace, surrounding him completely. There’s nowhere to go. Daeron knows that looking around for a way out, will once again prove fruitless, but he does so anyways and —

Was that here before?

A stag. A dark brown stag with fierce eyes, covered in blood. Pretty, Daeron thinks. It makes its way over to him through the fog, and the prince squints to see it better, shielding his face with his hands from the blood rain. It’s coming closer and as it opens its mouth–

“My prince”.

He wakes up with a gasp.

“My prince, your father is calling for you. We are to take you to the Keep at once”. He looks around in a daze as he spots the two kingsguard, then he notices his wet strands of hair and his now completely drenched cloak. 

“Did you throw water on me?” He asks as he sits up and his mouth hanging slightly opened in offense, entirely baffled at the new situation he finds himself in. The kingsguard share a look, though they do not answer. He goes with them anyways. He’ll get an earful from his father either way— probably more than an earful. 

Traveling along the Kingsroad does not make a trip that takes nearly half a moon’s turn any easier, especially when it’s on horseback. His father and his uncle, Prince Baelor, insisted that no wheelhouses were needed for such a short journey, as the princes were old and experienced enough to travel on their own horses, even his youngest brother, Prince Aegon. 

It did not stop them from complaining, though. Aerion had grown increasingly more irritated as the days passed and they had yet to reach the Stormlands, while Daeron was barely keeping himself upright on horseback, the wine leaving him uncoordinated but pliant enough to not enrage their father further. Egg’s excitement for adventure had faded after the first three days or so, as he now pestered their father every few hours, asking if they were there yet. 

“You will know we are there when you are able to see the castle, boy. ¿Do you see the castle?” Prince Maekar answered with a deep scowl on his face. 

“No”, said the young prince. 

“Then we are not there yet”, Maekar answered, raising his voice slightly as his patience withered. He would need to replenish his energies somehow, he had the feeling he would need it. Especially during the entirety of their stay at Storm’s End, and everything that entailed.

King Daeron II thought wise for the royal family to further strengthen its alliance to House Baratheon, as Lord Lyonel Baratheon celebrated his nameday with a feast large enough to feed the entire realm and a hunting trip to the Rainwood that would last for days, it seemed the perfect occasion for the dragon family to show a united front to all of the noble houses in Westeros. Prince Baelor, ever the dutiful heir, had accepted immediately thinking it would be a good idea to take Valarr in order to polish his diplomatic abilities as the next heir to the Iron Throne. It had also been so long ago since he had last seen Lyonel, a man he had come to consider his friend. 

They fared well on the travels, of course they did. Father and son conducted themselves with their usual composure and grace, much to Maekar’s dismay— Do they have to be so perfect all the fucking time? Maekar looked back at his own sons, and sighed. 

You opened your eyes as the sun shone brightly though the windows of Storm's End. Your fortress. It was the very place you called home. The place that rarely, if ever, remained quiet. Today was no exception, especially considering your father’s nameday celebrations were taking place.

“It is not only a day, my darling. It will last the whole fucking moon’s turn if I can help it!” he told you once, as you conjured the memory of his spirited face and bright smile from a few namedays ago in your mind. He seemed convinced by the idea that he would be a failure to himself and your house if he were unable to improve and upscale the celebrations year after year. Which resulted in you being woken by his shouting, which seemed to bounce off of every brick in the fortress. 

“No, no, no! You are doing it completely wrong! Again!” He yelled at the musicians, who had apparently been practicing your father’s favourite songs repeatedly and had yet to reach perfection, according to Lyonel.

You climb out of the comfortable silks of your bed and do not bother to call your maids to help with your dress. It was a particularly humid day in the summertime, so a light dress made with fresh fabrics would have to do. Hair still unkept and barely awake from your slumber, you march into the great hall determined to yell at your father for ruining a perfectly good morning’s sleep. As you make your way through the halls and reach your destination you see your father’s tense back and the musician’s tired faces. 

“Are you aware of the time, you absolute madman?” You yell at Lyonel, though no real anger is present in your voice, only slight amusement at his usual antics – and vague irritation. He turns around to face you with a big, stupid grin. 

“My darling girl! You are awake at last!” 

“The sun isn’t even up-” 

“Here, come. Tell these buffoons that this subpar so-called music has no place in my nameday celebrations-” 

“The songs sounded completely fine.” 

“-that their mediocrity will not be tolerated.” A small laugh escapes you. 

“I will tell them no such thing,” you say. Your father turns to face you, as if you had stabbed him in the back with your own dagger. He frowns down at you, as you fail to remain serious in the face of his dramatics. 

“You wound me, my girl.”

You laugh.

Halfway through the day, guests begin to arrive and you are forced to wear more appropriate clothing to greet the lords and ladies from different houses of the realm. Not that your father minds which dresses you wear, but someone has to be the face of House Baratheon while your father parties day and night. Someone who remains sober, at least. Or someone who keeps their clothes on. As the night approached, you noticed a certain dragon family had yet to make an appearance. Perhaps they enjoy being fashionably late, you thought. You were seemingly wrong, though. 

House Targaryen would not arrive on Storm’s End for yet another day, as they experienced a slight setback during their journey from King’s Landing. As in, the food from the night before had not settled well in Egg’s stomach, and caused the young prince to throw up all over his horse. And so, they had to stop for a few hours to clean Egg’s horse and wait until he felt well enough to ride again.

Daeron had thrown up as well, though for… different reasons. 

Truth be told, he could have escaped the guards once again and hidden long enough for his family to be forced to leave the Red Keep without him, but something about his dreams at the inn kept him curious enough not to resist wholeheartedly. Daeron had long since given up trying to understand his dreams, all of them horrid in nature, always featuring great fires, the putrid sight of black blood beneath the moonlight, and burning dragons. 

He tried with all his might to recall whether he had ever dreamt of stags before, but it proved fruitless. If he had ever dreamt of stags and lakes of blood before, then either the dream had been completely inconsequential, or the wine had managed to erase all memory of it. It was probably the latter.

As they arrive at their destination, Storm's End's surrounding walls stand tall and intimidating as the royal family approaches. While Baelor and Maekar remain indifferent to the sight, having visited the black fortress on political matters when they were boys themselves, the younger princes gape at the sheer sturdiness of its walls. All save Aerion, who is rarely impressed by anything at all—though even he has to admit that the stronghold looks more formidable than the Red Keep. 

The Targaryens follow behind, with knights surrounding them on all sides. The farther they move into the fortress, the more the sounds of laughter and music envelop them, and the younger princes exchange glances, instinctively looking toward their fathers, who already seem to know exactly what is about to happen.

"Baelor!"

Lyonel's booming voice carries across the courtyard as he emerges through the castle doors, with you trailing behind him while he practically runs to greet the royal family without any semblance of propriety whatsoever. As the princes dismount their horses, Baelor braces himself for the incoming assault, and Maekar sighs.

Lyonel laughs loudly, the sound echoing throughout Storm's End as he closes the distance between them and throws his arms around the heir to the Iron Throne in a crushing embrace.

Valarr remains rooted to the spot.

Of course, his father had told him stories of the Laughing Storm during their campaign against the Blackfyres, of how fiercely the Storm Lord had fought beside both him and his uncle Maekar. Still, hearing those stories was one thing. Witnessing Lord Baratheon all but tackle the heir to the Iron Throne before the horses had even come to a full stop was quite another.

Baelor, for his part, takes it in stride. He returns the embrace with the composure only a man raised in a den of vipers, where kindness is so often mistaken for weakness, could possess. He pats Lyonel's back before offering him a warm smile.

"Lord Baratheon. It has been too long."

Still laughing, Lyonel waves a dismissive hand. "What's with the formalities, dragon? As if I haven't seen your bare arse covered in rebel blood before."

Daeron has to fight the urge to laugh at the remark, while Valarr, Aerion, and Egg can only stare in bafflement. They had never seen anyone speak to their uncle with a familiarity usually reserved for, well, family. Lyonel's attention then shifts to Maekar, causing the prince to close his eyes in anticipation.

"Gods, you look even more brooding than the last time I saw you."

Maekar groans.

You watch the interactions unfold, thoroughly amused by your father's antics and Prince Maekar’s barely concealed irritation at the theatrics for which the Storm Lord was so well known. The young princes, meanwhile, seem absolutely bewildered by the spectacle, clearly unaccustomed to seeing their fathers interact in such a manner and not yet knowing what to make of it. 

Then, they glance at you. 

They had never met you before. Their fathers had always considered them too young to accompany them on the few visits they paid to Storm's End. As the years passed, the family had been struck by tragedy not once but twice, as both princes lost their wives, and the children their mothers. 

Your own mother had died in the birthing bed as well. Not that your father had ever allowed you to fully feel her absence, as he had made certain you lacked for nothing— be it love, friendship, or a shoulder to cry on. As you look upon the young princes, you become aware for the first time that they had not been afforded the same fortune. 

You set your eyes on Prince Valarr first. He is a difficult man to overlook, with his mismatched eyes and a striking white streak of hair on the side of his head. He looks perfect. Perhaps a bit too perfect. 

His posture is so impeccably straight to the point where you question if it pains him to maintain it  for a long time. His smile is equally flawless, not too warm yet not vain. His hands rest neatly behind his back as he inclines his head in greeting. Everything about him looks utterly exhausting. 

“Ah, yes!” Lyonel claps a hand against his own head, as if he had only now remembered that several people need to be introduced and especially, that the particular task is his duty. “Your Graces, this is my lovely daughter” Your father introduces you by name to the family, as you fought the overwhelming urge to glare at him for his complete lack of propriety. 

“Father”

“What?” He grins. “You are lovely.”

Deciding that glaring at your father—or pinching the bridge of your nose as you desperately wished to do —would only make matters worse, you dip into a curtsy before the princes of House Targaryen. 

“Your Graces, it is an honour to welcome you to Storm's End.”

Prince Baelor steps forward first, there is little about the heir to the Iron Thone that comes as a surprise to you; everything you had ever heard of him proves true at first glance. He carries himself with effortless confidence, his eyes filled with quiet wisdom, every movement experienced and measured without ever appearing rehearsed. His smile is warm and genuine, though restrained, a concept that strikes you as entirely foreign. 

“Lady Baratheon. A pleasure to finally meet you.”

As the introductions carry on, you properly greet the rest of the princes. Prince Valarr greets you in the practised manner of a chivalrous prince, one that must’ve taken ages to fully master. 

Prince Maekar appears to be a man of actions rather than a man of words, as he voiced nothing more than a simple, “My Lady” before fixing you with a steady stare. Right. 

Prince Aegon seems excited enough for the entire family, tummy ache completely forgotten, as he greets you without truly looking at you, his attention instead fixed upon the towering castle walls with open fascination. 

Prince Aerion neither smiles nor bows particularly deeply, he merely offers a curt Lady Baratheon as his gaze sets upon you. There is something restless about him. Something unnerving. It almost makes you want to look away first, but something tells you that doing so would read as a retreat of sorts, and you decide almost immediately that you would do nothing before him that could be perceived as weak. And so, you simply nod at him. You could swear he seems almost pleased by the gesture. 

Only one prince remains now. Curiously, he has not moved. And so, you look. 

He is already looking at you.

Lavender eyes find yours with an intensity that gives you pause. He stares unabashedly at you, his expression carrying something akin to recognition. As though, somewhere deep down, this is a meeting he had expected and was only now realizing so. The silence stretches a fraction too long, you are not the only one that seems to be aware that something deep stirs behind the heir of Summerhall's eyes.

“...My prince?” You whisper to him. Unsure on how to proceed, you find you do not wish to startle him. 

He blinks. “Oh.” he speaks, his voice softer than you would’ve imagined. Softer than all the others’. “...Daeron.” Nothing more. Not Prince Daeron. Not a proper greeting, not even a Lady Baratheon. Simply his name, as though he had forgotten the rest. Prince Maekar clears his throat. Daeron tears his gaze away from you, and his eyes find the floor. “...My Lady.”

You incline your head. “My Prince.”

Daeron’s eyes snap back at yours.

Gods, you think, he’s an odd one. 

Maekar was having a bad day. And it wasn't even 7am yet.

It had started at the exact stroke of midnight because he had found himself still at the office when he could have been home. Asleep.

He got back at 3am.

Then everything kicked off at 6am. When his phone blared, not with an alarm but a frantic phone call from Aegon's nanny. The one that always dropped him off and picked him up from school.

She was ill. The kind of illness that had her slurring her sentences as she apologised profusely. It made even Maekar's usually cold heart twist a little for making anyone feel that guilty for missing work. What kind of boss was he?

But the existential crisis had to be put off because he suddenly realized that he had no clue what he would do with Aegon.

So Maekar laid in the king bed staring at the ceiling trying to figure out how he could get his child to school. And he didn't even have a coffee in his system yet.

Aerion was on his go abroad year in Essos. Aemon was off in the citadel getting his doctorate. He wasn't sure if Daeron was even home. The girls were at boarding school. There was no backup.

"Fuckkkkkk." Maekar dragged a hand down his face and closed his eyes again. His alarm was set for 7am. He could sleep for an hour and figure it out then.

He jolted up in his bed again with the sound of the alarm. Maekar still had no clue what he was going to do. So he just got ready for the day as usual and then walked over to Aegon's room.

He knocked three times. Loudly. And he heard the scurring of feet on the other side before the heavy wooden door swung open. Revealing his son, already dressed in his uniform and holding a book in his free hand.

His freshly bald head (which Maekar was not dealing with again) shined slightly under the warm light of the rising sun.

"Father."

"Aegon. Tilly is ill so I'll be taking you to school today."

"Okay. Can I have some breakfast?" Maekar nodded tersely as he spun around and made his way down the long hallways and the large set of stairs to the rarely touched kitchen. He heard the quick steps of Aegon behind him a few moments later.

Maekar rummaged through the shelves until he found a box of cereal and the carton of milk. He placed them on the cold marble of the kitchen island and then went about fixing himself his morning cup of coffee.

The staff wasn't due in until lunchtime so it was up to him and Aegon to fend for themselves. It felt strangely domestic to watch his youngest son eat his cereal and read his book while he took slow drags of coffee. He hadn't done this since before Aegon was born. Before Dyanna.

The drive to the lower school he rarely visited was quiet. Maekar had always preferred to drive to work, unlike his other children that seemed to demand private drivers. But it seemed like Aegon didn't mind. He sat silently in the passenger seat and stared out of the window. He would have liked to turn on the news or maybe even some music but the mood went against it. 

Maekar also wasn't sure if his son even knew he listened to music.

The large imposing building with its doric columns and long drive came into view steadily. He slowed down as he got into the long line of cars that were crawling steadily to the car park.

"Do I have to drop you off or are you alright to walk?" Maekar suddenly asked, making Aegon jump a little in his seat as he turned to face him.

"Tilly usually walks me over. The Year Sixes are the ones that get to head over by themselves."

"Very well."

Maekar had never felt more out of place. Maybe it was because he was the only one in a full suit or maybe it was because he was surrounded by young mums (mostly in yoga attire) that kept gawking at him and then Aegon and then turning to whisper to their friends.

Why did this incredibly expensive school make parents wait outside for their children to head into class? It was like a humiliation ritual. Especially as Aegon was also actively trying to look at anyone other than him.

But then he heard a small voice.

"Aegon! Aegon! I finished the book!" Suddenly a bullet of hair and multiple keychains and girl flew passed him and started jumping up and down next to Aegon. What.

"Cami! Darling! Slow down, you don't want to terrorize the poor guy." Maekar felt like he was frozen. The gentle voice of a woman filled the hallway and his head. IHe turned his head slightly and saw a radiant woman slightly running over to stop what he assumed was your daughter from running over his son. You weren't exactly successful.

"Oh my God. I'm so sorry. She gets like this sometimes." You said once you reached the group. Maekar was still having a bit of a hard time processing everything around him. "Cami. Say sorry."

"Sorry." The little girl stared up at him from her place next to Aegon. His son looked up at him with wide eyes and a slightly terrified expression. Like he didn't want him to know that he knew anyone outside of the family.

"It's okay. I'm Aegon's father. Maekar Targaryen." Maekar said as he directed his gaze to you. One of the most beautiful women he had seen. You offered back your name and smiled down at Aegon, whose face visibly eased at the expression on your face.

"Oh and this is Finley." That was when Maekar noticed that you had also been holding a baby carrier. He was actually kind of in awe of the fact that you had managed to stay caught up with your daughter while carrying a whole child.

"Hello." Maekar said shortly, staring down at the face of the baby that gurgled slightly up at him.

"He likes you!"

Now that surprised Maekar. He wasn't usually a hit with anyone really. Unlike Baelor who seemed to have charisma woven into his DNA.

"Huh. That's a surprise."

"Oh nonsense. He's usually rather picky, it took him a while to even warm up to Camilla." You motioned over to the two kids who were now chattering happily amongst themselves. Aegon even looked happy as he pointed out different scenes in the comic book Camilla had been holding up. "Is Tilly okay by the way?"

Maekar felt slightly taken aback by the question, he had never realized just how social these drop off sessions were.

"Yes, she was just feeling rather ill this morning so I had to drop Aegon off last minute."

"Oh no. I hope that she feels better soon. We would have been happy to drop off Aegon by the way. Cami is always raving about her best friend at home." You shot Maekar a smile that could have launched a thousand ships. He was taken aback by your words once again. Not like this whole situation was in any way normal.

"I really wouldn't want to inconvenience you like that."

"Not at all. Here let me get you my number!" At that he noticed how Aegon slightly turned to stare at him like he had grown a second head. Maekar felt frozen, you were about to give him your number. Totally unprompted. He felt slightly sick thinking about the fact that you probably had a husband, someone not ridiculously older too and here he was about to take your number.

"Uh wouldn't your husband not like that?" Maekar just had to make sure. He couldn't see a ring on your finger but there was one clearly hanging from your neck on a silver chain.

"Oh umm he passed last year. Motorcycle accident. Before Finley was born." You muttered out as you continued to rifle through your hand bag. Maekar felt like the biggest idiot. Not only was he being a bit of a creep but now he made you remember your dead husband. At least he understood how other people felt on the other end of him telling them about Dyanna.

"I'm sorry." He said earnestly. "I know a lot of people say they understand but I do actually. My Dyanna passed away right after Aegon was born." He saw your face fall as well and then you nodded sympathetically.

"I'm so sorry Maekar. I should have known."

"No, I should have known about your husband as well. I guess I'm not as involved in Aegon's school life as I would like to be." Maekar surprised himself with that last sentence, because it was true. He had barely been around to see Aegon grow up. It had been hell trying to mourn Dyanna and then Daeron and Aerion had gotten older and everything had slipped out of his hands so quickly.

"You're trying your best. Just like I am. That's all the world can ask of us. Here, just take my number alright?"

Maekar nodded and then he noticed that one of the classrooms had opened and a tall blonde woman was ushuring the children into the room. He shot a glance at Aegon and nodded once in goodbye. Aegon nodded back and then disappeared into the classroom.

You and Camilla had a bit of a more loving goodbye as you kissed her forehead and gave her a hug before she headed into the classroom - her numerous keychains twinkling behind her.

"See you at pick up?" You suddenly asked as you went to pick up Martin's carrier. Maekar suprisingly felt like saying yes. Even if that meant leaving work early and probably dealing with the consequences tomorrow.

"Yes. I'll see you at pick up."

"Awesome! Text me later, yeah? Cami has been begging for a play date!" You twirled off, leaving behind a slight scent of earth and chocolate. 

Maybe school drop off really wasn't that bad.

An hour earlier, the two of you had sat side by side in a quiet nook of the library. As your focus began to wane and the text blurred before your eyes, he pulled you between his legs. His broad thighs penned you in, leaving little choice but to continue the lesson.

"Again," he said from behind you.

Before you could protest, one large hand settled at the base of your neck. A soft sigh escaped you.

His thumb pressed slowly into the tense muscle there, working in small circles. The pressure was firm enough to ease the ache that had gathered from hunching over old books all evening.

You felt your shoulders loosen almost immediately. "Baelor..."

His hand moved lower. "Read, my love."

The broad span of his palm slid across your shoulder, kneading carefully through the stiffness he found there. The lesson was quickly losing its battle for your attention.

You sighed in surrender. "Perzysss—" The word died on your lips once more.

"The s is not to be pressed, my dear." His voice settled warmly against your back. "Valyrian is not a force. The sound comes from lower."

Two fingers came to rest against the hollow of your throat. "Here."

You swallowed at the touch, but it lingered for only a moment before he withdrew.

Then his hand slipped into your hair. Slowly, he spread the strands apart, untangling each knot. His fingertips skimmed your scalp as he worked, never pulling when he met resistance. Instead, he separated each tangle until your hair slipped like silk through his hands.

When a loose curl escaped beside your ear, he caught it immediately, brushing his thumb along your cheek before guiding it back into place and folding it neatly into the plait.

Those scarred hands, marked by countless years in the yard and large enough to encircle a man's throat, moved through your hair with astonishing gentleness.

After a while, he smoothed your hair down your back and divided it into three sections. One strand crossed over another, then the third, and the braid slowly began to take shape.

You tried to focus on the page before you, but every gentle pass made the words blur a little further.

"It's almost supper, Baelor," you sighed. "Can we go now?"

“Almost.” He paid your words no mind, working in silence. With each movement, his hands continued lower as the braid formed, gentle pulls following every weave as he crossed and wove the strands into place.

He worked the braid to its end, fastening the final twists before reaching for the silk ribbon upon the desk. He tied it off and let it cascade over your shoulder.

"There you go." His lips brushed against your ear. "Gevie," he whispered.

At the word, you turned slightly. He was close enough that you could count the dark lashes framing his mismatched eyes.

"I know that one. It means beautiful."

A smile softened his features. "Yes." He pressed a kiss to your cheek, then another to your temple. "Now read, ñuha gevie dāria. Then we'll head to supper."