dani

✴︎ 209 AC

THE AFTERNOON HEAT in Lys clung to the skin like damp silk, thick with the scent of salt wind drifting in from the sea, crushed rosewater from the perfumed courtyards, and incense curling lazily from a hundred painted temples. The air shimmered against pale marble walls, soft and luminous in the sun, as if the whole city had been carved to be looked at rather than lived in. Yet none of it felt real to you. In your mind, the world smelled of rain and smoke and the sea. Of wet stone streets, damp castle halls, and fires burning late into cold evenings. It smelled like the sort of place where important things happened.

You sat upon the old wooden swing in the center of the courtyard, its ropes creaking softly each time you pushed yourself higher with the tips of your slippers. Your dark green skirts fanned around your legs like spilled ink, brushing against the pale stone beneath you.

But your attention was fixed on the strip of sky above the rooftops.

“I am to be married,” you announced suddenly, unable to contain the smile pulling at your mouth. Across from you, your sister paused midstroke while brushing out her hair. She stared at you with immediate suspicion rather than excitement.

“Who,” she asked carefully, “would marry you?”

You laughed under your breath and leaned back against the swing ropes, letting yourself sway lazily. “A prince of fire and blood,” you said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “We shall spend our evenings reading poetry by candlelight while musicians play in the next room. He will understand me entirely. We will speak of philosophy and history and make the court less dreadful than it is.”

She snorted. “You make him sound like a savant.”

“He is not a savant,” you replied with mock offense. “He is a prince.”

“Yes, but is he aware we are poor?” she asked flatly. “Truly poor. Not tragic-poetry poor. Actual poor. Father died owing money to half of Lys. We still even need to water down the wine.”

You waved a dismissive hand. “That is beneath his concern.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. Prince Aerion and I are to concern ourselves with finer matters.” You hopped down from the swing, smoothing the creases from your skirts before lifting your chin with practiced dignity.

The silver brush slipped from her fingers and struck the stone with a sharp crack. For a moment she only stared at you.

Then, very quietly, she said, “Prince Aerion?”

You smiled wider. “Yes.”

“The Targaryen prince?”

“Yes.”

“From Westeros.”

“Yes, from Westeros.”

The color slowly drained from her face.

“The ravens arrived this morning,” you continued brightly, crossing the courtyard toward her. “Mother accepted immediately, of course. By the end of the year I shall be in King’s Landing. A princess of the Seven Kingdoms.” You clasped your hands together. “Doesn’t it feel strangely destined?”

“No,” she answered at once.

“Yes, it does.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh, tilting your head back toward the sky. “You are determined to ruin this for me?”

“They do not even have dragons anymore,” she snapped, stepping closer now, her voice tightening with unease. “The last one died years ago. Westeros is cold and filthy and full of miserable lords killing each other over chairs. And the prince…” She hesitated. “I’ve heard things.”

“From whom?”

“Merchants. Sailors from King’s Landing. Men who know better than to invent stories about princes.”

You brushed past the warning without care. “Sailors invent stories for sport.”

“They say he’s cruel.”

“And people said Father was clever,” you replied lightly. “The world exaggerates.”

She looked unconvinced.

You turned away before she could continue, lifting your face toward the blazing evening sky. Somewhere beyond the sea was Westeros. Somewhere beyond the horizon was a prince with silver hair and violet eyes and a destiny grand enough to pull you from this gilded, decaying life at last.

“If there are no dragons left,” you mused, “I suppose I shall simply have to hatch one myself.”

She stared at you as though you had finally lost what little sense you possessed.

“You cannot hatch a dragon.”

“Why not?” You asked ridiculously.  

“Because dragons are dead.”

You shrugged. “So were we, practically.”

For the first time since the conversation began, genuine fear crossed her face. Without another word, she bent quickly to retrieve her fallen brush and hurried toward the house.

“I am finding Mother,” she muttered under her breath. “She has completely lost her mind.”

Aerion Targaryen was absolutely losing his mind.

He stood beside the tall arched window of the great hall, watching the Blackwater glitter darkly beneath a veil of grey cloud, one hand clasped tightly around the hilt of his sword as though it alone was preventing him from saying something unforgivable. In his other hand sat the problem itself. A letter.

Its seal had already been broken hours ago, yet Aerion still held it like he might somehow strangle better news out of the parchment if he stared hard enough. Its contents were simple enough to feel insulting.

A marriage.

No. Not just any marriage, an arranged match with a daughter of some Lysene house clinging to old Valyrian pride it no longer truly held. 

He exhaled slowly through his nose. He had not asked for this. He would not pretend otherwise. Westeros had its customs, its alliances, its endless games of blood and crown—but there were lines he did not intend to cross without reason. 

A prince of the dragonlords should not be bound to someone who did not carry their look, their blood, their unmistakable mark of Valyria. Silver hair. Violet eyes. The old fire, faint but undeniable. 

It was not sentiment. It was sense. 

His jaw tightened as he turned away from the window.

He would not be paraded through courts beside a bride who looked like a foreign ornament—pretty, perhaps, but wrong. 

And alas! You paraded into the throne room smiling. Actually smiling. The doors of the great hall opened with all the usual dreadful ceremony, guards standing straighter than necessary while servants scrambled uselessly around your luggage. Aerion watched the entire thing from beside the Iron Throne with the exhausted disbelief of a man witnessing a public execution and slowly realizing he was the one being executed.

You walked into the hall looking pleased with life. 

No!

Absolutely not!

Gods… you looked so delighted. The sight alone offended him. 

Your dress swept over the stone floors in soft sea-green silk, expensive enough to suggest House Rogare had once been rich and stupid rather than merely stupid. Gold thread shimmered at the sleeves. Pearls hung from your throat. Your dark curls had half-fallen from their pins during the journey, though you either had not noticed or did not care.

Dark hair. Aerion stared harder. Green eyes. He felt his right eye twitch. Now he felt personally insulted by both. 

You stopped in the center of the hall and looked up at the ceiling with genuine wonder.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathed softly.

Aerion glanced upward too. It was a ceiling.

“You look taller in your portrait,” Aerion remarked flatly the moment you approached. The hall felt still and you blinked once, clearly uncertain whether you had been insulted yet. 

“Oh.”

Aerion lazily glanced toward one of the guards nearby. “Send her back. Find me a tall one.”

Aerion’s eyes flicked sideways just in time to catch the pointed look his father sent him from beside the throne. Maekar merely narrowed his eyes in warning, the expression of a man very clearly imagining the satisfaction of striking his son across the back of the head in front of the entire court and deciding against it only because foreign ambassadors were present. But Aerion could only justify his words by pointing at the snorting courtiers lazily– “See? Funny.”

You smiled politely in the careful way people did when they were not entirely certain whether the prince was joking or truly his words were no jest.

“I see.”

“I’m kidding,” Aerion said. Then, after a beat: “Mostly.” 

“Oh,” you said politely. “Very amusing.” It was not convincing.

The maester—Gladys, and very likely the sole architect behind this catastrophic match, stepped in quickly, no doubt sensing yet another disaster beginning to unfold before the previous one had even settled.

“Prince Aerion, may I present Lady—”

“Yes, yes, the bride,” Aerion interrupted. “I gathered.”

You stepped forward then, bright-eyed despite everything that had already occurred. Aerion stepped back all the same, his eyes moving over you from head to toe like he was already finding faults.

“I wished to bring something from Lys,” you explained warmly. Aerion’s mind immediately went to Lysene courtesans. Lys was famously full of them. Or worse—poetry. Music. Some sort of embroidered love token. Gods. Aerion suddenly regretted existing.

But instead, you reached carefully into your sleeve and withdrew a tiny spruce branch wrapped delicately in ribbon. Not jewels. Not a book. But a fucking twig. 

You held it out to him with both hands.

“I present this branch of spruce,” you said warmly. Aerion looked at the branch. Then at you. Then back to the branch again. Seven Hells!

“It is an evergreen,” you continued earnestly, entirely unaware that several grown men nearby were visibly fighting for their lives trying not to laugh. “I hoped it might symbolize our feelings toward one another. That we shall remain caring and faithful all our lives.”

Aerion took the branch between two fingers as though it might stain him. 

“She gave me a twig,” he observed quietly. 

Aerion tilted his head slightly. “She’s not inbred, is she?”

The maester nearly swallowed his own tongue. “There has been no indication of—”

“I assure you,” you cut in quickly, chin lifting with a sudden dignity, “I am entirely of sound mind, Your Grace.” And you were. You also very nearly said something about how funny it was for a Targaryen to be asking that question in the first place. Very nearly. But you did not.

Aerion considered this. The evidence currently suggested otherwise. You brightened again anyway.

“I also wished to thank you for your letter.”

The man frowned immediately. “My what?”

“The letter you sent to Lys,” you continued. “The one speaking of devotion and companionship.” Your expression brightened almost painfully. “It was beautiful. I read it several times aboard the ship.”

Aerion stared blankly for a long moment. Then he looked towards the maester. Said maester suddenly became fascinated by the floor. 

“Oh,” Aerion said slowly. “That letter.” 

“You wrote it, did you not?” you asked, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes. “Yes,” Aerion said, as if recalling something mildly inconvenient. Your face, already bright, lit further at the answer, as though this confirmed something deeply meaningful. How utterly naive. 

“I hoped,” you continued carefully, “that perhaps our love might grow slowly. Like a flame becoming large enough to warm an entire kingdom.”

Aerion nearly recoiled. Love. Gods above, help him. You really believed him. He exhaled through his nose. “That sounds exhausting,” he said, before he could stop himself.

Your smile faltered for the first time. Only briefly. Then returned again with terrifying optimism.

“And I hope I shall make you happy,” you said sincerely.

Aerion stared at you as though you had personally invented inconvenience. “You’re perfect,” he replied flatly. 

The maester abruptly stepped forward before the conversation could collapse any further into disaster, hastily announcing that the wedding would take place on the morrow. Gods. As though there were any risk of you fleeing in the night. You looked far too pleased with all of this. 

A young woman stepped forward from the line of servants and bowed her head. Meriel, you thought her name was—though truthfully, you had barely listened when the maester introduced her. Your attention had remained entirely fixed on the prince before you. Or rather, on the very obvious fact that the prince was looking absolutely anywhere except at you.

The windows. The banners.The Iron Throne. Or that one specific crack in the floor that suddenly seemed to fascinate him beyond reason. Anywhere.

It should have embarrassed you, perhaps. Another girl might have wilted beneath it. But you had not crossed the Narrow Sea expecting instant devotion. Marriage, especially royal marriage, surely required patience. Time. Understanding.

And Prince Aerion, you were beginning to suspect, might require an impossible amount of all three. Still, you smiled.

He still did not look at you.

One of your Lysene servants stepped nervously forward beside the luggage, a pretty thing with blonde curls and nervous eyes. She had spent the entire journey seasick and terrified of Westeros.

Aerion glanced toward her absentmindedly while adjusting his gloves.

“You’re pretty,” he remarked casually.

The girl blinked, startled, before flushing pink. “Th-thank you, Your Grace.”

You stared at him. Ah. You thought slowly. So it would take a great deal of time.

Aerion, meanwhile, had already grown visibly bored with the entire exchange. He turned away with the restless air of a man abandoning an event halfway through because it had failed to entertain him quickly enough.

“I must tend to my whores,” he announced.

A loud throat-clearing echoed through the hall.

Aerion barely paused.

“…Horses,” he corrected lazily. “Horses.”

Several courtiers lowered their heads immediately, shoulders shaking with poorly hidden laughter. “Going riding,” Aerion added with a dismissive wave before disappearing out of the hall entirely.

Meriel led you through the winding corridors of the Red Keep while servants hurried ahead carrying trunks that had absolutely not survived the voyage gracefully. Somewhere behind you, one had burst open entirely, scattering silks across a staircase and nearly killing a guard.

The keep itself felt colder inside than it had from the courtyard below. Not merely in temperature, but in spirit. Long stone halls. Narrow windows. Tapestries heavy with dragons and dead men. Still, you smiled as you walked.

“He seems lovely,” you said softly.

Meriel glanced at you.

“Mm,” she replied carefully. “Aren’t you gorgeously optimistic?”

You laughed under your breath. “It has been said.” Your fingers brushed lightly over the stone wall as you walked beside her. “I simply believe there is no other sensible way to be.”

Meriel made a small sound that suggested she strongly disagreed.

—

The wedding itself passed in a blur of incense smoke, candlelight, and exhaustion.

You scarcely remembered entering the sept. Only the weight of eyes following you down the aisle, the sound of your skirts dragging softly over stone, and Aerion standing at the altar looking like a man attending his own execution. Beautiful, unfortunately.

The septon droned on endlessly while Aerion looked bored enough to die from it. When the vows were finally spoken and you were presented to the court, your heart leapt despite yourself.

“Presenting Prince Aerion Targaryen and his wife—”

You smiled brightly and opened your mouth to speak.

“It is a—”

“No,” Aerion interrupted without even looking at you. “You don’t talk, my love.”

A stunned silence followed. “Oh,” you said after a moment. “Of course.”

Somewhere in the crowd, someone coughed very violently into their sleeve. Aerion looked entirely pleased with himself.

Then, as if suddenly remembering he was expected to behave like a husband for at least one consecutive minute, he gestured lazily toward the side doors of the hall.

“So,” he announced, “a wedding gift for my new wife seems in order.”

The doors opened. And into the hall lumbered an enormous bear. You gasped. A real bear.

The court erupted into chaos almost immediately. One lady shrieked. A knight stumbled backward into a candelabra. The animal itself looked equally confused by the entire arrangement.

Aerion smirked faintly at your expression.

“You wrote in your letters that you wished to see one.”

You stared at the beast with open amazement. “You remembered?”

“No,” Aerion answered honestly. 

The bear sneezed violently onto a nearby lord.

You thought it was wonderful.

—

By the time you finally reached your chambers again hours later, half the candles had already burned low.

Your gowns had been unpacked incorrectly. One of your necklaces was missing. A servant was crying quietly in the corner over a broken perfume bottle.

“Oh,” you said distractedly while searching through a trunk, “they’re somewhere, I’m sure.”

Meriel stood nearby watching the disaster unfold with the calm expression of someone already accustomed to royal households collapsing around her.

“Princess,” she said carefully, “where are the rest of your clothes?”

You looked around vaguely.

“An excellent question.”

Then you smiled suddenly, almost breathless.

“Me. A married woman.” You sat carefully at the edge of the bed, touching the fabric beneath your fingers like you still scarcely believed any of it. “How I dreamt of this.”

Meriel’s expression softened slightly.

“Congratulations,” she said quietly. Then, after a pause: “Madam… if I may speak plainly.”

“You may.”

Meriel hesitated.

“You do know what to expect tonight?”

You looked up at once, mildly offended.

“You suppose me more naïve than I am.”

“She explained it to you?”

“My mother explained everything.”

Meriel looked unconvinced already.

You folded your hands neatly in your lap, repeating it carefully from memory.

You spoke with complete sincerity.

“The man caresses you softly, pressing his lips to yours.”

Meriel blinked once.

“Your breasts and skin awaken and shiver with palpitating joy.”

Meriel blinked twice.

“Between your legs quivers and moistens with longing. He enters you and you become one.”

Meriel stared at you in silence.

“Your bodies meld, your souls mesh. As a sensation takes hold of you, you fall into a black sky filled with the shiniest of stars.” You smiled faintly to yourself. “You float for a time in ecstasy, before waves of pleasure push and pull you back into your body.”

Meriel’s face had gone completely blank.

“Your body ushers forth yelps, and sometimes song, before he and you explode within, collapsing together, spent and unified.” You sighed dreamily. “Then you lay together, laughing softly, weeping occasionally with ecstatic joy, and finally, he wraps his arms around you, whispers poetry softly into your ear, and you fall into a… delicious sleep.”

A long silence followed.

Meriel nodded slowly.

“…Yep,” she said at last. “That’s pretty much it.”

You smiled, reassured.

Outside your chamber windows, the storm clouds over Blackwater Bay deepened into night. Candles burned lower. Servants slowly disappeared one by one.

You waited.

And waited.

Aerion never came.

Months passed after the wedding. An astonishing amount of absolutely nothing had occurred within the marriage.

You and Aerion had been moved south to a smaller palace not far from Summerhall, supposedly for peace, privacy, and “the strengthening of the marital bond,” which sounded lovely in theory and deeply embarrassing in practice considering your husband still treated your existence like an administrative inconvenience.

The palace itself was beautiful, at least. Warm stone walls, open gardens, olive trees twisting beneath the sun, and fountains that actually worked, unlike the ones in King’s Landing that smelled faintly of death.

You spent your mornings wandering the gardens with books you never finished because you were too busy imagining dramatic future conversations with Aerion where he suddenly realized you were enchanting and regretted everything.

These conversations never occurred in real life. Mostly because Aerion was never there.

He hunted constantly. Rode constantly. Hosted drunken dinners for men who laughed too loudly and broke furniture. Once, he returned at three in the morning carrying an injured falcon and demanding a maester because “the bird understands him emotionally.”

The falcon died and Aerion mourned for nearly two days.

You considered poisoning him on the third.

At court dinners, he would sometimes remember you existed and stare at you with vague surprise, as though you had appeared suddenly from the walls.

“Oh,” he’d say. “Wife.” 

Once, during supper, he had pointed at you with a fork and asked a servant, “Does she always sit there?”

You had thrown a grape at his face. He looked delighted by it for reasons that still irritated you deeply. 

And then there was the matter of the marriage bed. Or rather, the complete and ongoing absence of it. Weeks passed, then months– nothing. Not even an attempt. Which would have been less humiliating had the entire palace not clearly noticed.

Servants noticed and servants talked. One maid fainted dramatically after discovering untouched marriage sheets and whispered something about curses. Another began leaving fertility charms beneath your pillows.

At first, you wondered if perhaps Aerion was shy. Then you remembered he was physically incapable of shame. 

So eventually, you decided to take matters into your own hands. It had seemed reasonable at the time. 

You had spent nearly an hour preparing yourself beforehand, which now embarrassed you deeply in retrospect. You wore a softer gown. You brushed perfume oil against your wrists. You even practiced appearing casually alluring in the mirror, though midway through it you realized you mostly looked constipated.

Still determined, you walked to Aerion’s chambers yourself. No husband could possibly ignore such effort.

And for one glorious moment, when the guards opened the doors without question, you truly believed things were finally about to improve. Then you walked inside.

And found Aerion entirely naked, beneath the Lysene servant he had once casually called pretty the day you met. 

A long silence followed. Aerion looked up from the bed. Blinking slowly. Not even ashamed but merely inconvenienced. 

“Oh,” he said.

You stared at him.

The servant stared at you, and looked ready to leap directly out the window. 

Aerion looked between the two of you with visible irritation, as though you had interrupted him. Then, somehow making the situation infinitely worse, he leaned back lazily against the pillows and glanced between the two of you like this was a mildly awkward dinner arrangement rather than marital betrayal.

“You’re welcome to join us, if you like”

You left before murder became politically difficult to explain.

Behind you, you vaguely heard Aerion sigh in annoyance, as though you had been the difficult one in this situation.

You had had enough. Enough that you stopped waiting for footsteps outside your chambers at night. Enough pretending this marriage was merely delayed instead of rotten at its center.

Divorce was impossible. You knew that much.

Escape, however—

Escape remained an option.

You found Meriel before dawn while most of the palace still slept. Candles burned low along the corridors, their flames trembling each time wind slipped through the stone passageways. Meriel looked startled seeing you awake so early, though the expression disappeared quickly once she saw your face.

“I want to leave,” you told her quietly.

Meriel stared at you for a moment. “Leave where?”

“Away from here,” you replied. “Anywhere else.”

Meriel lowered her eyes.

“I need a large traveling trunk,” you continued, voice steadier now that the decision had finally been spoken aloud. “And a carriage. Something discreet enough not to invite questions.”

Understanding settled over her face slowly.

“You mean to flee.”

“I mean to survive.”

For a moment, Meriel looked almost sympathetic. Then she nodded once.

“I shall arrange it.”

But later that same morning, Meriel went to Aerion instead.

She found him in the training yard watching two knights beat each other senseless while he drank wine far too early in the day. Sunlight flashed against the practice swords each time they collided. Aerion barely looked at her when she approached.

“How is she?” he asked lazily.

Meriel hesitated only briefly. “Unhappy.”

“Hmm.”

“She wants to leave.”

That earned his attention. He hummed, “you want something in return.”

Meriel straightened slightly at that, speaking with a confidence that sounded practiced rather than natural.

“My father was stripped of his lands for siding with the Blackfyres years ago. My family lost everything. Our titles. Our place at court.” Her hands tightened together. “I have served loyally ever since.”

Aerion tilted his head slightly.

“You want your status restored.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Then, unexpectedly, Aerion let out a short laugh beneath his breath and lifted his goblet vaguely toward her.

“Gods,” he murmured, almost impressed. “You’re awful.”

—

The trunk was prepared before sunrise the next morning. Reinforced oak, iron latches, large enough to pass for travel storage without inviting suspicion. You climbed inside before the courtyard fully stirred awake, heart pounding painfully against your ribs while the lid shut heavily above you.

Darkness swallowed everything. And for a while, relief almost overtook fear. The carriage moved steadily beneath you. Wheels against stone. Horses breathing hard. 

Distance growing with every turn. You were leaving. Finally.

But then the carriage stopped.

And you felt the trunk— the trunk you were in being carried. You shoved hard against the lid. Locked. And then you heard water. Cold seeped through the bottom edges of the trunk while the men carried it farther. Panic struck instantly, violent and absolute.

“No,” you gasped, throwing your shoulder hard against the lid. “No—!”

The trunk sank lower.

Freezing water rushed through the cracks faster now, swallowing the remaining air inside in brutal gulps. Your hands slipped against soaked wood as you shoved desperately against the lid, panic turning your thoughts into something sharp and senseless.

Above you, the voices had gone quieter. One of the men laughed nervously. Another muttered that perhaps this had gone too far.

Then silence.

For one horrible moment, you truly believed Aerion had left.

That this was how it ended, not with greatness or love, but alone in darkness inside a wooden box because your husband found cruelty entertaining.

Above the waterline, Aerion watched the lake for another long moment, expression unreadable. Then, with a bored sigh, he turned his back as if preparing to leave entirely.

The men shifted uneasily beside their horses. One looked pale. Another muttered a prayer to the Seven beneath his breath.

And then suddenly—

Aerion laughed.

“Oh, Gods,” he said between amused breaths, turning back toward the lake. “You thought I was serious.”

The men stared at him. Aerion grinned broadly now, gesturing lazily back toward the shore. “Bring her back before she actually dies.”

Relief visibly swept through the soldiers so quickly. They rushed forward immediately, dragging the trunk back toward land with frantic urgency. The moment it struck the shore hard enough, the weakened latch snapped open completely.

You spilled out with it.

Water poured from your soaked gown as you collapsed onto the mud choking violently, coughing hard enough to make your ribs ache. Wet curls clung against your face while the world spun sickeningly around you.

Above you stood Aerion.

Dry and perfectly composed.

One hand rested lazily over the hilt of his sword while amusement still lingered openly across his face. You looked up at him with absolute hatred. Aerion only smirked.

Then, as though this had all been a mildly entertaining interruption to his afternoon, he turned toward his men.

“Come along.”

The soldiers immediately began mounting their horses again. And just like that, they left you there. You walked back to the palace alone.

Soaked shoes scraping against dirt roads. Wet skirts heavy around your legs. Your entire body trembling. By the time you returned to your chambers, you already knew.

Meriel. Of course it had been Meriel. And worse— Aerion had not even granted her what she wanted. No restored titles. No lands. No reward.

The realization hollowed something inside you completely.

That night, your chambers were unusually quiet. You sat before the mirror still wrapped in blankets, staring numbly at the knife resting across your lap while candlelight flickered weakly against the walls.

Meriel stood nearby. At some point, she glanced toward the blade and asked mildly, “Would you like a cake with that knife, Princess?”

You let out a humorless laugh.

“Do not try to stop me,” you said quietly. “Just leave me be.”

“I would not presume to speak,” Meriel replied at once, folding her hands neatly before her. “For the Princess is so smart and book-readingly that I am certain her judgment must be sound.”

You looked down at the knife again.

“I am resolved.”

Meriel nodded once and turned toward the servant boy lingering nervously near the doorway.

“Fetch a bucket for the blood.”

The poor boy blinked. “Yes, miss.”

“And towels too,” Meriel added calmly. “There may be some overflow.”

“What am I to do?” you whispered instead. “Just live forever at someone else’s whim?”

“Godsforbid.”

You swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the knife.

“I truly believed,” you admitted quietly, “ever since I was a child… that greatness waited for me somewhere.” Your voice shook slightly now, though whether from anger or heartbreak you no longer knew. “A great life. Something important. Like the gods themselves placed me here for a reason.” You stared blankly at the candlelight trembling across the room. “That I was meant to change something.”

Meriel was silent for a moment.

Then softly:

“Why did he make you a woman, then?”

You let out a hollow laugh beneath your breath.

“For comedy, I suppose.”

And so, months later, breakfast with Aerion had become less a marital routine and more a daily exercise in surviving each other.

You sat across from Aerion beneath the open arches of the summer dining hall while servants moved quietly between tables carrying fruit, fresh bread, and wine.

Aerion looked half-awake, dressed lazily in black riding clothes, one boot unlaced.

He stabbed violently at a pear.

“The Ashford Tourney begins next week,” he announced suddenly. “You’re coming.”

You blinked once. Then coughed delicately into your sleeve and Aerion looked up immediately. You coughed again, but weaker this time.

“Oh dear,” you murmured sadly. “I fear I may be terribly ill.”

Aerion stared at you blankly. Then rolled his eyes.

“Tragic.”

You placed a hand dramatically against your chest. “I believe it may worsen if exposed to excessive sunlight.”

“How brave of you to battle through it during breakfast.”

You ignored him with dignity.

Aerion leaned back in his chair, watching you with open annoyance.

“You do realize people will ask questions if my wife refuses to appear beside me.”

“Then tell them I died.”

“That would create paperwork.”

Aerion stood abruptly, already bored with the conversation. And then paused.

He glanced toward your stomach.

“You’re not pregnant yet, are you?”

Silence.

You narrowed your eyes slowly. “Aerion,” you said carefully, “you have not stepped foot inside my chambers since the moment we married.”

He blinked once. As though genuinely forgetting this detail. Then his face twisted slightly with irritation.

“Annoying.”

You stared at him in disbelief.

Annoying?

Annoying?

Aerion was already pulling on his gloves.

“We should probably do something about that eventually,” he muttered distractedly.

“You think?” You shot him a sharp look across the table. “What a groundbreaking conclusion.”

Aerion finally glanced at you properly for the first time that morning, the inside of his cheek pressed lightly beneath his tongue as he studied you with lazy irritation.

“You’ve been in a terrible mood lately.”

You laughed in disbelief. “Lately?” 

“Yes.” Aerion blinked. 

“I walked into your chambers months ago and found you naked with another woman. Then you nearly had me drowned in a lake.”

“And I offered to include you,” he pointed out immediately, gesturing vaguely in your direction like this had been an act of staggering generosity on his part rather than insanity. “As for the lake, that was clearly a joke.”

“A joke.”

“Yes.”

“You sealed me inside the trunk.”

“You survived.”

“You watched me drown.”

Aerion frowned slightly at that. “That feels dramatic. You were underwater for hardly any time at all.”

You stared at him.

“And besides,” he continued, now sounding faintly offended himself, “I came back.”

You shut your eyes briefly. Enough.

Instead, like an angry child trying very hard not to throw something, you planted both hands flat against the table and stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him for even another second. 

Aerion sighed through his nose, already irritated by your irritation.

Then he waved vaguely over one shoulder as he started toward the courtyard.

“Later.”

The moment he disappeared through the arches, your composed expression collapsed entirely.

“I hate you,” you muttered venomously into your wine.

Life within the small palace quickly settled into an exhausting rhythm of endless feasts.

Aerion hosted them constantly.

The halls filled night after night with second sons of noble houses and young knights who had little to inherit but still too much pride to behave accordingly. Men who, by unfortunate circumstance of birth order, had little to do besides drink themselves stupid, chase women through corridors, lose fortunes over dice, and wake the next morning only to begin the cycle again.

They clung to Aerion all the same.

Not out of affection, he was too sharp, too unpredictable, too openly violent when irritated for that— but because he funded the entire arrangement. The wine, the food, the horses, the tours, the endless indulgence of it all. Aerion paid for their comfort, and in return they laughed at his worst remarks on command. Because if Aerion said something once, and then repeated it slowly while glancing at the room, it meant they were supposed to laugh.

Even when it wasn’t funny.

Especially when it wasn’t funny.

While they drank themselves into stupors below, you found your escape elsewhere.

The library.

It became yours almost by instinct.

Quiet, tucked away from the noise of feasting, it smelled of dust, old parchment, and forgotten ink. Most of the palace ignored it entirely, which suited you perfectly.

Most afternoons, while the men stumbled around the courtyards half-drunk and shouting at one another, you remained hidden among the shelves with a book open across your lap.

You had always loved reading.

Your mother used to tell you that knowledge was the only thing in this world that could not easily be taken from a woman. Knowledge meant power, she would say while correcting your Valyrian translations at the dinner table. And power meant importance. Change.

You had carried those words with you across the Narrow Sea. Held onto them tightly.

Because despite everything; the miserable marriage, the endless feasts, the loneliness of this strange country, you still believed you had been meant for something more than sitting quietly beside a prince while men spoke over you.

You wanted to do something that mattered.

And near the edge of the nearby village, just beyond the palace grounds, sat an old abandoned cottage slowly collapsing into itself beneath climbing ivy and years of neglect. You wanted to turn it into a school. Not for noble girls. Noble girls already had tutors and books and futures decided for them.

You wanted a school for girls who had nothing at all. Girls who could not read their own names. Just a place where girls could learn to read without asking.

And with that thought, you swallowed your pride. The next morning, you joined Aerion on a hunt.

It was not an invitation so much as you appearing beside him as he mounted his horse, which he regarded with immediate suspicion. 

“You’re coming?” he asked.

“I would like to see the forest,” you said simply.

He stared at you for a long moment as though trying to determine whether this was an inconvenience or a threat. Then he shrugged, already losing interest.

“Fine.”

The hunt itself was chaos.

Aerion, however, was in a rare good mood— amused, and almost tolerable. The kind of mood where asking him for anything felt marginally survivable.

So when the ride slowed briefly, you took your chance.

“There is something I would like to do,” you began carefully.

Aerion did not look at you. “That sounds expensive.”

“It is not—”

“Everything is expensive,” he cut in.

You hesitated.

Then, quietly, “There is an abandoned cottage near the village. I would like to turn it into a school.”

“Do what you want,” he said, already bored, adjusting his reins. “Just don’t make it inconvenient.”

You stared at him for a moment.

“That’s it?”

He shrugged. “It’s a cottage.”

A pause.

Somewhere behind you, a hunter laughed too loudly at something Aerion had said earlier and then immediately laughed again, louder, as if reminding everyone it was supposed to be funny.

Aerion rode on without waiting for your response.

And just like that, it was done.

No discussions. No debate. Just permission given carelessly, like throwing coins at a beggar to make them disappear. But it was enough. You would take it.

You began preparing soon after.

The cottage sat at the edge of the village like a forgotten thought—half-collapsed roof, broken shutters, weeds pushing through the stone floor. Still, you stood in it for a long time the first day, imagining voices inside it. Girls reading aloud. Chalk on wood. Something small, but alive.

Meriel came with you more than once after that, wordless at first, then slowly softening into the idea of it.

It almost felt possible.

Until it didn’t. 

You came back after supper. The sky had already turned dark. From a distance, something felt wrong. The air smelled wrong. Then you saw it.

The cottage.

Burned.

Not damaged. But burned.

Blackened beams collapsed inward like broken ribs. Smoke still curled faintly into the night sky, as though whatever had been done had not yet finished being cruel. Meriel went very still beside you.

You walked forward slowly, as if approaching it carefully might undo it.

It did not.

By the time you reached the ruins, there was nothing left that could pretend to be a school.

Only ash.

—

The palace was loud.

Drunken laughter spilled through the halls. Music echoed off stone. Someone was singing badly again.

You found Aerion in the main hall, seated at a long table surrounded by men who laughed too loudly at everything he said. A cup hung loosely in his hand.

He did not look up when you entered.

You walked straight toward him, and the people noticed immediately. You stopped in front of him.

“You burned it,” you said.

Aerion blinked once.

Then, slowly: “Oh.”

He leaned back in his chair with the languid ease of a man already bored.

“You didn’t say it was for girls.”

“Women in the villages here cannot read,” he added. “They’re not taught.”

Your hands tightened at your sides.

“That is not—”

“And they should not be,” Aerion said, cutting in.

“Women are for seeding, not reading.”

Laughter rolled through the hall.

You stared at him like he had spoken in a language you no longer recognized.

“…I told you I wanted a school,” you said slowly.

“Yes,” Aerion replied, as if that explained everything.

“And you burned it down.”

“I did,” he confirmed.

No hesitation. 

You exhaled sharply through your nose.

“Well, you may go. I forgive you, of course, as I am a man of gentle heart and enormous cock.”

Laughter rippled through the room.

“You are disgusting,” you hissed.

“You do not lie to me again.”

The glass left his hand without warning. It shattered against the pillar beside you—but by then, you had already moved. A thin cut sliced across your right palm, blood beading slowly against your skin. Barely a scratch.

Aerion watched the fragments scatter across the floor before his gaze drifted back to you, a faint amusement flickering in his eyes.

“Ooh,” he drawled. “You’re admirably quick.”

You did not give him any more time to give comments as you turned to leave, anger radiating. You seethed while walking back to your chambers.

The next day there was another feast.

Meriel told you to go to tell the court that you are still alive and breathing.

Aerion was in unusually good spirits that evening, laughing too loudly at something one of his men said. And because when Aerion repeated a joke, they laughed as though it had been genius. Even when it isn’t. 

You mostly ignored all of it.

Instead, you found the bear.

It had been brought to the palace courtyard as one of Aerion’s strange, impulsive gifts, something from the hunt, something alive that had survived him when most things did not.

You sat with it quietly for a while, fingers brushing through its fur while the feast roared on inside. It was easier than people. It did not speak. It did not mock. It simply existed beside you without asking anything.

“Maybe you’re the only one here,” you muttered softly, “who hasn’t tried to ruin my life.”

The bear shifted slightly under your hand.

For a moment, it almost felt like it understood you. 

And then- the sound of an arrow splitting air. It happened too fast to process properly. A sharp twang from the training platform where Aerion and his men had decided, in their usual brilliance, that the courtyard was suitable for target practice even during a feast.

The arrow struck clean.

Right through the animal. The bear collapsed instantly.

You stared at it for a moment too long, as if waiting for the world to correct itself. But it did not. And then you stood.

Across the courtyard, laughter broke out.  “Good shot,” someone called.

Aerion’s voice followed lazily, unconcerned. “Oh, dear. Someone’s cross.” he spoke lazily when he saw you cross the courtyard in a straight line. Aerion was still smiling when you reached him. With no hesitation, you raised your hand and slapped him on the cheek. Hard. 

The sound cracked through the hall and silence followed immediately. Even the music faltered. You didn’t wait for anything else. You turned and left.

—

The library was quiet in a way the rest of the palace never managed to be. Not merely silent, but softened, as though even sound was reluctant to disturb it. Dust floated through thin shafts of light from the high windows, drifting over rows of old parchment and ink-stained ledgers, the smell of aged wood and forgotten knowledge clinging to everything. 

It was the only place in the entire palace that did not feel like it belonged to Aerion, as if even his presence hesitated at the threshold.

You did not sit at a chair. You sat on the floor between shelves, knees drawn in loosely, staring at nothing in particular while your breathing slowly unraveled. Then your hands began to shake, then enough that you stopped trying to hide it at all. The crying came after that, uneven and broken, sharp breaths caught between anger and humiliation and grief until none of them could separate cleanly anymore.

You did not expect him to follow you.

Aerion did not speak immediately when he entered. He stood there for a moment as if assessing whether this was worth interrupting, then eventually crossed the room and sat down across from you.

“We’ve got problems, haven’t we?” he said at last.

You did not answer.

Silence stretched, thick and unbothered.

“I suppose you are the only person in my life,” he added after a moment, almost thoughtfully, “who has not loved me.”

A breath of disbelief slipped out of you before you could stop it, half-laugh, half-sob.

“It is inconceivable to me,” he continued, as though your reaction was irrelevant, “and says nothing good about you.”

You looked up sharply at that.

He met your gaze without hesitation, unflinching, almost curious.

“If you had shown me an ounce of kindness,” your face twisted as you eyed him, “I was ready with a heart full of love.”

And then, because he could never resist undermining even his own seriousness, his eyes flicked over you and he added, almost offhand, “You look really pretty when you’re angry.”

That was it. Something in you cracked fully open.

“My heart is breaking,” you said, and this time the words came out broken with it, tears spilling freely as a muffled sob forced its way through your throat. “I miss home. I’m lonely for family, friends, fun, ideas, strawberries—”

“And I need my cock sucked,” Aerion interrupted flatly.

You froze.

“What?” you asked in disbelief, staring at him like you had misheard the language entirely.

“Well,” he said, leaning back slightly as if this were logical, “we’re sharing, right? Our needs?”

“Just let me go home, please.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

He glanced away for a moment, as though considering something practical. “Strawberries, I’ll work on.”

Then, more to himself than to you, he added, “What happened to that happy little girl who gave me a twig?”

“She died,” you said immediately.

Aerion sighed through his nose. “Seems overly dramatic.”

He looked at you again, then added, “I am mostly kind to you. Do I beat you?”

“I suffer the blows of your disdain daily,” you hissed, pushing yourself up until you were standing over him where he still sat.

Aerion tilted his head up at you slightly.

“It’s not the same as actual blows, though, is it?”

“Well—”

“What, you don’t know?” he cut in.

Before you could react, he stood. His hand closed around your shoulder, firm enough to stop you from stepping back, and then—suddenly, sharply—he struck you in the stomach.

The breath left you instantly. You doubled slightly, stunned more than anything, pain blooming hot and immediate through your middle.

Aerion watched you bend forward.

“Well,” he said calmly, releasing you, “compare, and get back to me.”

You straightened slowly, shaking.

“Mother and Father never acted like this. My mother was a saint,” he replied. Then, after a beat, he added, almost reflexively, “I’m glad she’s not alive to see this. Not that I’m glad she’s dead. I’m not—”

He stopped himself, as if realizing he was losing his own argument, and exhaled sharply through his nose.

You were still staring at him, unblinking.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “You’re a disappointment to me, too.”

Then, after a pause, his voice sharpened again.

“I do not need a wife with a poisonous mouth and a dry cunny. I will shut you up at my pleasure.”

“You will try and fail,” you said immediately, voice raw.

“You will be happy,” he continued as if you had not spoken. “You will die here in content old age, having given me many hours of pleasure and service, and many heirs. Boys, preferably.”

His gaze flicked over you, sharp and assessing.

“I do have a temper and some rage. You cannot cross me. Especially not in front of others, or you will pay. Endlessly.”

A pause.

Then, quietly, final in a way that was almost certain.

“And you will never win.”

I hope he loses.

Not in the polite way other wives were taught to think it, no soft prayers whispered into candlelight, no folded hands asking for a safe return, no devotion. You did not want safety for him. 

I hope he loses the tourney, you thought, watching him across the courtyard as he adjusted his riding gloves, I hope he falls off his horse. I hope the impact is sharp enough to silence him permanently. I hope something in him breaks in a way that cannot be repaired.

Your finger tapped against your gown once, then again, then again, a quiet rhythm of imagined outcomes. You found yourself thinking of it too easily: the snap of bone, the sudden stillness of a body, the stunned silence of a crowd that had cheered him only moments before.

Other wives would have been praying. You found yourself praying for injuries.

He would not come back with laughter still clinging to him. He would come back quiet, maybe even regretful. Or not at all.

Outside the palace entrance, the air was bright and unforgiving. The horses were already prepared, restless beneath their riders, the sound of metal and leather filling the space like a ceremony you had no interest in participating in. Aerion adjusted his riding gloves with careless precision, as though nothing in the world had ever resisted him for long.

You stood beside him. You did not speak. You did not wish him well.

You only performed the smallest, most formal curtsy you could manage. Whether it was even correct no longer mattered.

Aerion glanced at you briefly, as if expecting something more. When nothing came, he simply turned away and mounted his horse.

Then he left.

And the gates closed behind him.

—

Days passed slowly after that.

The palace did not change much in his absence, which you found irritating. The halls remained full, the servants continued their routines, the air still carried the same polished emptiness. If anything, it only made his presence feel less necessary in hindsight, as though he had always been an unnecessary noise in a room that functioned perfectly well without him.

You filled the time carefully.

The library became your refuge again, its silence more honest than anything else in the palace. You spent hours there among books you did not always read, simply existing in a space that did not demand anything from you. When even that became too heavy, you returned to embroidery, though not of flowers as was expected—but insects. Spindly things, sharp-winged things, delicate and unpleasant in a way.

Meriel came and went quietly, as she always did, saying little unless spoken to.

Time passed in a strange, suspended way.

Then one afternoon, a servant came running through the corridor, breathless, face pale and twisted with panic.

“He died!”

The words echoed too loudly down the stone hall.

“The prince died!”

For a moment, everything stopped. Even the air felt like it paused to listen. You looked up slowly from your work. Your fingers still rested on the fabric, unmoving.

Someone nearby gasped. Another voice immediately began asking questions, overlapping, frantic.

A second servant reached you, hesitating as if unsure whether you were supposed to collapse or celebrate or scream. His eyes darted away quickly, as though afraid of your reaction either way.

But then—

A flicker at the corner of your mouth. Barely there.

Something almost like relief, almost like laughter, almost like—

No.

Not yet.

Before it could form properly, Meriel arrived. And the moment you saw her face, you already knew something was wrong. She did not look panicked. She did not look confused.

Composed in a way that made your stomach tighten instantly.

She stopped in front of you.

And spoke clearly.

“Prince Baelor died.”

Silence.

Oh.

You felt it land slowly.

Not Aerion. Not your husband. Not your imagined ruin finally delivered.

Someone else. Someone entirely different.

Your fingers loosened slightly on the fabric in your lap.

And for a long moment, all you could think was:

Oh.

savant - a person of profound and exceptional knowledge. i figured people in lys probably wouldn’t use the word “maesters” the way they do in westeros, so i went down an internet rabbit hole looking for similar terms

TO BE MORTAL is to feel mortal emotions.

It is a frantic, crowded existence of hope, shame, fear, and love—each a colorful thread meant to bind a soul to the earth so it does not drift away into the cold. 

These feelings are the anchors that keep a human being rooted in the dirt, making them predictable, manageable, and soft.

But Selen of the Vale’s soul had always been unmoored.

They say hope is the thing with feathers, but Selen only knew the thing with teeth. 

She did not feel that desperate flutter in her chest when the winter stores ran dry in the Vale, nor did she join the chorus of the other children when they wept for a mother’s touch that was never coming. To hope was to acknowledge a lack—to admit that someone, somewhere, held a power over you that you were begging them to use. She refused to admit the world owed her anything at all, and so she never had to wait for a miracle that wouldn't arrive.

Shame is the heat that rises in the cheeks when one is caught in a lie or stripped bare by a judgmental gaze, yet Selen felt no such fever.

She stood in her threadbare rags with the posture of a queen, unblinking when the mistress spat at her feet or called her a hollow-eyed freak. To her, shame was a social contract, a way for the weak to keep the different in line, and she had never signed her name to it.

Fear was no different; it was a tax paid by those who had something left to lose—a name, a life, even a scrap of dignity. She did not feel the frantic heartbeat or the trembling limb when the shadows of the Moon Mountains grew long and hungry. Selen walked the world with empty hands and a heart of flint; there was nothing left for the world to take from her.

Love, however, remained the cruelest of them all. It was the tether that made the heart vulnerable to the knife, the soft spot in the armor that invited the strike.

She watched the other orphans cling to one another in the dark, huddled for a warmth that would only make the morning frost feel sharper, but she felt only a hollow distance. It was a glass wall between her and the soft, foolish needs of the living. To love was to give someone the power to destroy you, and Selen was already a ruin.

This hollowness was not a deformity of the mind, but a requirement of her blood. She was a vessel carved from a different stone, built to withstand a pressure that would have crushed a common heart.

The mortals around her lived by the laws of the pulse and the belly, tethered to their small virtues and their smaller vices, but Selen was governed by a more ancient, jagged arithmetic. 

She was the exception to the rule of the flesh, a creature who stood outside the circle of human consequence. It was this distance—this divine indifference—that made her capable of things a human soul would shudder to contemplate. For if she did not feel as they felt, she could not be judged as they were judged.

There iis a different set of rules for the small and the great. 

When a man sins, it is expected; he is a creature of clay and instinct, a beast in a rough tunic who knows no better than to satisfy his hunger or his rage. The world forgives a man because he is small, his crimes as fleeting as his breath. 

But when a god sins, it is not a mistake, it is an architecture. When the divine turn their backs on the suffering or break the very laws they carved into the stone of the world, they do not call it a crime; they call it fate. They weave their calculated cruelty into the stars, painting their whims across the sky and demanding that the mortals below call it justice. 

And if a creature born of both—a splinter of the eternal trapped in a cage of fragile bone—dares to strike back? If a child of the heavens reaches for the torch and decides to burn down the world that rejected her, is that a sin? 

No. For a daughter of the gods, vengeance is not a failing. It is an inheritance, the only thing they truly left her. 

They should have known better than to leave a divine thing to fester in the dirt. A dead thing can be ignored, but a rotting thing spreads, and Selen was born to be the blight that kills the world at the root.

And yet . . . 

The gods condemned her for that very inheritance. 

They are the Faith of the Rotten. 

They do not dwell within the silent marble of the Great Septs; they are the architects of the rot. To them, a single heart broken at the right moment is enough to bring a kingdom to its knees. 

The Father is a judge with weighted scales; the Mother offers only the comfort of a shroud; and at the center of the web sits the Crone. It was her shadow that fell heaviest upon Selen—the divine mistake who dared to bite back.

Selen realized then that she did not want to be the better version of the gods; she wanted to be the worse one. 

She did not seek to fix their broken world, but to govern its decay. In the sweltering shadows of Volantis, she rose as a mistress of the dark arts, the architect of a religion built on the bones of spite. She became the savior of the desperate and the executioner of the weak, a merchant of miracles who understood that the only true language of the universe is debt. 

To the broken, she was a goddess; to the wise, she was a warning. She offered the impossible, but her grace always came with a jagged edge: a life for a life, a soul for a dream, a kingdom for a prayer.

Then came Prince Valarr Targaryen.

He arrived at her feet not as a conqueror, but as a beggar drowning in grief. He offered her gold, but Selen did not look at his purse. 

She looked at his head and saw the weight of the crown he was meant to wear; she looked at his hands and saw the inheritance of a burning throne. She saw a prince who was willing to pay any price to undo the past, and she decided to collect.

But the gods do not suffer a rival for long. They looked down and saw a girl playing with the threads of fate, her sins piling up like cordwood, and they decided to turn her hubris into a game.

They did not kill her—they tethered her. For the crime of mocking the divine, Selen was bound to the very mortal she had tried to fleece. She was cast into a cycle of lifetimes, a suffocating loop of rebirth where she was forced to walk through a thousand lifetimes, always ending at his hand.

And so began the Trials.

In the Vale, she sought the Father’s justice only to be burned at the stake. In the North, the Mother’s mercy was found in the teeth of a wolf. The Smith broke her work in Braavos; the Warrior broke her sword in the Stepstones. She even sought the Stranger’s end by the cliffs, only to wake as a babe, her first breath a scream of fury because the salt water was still stinging her throat.

The divine theater is closing its curtains. Selen is done playing the martyr. If the loom demands a sacrifice to finally go still, she will offer it up in blood. She will drag the stars down until the gods, the Prince, and the very world rot in her wake.

For she finally understands the true cruelty of what the gods had made of them: she was condemned to remember every life that ended with his hands on her throat, his blade in her heart—while he was left with the gentler ruin, carrying the memory of every life where they had chosen each other instead.

IN EVERY KINGDOM, the crown demands a price, and sometimes, the cost is the very heart that beats beneath the velvet and steel.

The dust motes in the quiet library of Summerhall danced in the weak afternoon light, illuminated by a sliver of sun piercing the high, arched windows. Egg had only come to the chambers searching for Aemon. The older boy was supposed to be reviewing his maester’s translations, but the room was empty. 

Aemon’s heavy footfalls had echoed down the hall just as Egg slipped inside, and in his haste to avoid being scolded for snooping, Egg had bumped heavily against a tall, precarious stack of leather-bound tomes. With a deafening crash, dozens of books cascaded across the marble floor. 

Egg winced, rubbing his shoulder as he dropped to his knees to right the mess. Most of the volumes were dry histories of the Seven Kingdoms, but one dark, leather-bound journal had slid far beneath the heavy oak desk. It was warped with age, the leather worn thin at the edges, as if it had been handled often and then not at all for a very long time. Egg reached out, dusting off the cover, and opened it out of pure curiosity.

Egg’s thumb traced the edge of the leather-bound tome before he turned the cover. The handwriting inside was undeniably his father’s. Messier. Uneven. As though the words were written in haste, or in youth. 

On the very first page, a bold title was inscribed: The Adventures of Maekar, Y/N, and Dyanna. Below it, in a distinctly different ink and a rushed, heavier hand, was an additional note: and Baelor. Frowning, Egg turned the page. The breath caught in his throat.

It was a delicate charcoal drawing of a woman. She did not have the pale hair or the striking violet eyes of his late mother, Dyanna Dayne. Her features were softer, her hair dark, and a faint, knowing smile was captured in the strokes of the charcoal. Not stylized. Not arranged like the portraits that hung in the halls. There was no attempt to make her look grander than she was, no careful positioning of hands or jewels or posture. She was simply . . . there. 

The name scrawled beneath the portrait was simply Y/N.

Her hair fell loose over her shoulders, dark and unbound. One strand had been sketched twice, as if the hand that drew it had hesitated before settling. Her mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile, but something close enough to it. 

Egg stared at the page, his thumb tracing the graphite. He had never known his father possessed the gentle, deft hand required for such a portrait.

As he stared at the delicate charcoal strokes, Egg’s mind drifted to the very moment his father’s hand had rested upon this parchment. 

The afternoon heat in the Red Keep’s old gardens was tempered only by the thick, ancient vines that wove through the stone trellis above, casting long, shifting shadows across the marble benches. They were six and ten then, hovering on the precipice of adulthood but still largely naive to the heavy, unyielding realities of the realm. For a few stolen hours, the politics of the court, the looming threat of the Blackfyres, and the arranged marriages of great houses felt a world away.

In the shaded alcove, Maekar sat with a piece of willow charcoal pinched between his rough fingers, leaving a trail of dark soot across his knuckles. Across from him sat Y/N, completely unaware of the intensity in his gaze.

He recalled every detail of the light: the way the golden sun of King’s Landing caught the rich, dark strands of her hair, catching the edges and turning the dark brown into an amber halo that framed her features. She had turned to him, her face lighting up with genuine amusement as she shared a quiet, breathless jest about Dyanna Dayne. Dyanna had spent the morning walking with her head down, looking terribly solemn after being politely but firmly dismissed by one of the Baratheon boys, a family known for their dark, tempestuous looks. Y/N had giggled into her hand, noting with a playful glint in her eyes that Dyanna seemed to have a distinct, unchanging preference for dark-haired men.

When the jest gave way to her full, free laughter, the sound seemed to resonate through the shaded alcove. Maekar had found himself completely unable to look away. He stopped breathing for a moment, his hand trembling against the rough, heavy tooth of the parchment. In that exact heartbeat, the prince was overwhelmed by a strange and melancholic realization: he was capturing the only part of her he would ever truly possess. The crown and his father's expectations would ensure that she belonged to someone else, but on this small square of paper, she was his.

He began the sketch with her cheeks, letting the charcoal soften and shade the roundness that gave her face its gentle, unassuming warmth. He traced the smooth dip of her chin, capturing the soft, slightly round lines that separated her features from the sharp, severe angles typical of other women. Every stroke was a secret declaration. In the silence of the garden, Maekar poured all the words he was never allowed to speak into the fragile graphite, preserving the young woman before the realm broke them both.

Egg continued to flip through the pages, his eyes widening as the truth of it settled in slowly, unwillingly. The diary was not only ink and confession, but it was a memory made visible. Y/N alone, drawn with a patience that felt almost careful. Y/N laughing, head tilted slightly as though caught mid-sound. Y/N looking away, as if she had always known she was being watched.

And then—

The group.

At first, only three.

Maekar, younger then. Dyanna beside him, composed even in ink, her posture always steadier than the world around her. And Y/N between them in some drawings, or just slightly ahead in others, as if she never quite belonged to standing still. The alcove appeared often in the background. Stone arches, half-shadowed light, the same place where time seemed to hesitate before moving on.

Egg’s fingers paused over one page.

There, his father had written in a neat line beneath a sketch of the three of them sitting too close together on worn stone steps:

“We were not yet what they wanted us to be.”

Further on, the drawings changed.

A fourth figure appeared.

Baelor.

He was always drawn differently—less composed, more open, as if even ink struggled to keep him within the frame. In one sketch, he leaned over Maekar’s shoulder, reading something off-page. In another, he stood between Dyanna and Y/N, laughing at something none of them would later remember clearly enough to repeat.

Egg traced the edge of one sketch where all four of them stood together in the alcove.

“Do you remember this?” Baelor’s voice echoed faintly from the past, as if caught between pages rather than time.

“You tripped over your own words,” Y/N had said in the drawing’s memory, though Egg could almost hear her now, amused rather than unkind.

“I did not,” Baelor had replied immediately.

“You absolutely did,” Dyanna’s voice had cut in, calm as ever.

Maekar—drawn slightly apart, watching rather than joining, had only said, quietly, “He always does when he is trying to sound clever.”

“And yet you never stop listening,” Y/N had answered, turning toward him in the sketch with that familiar expression, half challenge, half something softer she never said aloud.

The ink on that page was heavier around Maekar’s figure, as though he had pressed harder when drawing it without realizing.

Egg turned the page again.

The group changed slowly over time. Not in number at first, but in distance. The alcove remained, but the spaces between them widened in ways the drawings did not explain, only recorded.

Baelor appeared less often. Y/N lingered longer in the margins. Dyanna remained steady in every frame, even when the others did not. And Maekar—

Maekar was always there.

Even when he was not.

Egg stopped for a long moment on one final sketch: all of them together again, but not quite aligned. As if the moment itself had been drawn while already slipping away. No one in it was looking at the same thing.

And beneath it, in his father’s handwriting, smaller than before, almost careful enough to be forgotten, were the words:

“We thought it would last because we had not yet learned what endings look like.”

Then, the drawings stopped, replaced by pages of dense text. They were letters. Hundreds of them. Letters written in his father’s hand, addressed to Y/N, filled with confessions and longing. But they had never been sent. Egg read the margin of the first entry:

“Y/N,You told me to write instead of speaking, if I could not say it plainly. I do not know if this is better. There is no one here to interrupt, no one to correct me, and yet I find I hesitate more with ink than I ever did with words.”

It had been spring—the kind that came with more rain than warmth, the stones weree damp, the air heavy with it. The corridors smelled faintly of wet stone and something green just beginning to return.

He had not meant to run, and yet he did.

The alcove was already occupied when he reached it.

“You’re late,” Y/N said, glancing at him from where she leaned against the narrow curve of the wall, her voice even, as if she had been waiting long enough to expect him.

“I was not meant to come at all,” Maekar answered, still catching his breath, rain clinging to the dark strands of his hair and dampening the shoulders of his doublet.

“That has never stopped you before.” 

He did not return the remark. For a moment, he only stood there, hands half-curled at his sides, as though unsure what to do with them now that he had arrived.

“What is it?” she asked, more softly this time, straightening just a little, her attention settling fully on him.

“Nothing.” The word came too quickly.

“That is a lie.” Y/N did not move closer, but her eyes lingered on him, patient in a way that suggested she had no intention of letting it pass.

Maekar let out a breath, quieter now, his shoulders lowering slightly. “I came to ask you something.”

“Then ask.” 

“You will answer plainly?” he said, his voice steadier, though there was still something held back beneath it.

“When do I not?” 

“When it suits you not to.” 

“Then I will answer as plainly as I please.” She shifted her weight against the stone, unbothered, as if the terms had already been decided.

Maekar looked at her then, properly, as though measuring whether that would be enough.

It was not.

But he asked anyway.

“How,” he began, slower now, choosing the words rather than letting them come, “does one tell someone that he loves them?”

The question settled between them, simple in its shape, heavier in its meaning.

Y/N did not laugh. She did not look surprised. Instead, she watched him, more carefully now, as if measuring not the question, but the reason for it.

“Is this for you,” she asked, “or for some poor girl who has not yet realized her misfortune?” Her tone was light, but her gaze lingered, searching.

Maekar frowned faintly. “You said you would answer plainly.” His eyes flicked to hers, expectant, though guarded.

“I am,” she replied, unhurried. “I am asking plainly.”

“It is a question,” he said after a moment, his voice flattening slightly. “Answer it.”

“You could tell her.” She said it simply, as though it required no further thought.

Maekar exhaled, the sound sharper than before. “If it were that simple, I would not be asking.” His hand flexed slightly at his side, betraying a hint of impatience.

“Then it is not simple,” she said. “Which means you will say it wrong.” Her tone remained calm, almost matter-of-fact.

“That is not helpful.” 

“It is true.” 

He looked away then, toward the narrow opening where rain fell in a thin, steady line beyond the stone. For a moment, he said nothing.

“I would not say it wrong,” he said at last, quieter now, though there was a stubbornness to it.

“You would,” she replied without hesitation, the faintest trace of amusement returning. “You would make it sound like a command. Or a warning.” Her fingers brushed idly against the edge of the stone beside her, as though the observation came easily.

“I would not.” His gaze returned to her, sharper now.

“You would,” she repeated, almost gently. “You would stand too straight, and speak as though you expected something in return.” 

“I would expect nothing.” The words came firmer, though not entirely convincing.

“That would not be how it sounded.” 

A pause followed.

He glanced back at her, something sharper in his expression now. “Then how should it sound?”

Y/N leaned back a little more fully against the stone, her posture loosening.

“Not like anything at all,” she said. “Not something rehearsed. Not something you have turned over in your mind until it has no life left in it.”

“And what does that leave?” 

She looked back at him.

“Write it.” The answer came simply.

Maekar frowned slightly. “Write it.” He repeated it as if testing the weight of it.

“Yes.” Y/N nodded once, small and certain.

“That is your answer?” His brow furrowed, unconvinced.

“It is the only one you might manage without ruining it.” There was no mockery in it but only a quiet honesty.

He studied her a moment longer. “And then?” he asked.

“And then,” she said, “you do nothing with it.”

Maekar stilled. “Nothing.” The word came slower now.

“You write it,” Y/N repeated, “and you keep it. You do not send it. You do not speak it. You let it remain what it is.”

“That is not telling her.” 

“No,” she agreed. “It is not.” 

“Then what use is it?” His voice dropped, quieter now, the question no longer argumentative.

Y/N held his gaze.

“It is for you,” she said. “Not for her.” 

A longer silence followed.

“And if that is not enough?” he asked, after a moment, the words quieter still.

Y/N’s expression shifted, though only slightly.

“Then you were never meant to tell her at all.”

The rain filled the silence that followed.

Maekar looked at her for a long moment, as if trying to find something in her face that had not been there before.

He did not.

“Very well,” he said at last, the words measured, as though settling something within himself.

Y/N’s mouth curved faintly, though it did not reach her eyes. “Very well,” she echoed.

And that had been the beginning of it.

The lines stretched longer than the ones before, filling more of the page, the ink pressed firm as though each word had been considered before it was allowed to remain.

“You said it would make it easier—that I would think before I spoke. You were right. I think too much now, and say nothing at all.  

There was a faint smudge beneath the last line, as though the ink had not been given time to dry before the page was turned—or as though a hand had lingered there longer than it should have.

It is a strange thing, to be so certain of something and yet have no place to put it. I find it follows me regardless. In the yard, in the hall, even at the table where I am expected to listen and not speak unless spoken to. I hear my own thoughts louder than any man’s voice. You speak as though it is simple—to set it aside, to let it remain unspoken, to trust that it will not grow into something unmanageable. I do not think you understand what you have asked of me.

A line had been started beneath it, then struck through so harshly the parchment bore the mark.

Another line followed, written cleaner, though no less heavy.

Or perhaps you understand it better than I do.

There was more space now, as if he had paused longer before continuing.

I tried, today, to speak as I always have. It felt wrong. Every word I did not mean sounded louder than those I did. You spoke to me as though nothing had changed. I answered you the same. I do not know which of us lied better.

The ink lightened toward the end, the pressure easing, though the hand remained steady.

If this is easier, as you say, then I will endure it. But I think you have mistaken silence for peace.”

The ink ended there, but the space it left did not.

What followed in the pages after was not immediate, no new entry, no hurried continuation. Only a stretch of blank parchment, as though even writing had its limits, and he had reached them. But the story did not end with the letter. It only quieted. They went on as they always had.

There were mornings in the yard where the air still held the damp of the night before, where steel rang against steel and men shouted over one another, and she would stand just beyond it, half in shadow, watching without seeming to. She never stayed long. Long enough to be noticed, never long enough to be questioned. Maekar learned, without meaning to, the exact moment she would turn away—just before the noise grew too loud, just before the sun climbed too high.

At the table, nothing changed. She sat where she was meant to, spoke when spoken to, and listened the rest of the time. There was no strain in it, no sign of anything misplaced. If anything, she seemed more at ease than most—unbothered by the weight of names and expectations that pressed on everyone else. She would glance at him sometimes, briefly, the same way she always had. Not lingering. Not avoiding.

It was that sameness that unsettled him.

The alcove did not belong to them anymore, though no one had claimed it. It remained as it had always been—narrow, half-forgotten, the light never quite reaching it. He passed it often enough to know when she had been there. A shift in the dust, a mark along the stone where someone had leaned too long. Once, he found a loose thread caught against the edge, dark against the pale wall. He did not touch it.

There were days when they spoke.

Nothing of consequence. Small things. Observations that required no answer. It would have been easy, for anyone watching, to believe nothing had changed at all. They did not stand too close. They did not lower their voices. There was no urgency in it, no need to linger.

Once, in the corridor, she paused a fraction longer than she should have, as if she meant to say something and thought better of it. He noticed only because he had already begun to move past her. By the time he turned, she was gone.

Another time, it rained again, steady and without wind. He found himself at the alcove without recalling the path that had brought him there. She was not. He stayed anyway, longer than made sense, longer than he would have admitted. The stone was cold beneath his hand. The sound of the rain filled the space too easily.

He did not go back the next day.

Or the day after that.

But he thought of it. 

Egg’s fingers shifted slightly against the edge of the page.

"You were right, Y/N. I must carry the duty of a prince, and you must carry the duty of your house. If I love what I am forbidden to love, I must do so silently. I will not send these. I will keep them within my own heart, as you asked."

The correspondence spanned years, chronicling a quiet, aching love that neither dared to speak aloud.

The entries continued, not in neat order, but in fragments—moments caught and kept.

“Y/N, Dyanna says you laugh too easily. Baelor says you do not laugh enough. I have decided they are both wrong. You laugh when you wish to, and not when it is expected. I think that is why they notice it at all.”

Another page.

“Y/N, you stood by the window today and said nothing for nearly an hour. I thought you angry. When I asked, you told me you were only thinking. I do not know which unsettles me more—that I could not tell the difference, or that I wanted to.”

Another.

“Y/N, they have begun to speak of marriages more often now. It is no longer spoken of as something distant. Names are mentioned, then dismissed, then returned to again as though the choice might settle itself if left alone long enough.

The writing grew tighter toward the bottom.

Yours has not been spoken yet. I find I listen for it regardless.”

After that, the hand loosened again, though not entirely. The ink was lighter, as if written at a different hour, or with less certainty

“Y/N, you told me not to come to you again. You said it would only make it harder, that there was no sense in making something difficult worse by indulging it. You spoke as though it were already decided, as though we had only to accept it and be done.

The line that followed was written slower.

I did not argue. I should have.”

You came to me tonight.

The ink there had bled faintly into the parchment, as though the quill had lingered too long.

You asked me to take you away. You did not speak of where, or how, or what would follow. Only that we would go, and that it would be enough.

There was a long space beneath it.

Long enough that Aegon could almost feel the hesitation that had lived there.

I told you no.

The next line came harder.

I told you to stay. I told you it was not ours to choose, that there were things greater than what we wanted, that it would not end as you thought it would. You did not argue. That was worse.

The diary did not move cleanly from one day to the next after that.

The pages grew uneven—entries breaking off, resuming later in a different hand, as though written at odd hours or in moments stolen between obligations. Ink smudged where it should have dried clean. Words pressed too hard into the parchment, then faded where the hand must have faltered.

They had met there, though neither had meant to. Or perhaps they had. It was difficult to tell, even in the way he wrote it.

She had been the one to speak first. She had not circled the matter, had not softened it into something easier to refuse. She had asked him plainly, and when he did not answer, she had asked again, until there was no space left between the question and the answer he would not give.

There were lines in the margins, written smaller, tighter—admissions he had not allowed into the body of the entry.

I would have gone. I thought of it. I nearly said yes.

The ink there had been smeared, as though his hand had passed over it before it dried.

But the entry itself remained unchanged.

He had turned her away.

They had met at the alcove, though neither had meant to.

He had gone there because there had been nowhere else to stand. Because the keep had begun to feel smaller with each passing hour, every corridor leading him back to the same thought. And she had been there already.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The corridor was dim, the torchlight thinning, leaving the alcove half in shadow. It seemed smaller than it had been before. Or perhaps there was simply no room left for anything unspoken.

“You meant it,” she said.

“I did.”

She searched his face, as though something might still be undone if she looked long enough.

“You cannot,” she said.

“I can.”

“You will not.”

He did not answer that. The silence stretched.

“Then this is how it ends,” she said.

“It does not end.”

“It does,” she replied. “You have made certain of it.”

Maekar exhaled slowly. “Y/N—”

“Do not,” she said, not sharply, but with enough weight to stop him. “Do not make it something else. It is simple enough as it is.”

“It is not simple.”

“It is,” she insisted. “You have chosen. That is all there is to it.”

He did not deny it.

The quiet that followed was not empty. It held everything neither of them would say.

“You asked me once what you should do,” she said, softer now.

“I remember.”

“I told you to write it,” she went on. “I thought that would be the end of it.”

“It was not.”

“No.” Y/N let out a breath, faint, almost soundless. “It was not.”

She looked at him then, properly.

“Come with me,” she said.

No urgency. No desperation. Only certainty.

“We can leave before morning.”

But Maekar did not move.

“It will not matter where,” she continued. “Only that we are not here.”

“It will matter,” he said.

“It will not.”

“It will follow us.”

“Let it.”

He shook his head once. “You do not know what you are asking.”

“I do.” Her gaze did not waver. “I am asking you to choose.”

The words settled between them. He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, nothing had changed.

“I have,” he said.

Y/N went still.

“And this is it,” she said.

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Say it again.”

“Y/N—”

“Say it.”

He held her gaze.

“You will marry him.”

The words did not echo.

Y/N nodded once.

“Very well.”

She did not argue.

That had been the worst of it.

He left her there.

He had told himself, before he turned, that he would not look back. Not once. Not even at the end. The corridor stretched longer than he remembered. Each step came measured, counted without meaning to.

One.

Two.

Three.

He kept his gaze forward, fixed on nothing.

Thirty.

Forty.

Fifty.

The sound of his own steps followed him too closely, as though the silence refused to leave him.

Seventy.

Eighty.

Ninety.

He did not slow.

He did not slow.

One hundred.

One hundred and ten.

One hundred and twenty.

The distance should have meant something by then.

It did not.

One hundred and thirty.

One hundred and forty.

One hundred and forty-three. That was what it took to reach his chambers.

It should have been easy.

It was not.

He pushed the door open. The room was dark, untouched. For a moment, he stood there, as though the distance he had put between them might settle into something final. Then the air shifted. The window stood open.

The night had come in with it; cool, quiet.

And there—

She was still there. At the alcove. Exactly where he had left her.

As though those one hundred and three steps had meant nothing at all.

The next line in the diary had been written with such force the ink had nearly torn through the page.

I should have gone back.

One moon later, Maekar was betrothed to Dyanna Dayne. There were no entries after that. For a time, Egg could only stare at the empty pages that followed, his fingers resting at the edge as though something more might reveal itself if he waited long enough. Nothing did. The parchment remained clean, untouched—too clean. It unsettled him more than anything written before.

What had passed in the day of Y/N’s wedding, and the days that came after?

Nothing.

Or nothing his father had allowed himself to keep.

It did not make sense. Maekar had written everything—things better left unsaid, things no one was meant to read. He had not spared himself in ink. And yet here, at the very moment where something should have remained, there was only absence.

As if he had chosen not to remember.

Or worse— as if he had not trusted himself to.

Egg turned the page.

And there it was.

Three moons after the wedding—three moons into what remained of their lives—the First Blackfyre Rebellion began. The entry resumed without preamble, as though nothing had been lost between one page and the next.

Maekar and Baelor were summoned to lead the royal troops.

Y/N, A month has passed since they bound me to another name. It was done as such things are—spoken before witnesses, sealed in duty, and left without room for refusal. I have kept my place in it as I was expected to. I have done all that was required of me. There is nothing in it that is mine. War came as it always does—announced first in whispers, then in certainty. Baelor and I were summoned to lead the king’s forces. There was no delay. There never is, when the realm demands it. I did not think of you then as I should have. Or perhaps I did, and chose not to name it. They told us after. You had been taken in the confusion—caught where the fighting had turned without warning. No one could say how long you had been held, only that you had not been where they believed you would be. By the time word reached us, it was already too late to prevent it. We were told there would be a rescue. That it would be handled. I believed them. That is my failing as much as any other. When they found you, it was not as they had intended.

There is a faint break in the ink there, as though the quill had been lifted and set down again with care.

An arrow, They said it cleanly, as though that made it something easier to bear. As though the manner of it mattered. I was not there. I was not there to see it. I was not there to stop it. I was not there to do anything at all.

The next lines were written more evenly, but pressed harder into the page.

It should have ended there. It did not. The crown required something from it. Something to hold the lords in place, something to quiet the questions that follow any loss not properly explained. They found it in your name. A scapegoat, they called it—though not in those words. They said it was necessary. They said it would preserve the realm. They said many things that sound like reason when spoken aloud. Your brother had written to the enemy. That much was true. The letters were found. They were placed before men who had already decided what they meant. And you—

There is another pause in the line, longer this time.

You had kept them. You had said nothing. Not to protect yourself, but him. It did not matter. They named you traitor before the day had ended. Your house was stripped of its standing. Your name was spoken once more only to condemn it. What remained was erased with a care I have not seen given to anything else.

The writing steadies, though something in it feels colder now.

They did not return you to your home. They did not grant you the rites of your house. No stone bears your name. No place was marked for you. It was decided you would not be remembered in any way that could be spoken of again. As if that were a thing they could decide.

The final lines are written cleanly, without hesitation.

You were made into something lesser so that the realm might remain whole. Baelor did not speak against it. I did not stop it. This is what we chose.

He did not wait to be announced. Baelor’s tent was lit within, the canvas walls shifting faintly with the wind. Voices had only just quieted when Maekar pushed through, the flap snapping shut behind him with more force than needed.

Baelor did not look up at once. He stood over the table, one hand braced against it, the other resting near the maps spread wide. Only when the silence stretched did he lift his gaze.

“You should have sent word,” Baelor said, his voice even, as though nothing in the world had changed.

Maekar did not move further in. “Is it true?”

Baelor’s expression did not shift. “You will have to be more specific.”

“Y/N.” The name came sharper than he intended. “What they are saying of her.”

A pause. Brief. Measured.

“It is what has been decided,” Baelor said.

“That is not what I asked.” Maekar took a step forward now, the lamplight catching the edge of his expression. “Is it true?”

Baelor studied him a moment longer than necessary. “Her brother corresponded with the enemy. Letters were found.”

“And she?” Maekar pressed.

“She kept them.”

“That is not treason.”

“It is enough.”

“For whom?” The words came quicker now. “For the men who need a story to tell? For the lords who would rather believe it than question what happened?”

“For the realm,” Baelor said, the answer immediate, as though it had already been spoken too many times. Maekar let out a short breath, something close to disbelief. “You believe that.”

“I do not need to believe it,” Baelor replied. “I need to accept it.”

“She was your wife.” The words landed heavier than the rest.

Baelor’s gaze did not waver. “She was.”

“And this is all you have to say of it.”

“What would you have me say?” Baelor’s tone did not rise, but there was something firmer beneath it now. “That the crown is wrong? That the lords are fools? That the war should wait while we argue over what cannot be changed?”

“It can be changed.”

“No,” Baelor said, quieter now. “It cannot.”

Maekar shook his head once, more sharply than before. “You have not even tried.”

“I have done what is required of me.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It is the only thing that matters.”

A silence followed. Not empty—just thin, stretched too tight.

“She did not betray you,” Maekar said, slower now, each word measured. “You know that.”

Baelor’s hand shifted slightly against the table, though his expression remained composed. “It does not matter what I know.”

“It should.”

“It does not.”

Maekar stared at him, as though something might break if he looked long enough.

“She protected her brother,” he said. “That is all she did.”

“And that is enough,” Baelor answered, the words echoing his earlier tone, though quieter now. “For them,” Maekar said. “Not for you.”

Baelor did not respond.

“That was your wife,” Maekar went on, his voice lowering, though the weight of it did not lessen. “Your name. Your honor. And you would let them strip it from her as though she were nothing.”

Baelor’s gaze hardened, just slightly. “I would preserve what remains.”

“At her expense.”

“At the realm’s necessity.”

Maekar let out a breath, slower this time. “You would sacrifice her.”

Baelor did not hesitate.

“Yes.”

The word settled heavily between them.

Maekar’s jaw tightened. “For the realm.”

“For the realm,” Baelor repeated.

A faint, humorless breath escaped Maekar then. “Of course.”

Another silence.

Shorter this time.

“And you?” Baelor asked, his voice quieter now, though no less steady. “What would you have done?”

Maekar did not answer at once.

When he did, it came without hesitation.

“I would have chosen her.”

“They brought her back.”

The words left Maekar before he could stop them. They did not sound like his own—too hollow, too measured, as though someone else had spoken through him. Baelor stood beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly aligned, though there was distance in it all the same.

“They did,” Baelor said.

Maekar kept his gaze forward. He did not look, not at the covered form, not at the men who stood too quietly around it. He knew if he did, something in him would give, and he could not afford that. Not here.

“And you stood there,” he said.

“I did what was required.”

Required. The word settled wrong.

Maekar felt his jaw tighten, though his expression did not shift. “You knew,” he said, quieter now, but no less sharp. “You knew all along.”

Baelor did not answer. He did not need to.

Maekar let out a slow breath, his hand curling slightly at his side. “You knew what she was to me.”

Still nothing.

“And still—nothing,” he finished.

“She was my wife,” Baelor said at last.

Maekar almost turned at that. Almost.

Instead, his gaze remained fixed ahead, his voice lowering. “And yet you said nothing when they named her traitor.”

“It would have changed nothing.”

“You do not know that.”

“I do.” Baelor’s voice did not rise. “The decision had already been made.”

Maekar’s lips pressed into a thin line. That was the worst of it—not the certainty, but the acceptance.

“You did not even try.”

Baelor shifted slightly beside him, the movement small but deliberate. “The kingdom was at war. The lords needed something to hold to.”

Maekar let out a quiet breath that held no humor. “So you gave them her.”

“I preserved the realm.”

The words were steady. Practiced.

Maekar closed his eyes for a brief moment, the image pressing in regardless—her standing where he had left her, unmoving, as though she had been waiting for something that would never come.

“At her expense,” he said.

“At necessity.”

Silence followed.

Not the kind that passed, but the kind that settled.

Maekar’s gaze dropped, just slightly, to where the ground met his boots. For a moment, he said nothing. When he spoke again, his voice had changed—not louder, not softer, but they were  stripped of anything unnecessary.

“I would have chosen her.”

He did not know why he said it. Perhaps because it was the only thing left that had not been taken from him.

Beside him, Baelor did not react.

“I know,” he said.

Maekar let out a slow breath. Of course he did.

“And you would choose the realm.”

“Yes.”

There it was.

Simple. Clean. Final.

Maekar nodded once, more to himself than to Baelor. Something in him settled with it, not acceptance, not peace. 

“Of course you would.”

Another pause.

“They will have you wed again,” Maekar said, his voice flattening, as though the words no longer held weight.

“They already have.”

Egg did not turn the page at once.

There was something between the entries, something that did not sit like the rest of the writing. The ink was uneven, not from haste, but from restraint, as though every stroke had been forced.  It began again in the same hand, but it no longer carried the same control.

Y/N, I said I would not write again. I said your name would not reach this page again, not even in ink, not even when no one is meant to read it but myself. And yet I have nothing else left that does not feel like a betrayal.

They speak of Dyanna Dayne as though she is already something settled. As though I am already someone who belongs elsewhere. I listen to them agree on my life as if I am not inside it. And I say nothing, because there is nothing left in me that knows how to interrupt it.

There was a break then—long, uneven pressure where the quill had pressed too hard into the parchment.

I tried to draw you today. I do not know why I thought I could still do it. I have not seen you in so long that I had begun to believe I would not forget. But I did.

Your face is no longer something I can hold in my mind without losing it halfway through. I begin to draw the outline, and then I stop. Not because I do not remember you, but because I cannot decide what part of you comes first. Your eyes, or your mouth, or the way you used to look at me as if I had already said too much before I spoke.

I tried to remember your voice. Which was worse. It slips away before I can hold it properly. I can recall that you spoke, that you said my name in a way that made it feel like something different than it is now. But I cannot hear it anymore.

The writing grew smaller toward the bottom of the page, as though the hand had begun to tire, or lose something essential in the act of continuing.

I have begun to fear that if I stop writing, there will be nothing left of you that I can still reach. And if I keep writing, I will only prove that you are already gone in every way that matters.

Y/N, If you can still hear anything of this, if anything of you remains where I cannot follow—come back. Not as you were meant to be. Not as they would allow you to be. Just come back.

Y/N, it is done. Dyanna Dayne. I have said her name enough times now that it no longer feels like it belongs to someone else. That unsettles me more than I can explain.

Today, my son was born. They told me I was meant to feel something immediate. Relief. Joy.  But I did not know what I felt. I held him because I was expected to. Because Dyanna could not. Because the room was full of eyes. He is called Daeron.

Aerion was born today. They placed him in my arms, and I found there was nothing in me that knew what it was supposed to feel like at first. Only the weight of him, small, real, and inconveniently alive in a way that demanded attention I could not fully give. I am aware, even as I write this, that I should not be writing to you at all. You are gone. That is not something I forget, even when I try to speak to you as though you might still be somewhere that words can reach. And I am not who I was when I last wrote your name without consequence. I have a wife now. I have children. I have a life that continues whether I stand inside it or not. And still—when I am alone with ink and silence—I find myself returning here, to something that no longer exists, as if it might answer me if I say it carefully enough.

Y/N, I do not know what it is I am meant to name this anymore. I have tried to reduce it into something simpler, something that fits within the boundaries of what I am allowed to feel. It does not obey me. For a time, I thought I understood it. I thought there was only you, and that everything else was what had been placed over you like a covering I never consented to wear. That is not entirely true. Dyanna is kind. She does not ask more of me than I can give. She has built a life beside me that does not demand I bleed for it to remain standing. I have come to respect her. I have come to care for her in ways that feel . . .  honest. And that is where it becomes difficult to speak clearly. Because I thought love was meant to erase everything else. I thought it would leave no room for contradiction. But I find that I can sit beside her and not wish to leave. I find that I can listen to her and not feel as though I am betraying something by doing so. And still—when I write your name, it does not feel like memory. It feels like interruption. Like something unfinished has stepped back into the room without permission. I do not know what it means that both of these things exist in me at once. I do not know what it means that I do not want to lose either of them. I am beginning to suspect that I have spent too long believing love is meant to be singular, when all I have ever been is divided. If that is a failing, I do not yet know how to correct it. And if it is not… then I do not know what I am supposed to do with it.

The final entry in the journal was written the night Daella was born, when Dyanna had nearly died in childbirth. 

Today, I looked at the child and realized I had built a life out of duty, yet I have lived as a ghost. I lived as though I were never truly part of it.  Y/N, my beautiful Y/N . . .  you are gone. Not fading. Not distant. Gone. I will burn these pages tonight. I will not keep what remains of you in ink any longer, nor allow myself the comfort of returning where I no longer belong. There is nothing left to build from what we were. Dyanna is my wife. My children are here. My life has already moved forward without waiting for me to follow. And so I will close this chapter as it must be closed, completely, without remainder. And I will not open it again.

There was a long smear beneath it, where the ink had dragged across the parchment. As though the hand had stayed there long after the words had ended. And after that— Nothing.

Egg sat back, exhaling a breath he felt he had been holding for hours. A shadow fell over the doorway, and he looked up to see his father standing there, a stern frown on his face. His eyes fell to the open journal in the boy’s hands. For a long, agonizing moment, neither man spoke. The air felt heavy with the weight of the past. Then, Maekar walked slowly toward his son, looking down at the portrait of Y/N. A tear, stark and unbidden, traced a line down the prince’s weathered cheek.

"I remember," Egg whispered softly, looking up at his father. "I remember when you tried to burn this, long ago. Mother found you, didn't she? She took it from the flames and put it back on your study desk."

Maekar did not answer at once. His gaze stayed fixed on the journal, though it no longer felt like he was seeing the page itself. It was somewhere behind it. Somewhere further back.

For a moment, he was not standing in the present at all.

He was in a room lit by firelight, too bright and too close, the air sharp with smoke and regret. The parchment had already begun to curl at the edges, blackening where flame touched ink. He had held it too tightly, as though grip alone could decide what would be lost.

“I am telling you to stop,” Dyanna’s voice had said. Not raised. But just final in a way that did not leave room for argument.

“You do not understand,” he had answered, though even then it had sounded hollow.

“I understand more than you think,” she said.

He had not looked at her. Not at first. Only at the fire. Only at what he was trying to end before it could outlive him.

“This should not remain,” he said. His hand tightened around the pages. “It is nothing but memory.”

“So is everything you are afraid to name,” she said quietly.

That made him still.

The fire snapped once, louder in the silence that followed.

Dyanna reached for him, not the flames, not the journal—but him. Her hand closed over his wrist, steadying rather than stopping. “You do not burn this because it is meaningless,” she said. “You burn it because it is not.”

His breath caught, shallow.

A moment passed where neither of them moved.

Then she spoke again, softer this time. “A prince is entitled to his memories,” she said. “Even the ones that break him.”

A beat.

“Put it back.”

He had wanted to argue. He had wanted to become something simpler than what he was. But there was nothing simple in her voice, only the quiet insistence of someone who would not turn love into permission for destruction.

“It does not make me any less your wife,” she added. The journal lay closed now, where the meeting of cover and page.  Maekar’s hand rested on it for a moment longer than necessary, as though confirming it was still real, still here, still not gone.

Then Dyanna spoke—softly, from the doorway, already turning to leave him to it, granting him the silence she always seemed to understand better than anyone else.

And when Maekar did not look up as Dyanna left, he only stared at the journal—at her portrait—filled with the heavy realization that he would always be back right where he started, and always right where she had left him.