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A LITANY FOR LIVING ﾉ 2/7 (AKOTSK) — Maekar/F!Reader; 18+, postwar After the Stranger robs you of husband and child, you do not expect much from a second marriage, least of all to a prince of the realm. But Prince Maekar seems to be as grief-hardened as you are, with six children who are equally lost… and maybe the gods are not done with either of you just yet.

WE MOURNED THE SEA ﾉ 9/16 (AOT) Levi x F!Reader; 18+, postwar Levi hasn't seen you in a year, and he wonders how you will find him. Changed, perhaps. Lost, definitely. Or: After the Rumbling, you and Levi learn to live in this new world.

WE ALL BLEED RED ﾉ 25/35 (AOT) Vamp!Levi x F!Reader; 18+, victorian au 1880, Paris. What was meant to be an evening of lifeless smiles and dancing turns into a night of horror, filled with bloodshed and vampires. You meet Him, the man with dark eyes and darker secrets, and your life is toppled forever.

WHERE THE WILD THINGS GROW ﾉ 1/1 (RDR) Arthur/F!Reader; 18+, pwp After a job well done, you and Arthur take the long way home. Or: In a field of flowers, even outlaws can belong.

"What?" Willam's chair scrapes back with enough force to make it tip back. He is standing, the fool. "You cannot mean that, father."

"I can and I am."

"He… he is twice her age!"

"Prince Maekar is ten years her senior, Willam," your mother reasons as a servant comes to straighten Willam's chair in his stead.

"It is much too soon," your brother exclaims, palms on the table.

"The mourning period is over."

A year has passed since your late husband's death—since you lost the babe and everything else—and it seems to you that your father and mother have been counting down the days till it is deemed respectable to announce a union.

A marriage to Prince Maekar Targaryen, of all things.

Icy winds biting your cheeks. The prince's gaze, fury and grief. Your hand on your round belly. Ursula, soaring, soaring, soaring—

"It is a good match," your mother says, her dulcet voice tearing you out of buried memories. "The prince is already established and settled; he is in need of a woman to run his household."

"But if she had to marry one of the dragons," Willam mutters with a scowl, "why not let it be Prince Baelor?"

"King Daeron will not pick a new bride for Baelor so easily, Willam. That match will lead to the type of political headache I have no mind partaking in."

"Then better she find another pick altogether. The fiend showed his hand at Gulltown well enough; the Anvil's violence in warfare precedes him, not to mention they are Targaryens and the words of our house should say it all. We Remember."

You stay silent through it all, your fingers gliding along the stone table carved with runes. 

The truth is, you understand why your parents are pushing a match. There is a practical sense in the matter. At three-and-twenty, you are still at your prime.

No, the marriage, you understand.

What you cannot understand is why it has to be him. How it can be him. Women of Runestone are said to be bred under harsh weather, that you have hard tempers for it—a thing that rarely mixes well with dragon fire. Your ancestor, Rhea Royce, was said to be cut from the same cloth as you are, and she met her end at the hands of her lord husband, Daemon Targaryen. 

It is known, your nursemaid would oft say when you asked tales of the Targaryen dynasty.

Then why, you wonder, are your parents so eager to hand you to a dragon? 

Across the table, you can almost feel the ghost of Rhea watching you.

"There have been rumors of Blackfyre rebels regrouping in the Vale, forming alliances with the mountain clans. This is a strategic and symbolic alliance to steady this part of the realm, first and foremost." Your father's harsh stare moves to Willam and remains there. "Your opinion was not solicited."

Willam seems to see red at that. "Then solicit it now. I am the future Lord of Runestone—"

"You are the heir to Runestone, boy, and you will conduct yourself as such. This match secures the region; it secures your seat."

"But—"

"It has been decided," your father mutters. "We will travel to King's Landing in a moon's time." 

Willam shakes his head, turning to you now. "What of you? Have you no opinion on the matter?"

"You heard Father," you say solemnly, tearing a piece of bread off your plate. "It is symbolic."

"Aye, for what their ancestors did to ours. Come, sister, wake up from this stupor!"

"Willam…" your mother warns, like your brother was stirring waters best left undisturbed.

A hollow silence follows. A harsh gust of wind has picked up; it scrabbles against the windows like magpies pecking for scraps of food.

"And that besides, your aunt supports the match," your mother adds with a subdued voice, as if your aunt's word somehow held weight from her position all the way in the Eyrie. 

"Still, that we should bear the brunt of it," your brother complains, slumping back in his chair with a great sigh. "It seems vastly unfair."

At that, you ball the piece of bread you'd been holding into your palm like you were crushing something much more sinister.

That I should be the one to bear the brunt of it, you almost say. Not you, brother. Never you.

Instead, you stay silent, the way you have stayed silent about everything since you lost everything a year ago.

It takes seven days by sea to reach King's Landing.

Over the last sennight, you have watched the Vale's green coastlines slowly recede behind you like a blanket's warmth creeping away. The Crownlands, meanwhile, are flat and dry, with seagulls shrieking overhead. 

Accompanying you is a true bride's household: your father and brother, your aunt, Ser Gerold, and twenty of your father's men.

"You will catch your death out here," your aunt chastises, watching as you peer out at the sea from the rail. The hard northern wind carrying the sails of the boat blows at your hair and cheeks, like a whip cracking against skin. "Why don't you come inside the cabin with me?"

"The sight of the sea eases me."

"Be that as it may, this is no place for a lady."

You stay silent at that.

"Niece—" 

"I would stay, aunt."

"Oh," she huffs, shaking her head as she steps away, "as you wish, stubborn girl."

Because standing out here does help you in invisible ways you are not prepared to admit. You are not made of the sea, not like the people of Gulltown, but you do not get seasick either, and you'd much rather look out to the horizon than be confined to a cramped room that smells of sour wine and pickled herring, pacing like a mare in heat.

"Your aunt's been catching her death for forty years," Old Geld chimes in, seemingly having crept up after seeing your aunt take her leave.

"She's got sensitive nerves, ser."

"Aye, a true lady of the Eyrie."

A smile twitches at your face, though it quickly dies out.. Ser Gerold joins you, placing his broad, scarred hands on the rail. For a moment, the only sound are the waves crashing against the hull.

"The sea's kinder in this part of the realm," Old Geld notices.

And because Ser Gerold rarely fills the silence with unneeded words, you turn to him with a raised brow. "Is that an omen of my future, Old Geld?"

"No, 'tis an observation, my lady." Old Geld's expression is sharp and blunt as he speaks. "Don't let your guard down. There are snakes in the Crownlands, and I'm not just talking about the dragons."

"You've been?"

"Once."

By the tone in his voice, one visit seems to have been enough. 

"How do you think I will fare?" you ask with no emotion at all.

"Like a hawk nestled among dragons."

"That doesn't sound promising." 

"It is what you make of it," Old Geld mutters, considering your austere expression. "What need does a dragon have of hawk meat, girl? Nay, t'is no meal at all, but if you are careful, the hawk may fly side by side with the dragon all the same."  

"Careful," you repeat.

"Aye." 

You pause. "I never knew you a poet, Old Geld."

He grunts and doesn't say anything else. The two of you stay like this for a long while, the sea your silent companion.  

On the final stretch of the trip, you sense it. You smell King's Landing before you see it.

"Gods be good," Willam mutters next to you, fingers pinching his nose. "And they call us savages."

Willam is right; the stench here is something else entirely. Something sweet-sour and off-putting mixed with shit and putrid sea life. 

The city arrives in increments: a suggestion of smoke first, then the faint outlines of buildings, then the sprawl of it, climbing the hill towards what dominates it all. The Red Keep, sitting on Aegon's High Hill, its towers catching the morning light in flashes of crimson and gold.

You look at it, feeling nothing at all.

At the dock, men from the City Watch are waiting for you, with their long cloaks and shiny armor. As they escort you from harbor to castle, several wheelhouses in tow, smallfolk stop to watch, with whispers of the wedding to come on their tongues.

House Royce, martyrs of Targaryen madness.

At last, you make it to the Red Keep, this great fortified castle you grew up reading about. It is more grand than anything you've ever seen, and much more intimidating than you surmised it might be.

It is here that history was written many times over.

Not that you have much time to dwell on the past; already, the present beckons, and you are escorted into Maegor's Holdfast, where you and your family will reside before you are married. The corridors here are a labyrinth, marble floor veined with obsidian. The windows are narrow, deliberately so—you will later learn that the holdfast was built to be defended against its own castle, moat and spikes and all, as though even a king could not trust the walls that housed him. Servants move past you in practiced silence, and ladies and lords stare with unabashed curiosity. 

It is in the outer yard, somewhere between the gallery and your quarters, that you feel it: the particular weight of being watched that has nothing to do with the courtiers' eyes already on you.

You find him under a covered balcony, half in shadow, out of the wind.

He is simply standing there.

Prince Maekar is watching you the way you watched him during the tourney, elevated and looking down, lips downturned and expression impossible to make out. There is a moment—you could not say how long, but long enough—where your eyes meet and the prince does not look away.

And in that moment, you see something tense in his demeanor—brief, unreadable, gone before you can name it. He takes a charged step forward, close to the marble balustrades as if he meant to hail an army, but before you can make sense of any of it, you are being ripped away by a steward nudging you onward, "my lady, this way, if it pleases you," and you turn to follow, and when your gaze at last flickers back to the balcony one last time, the space that Prince Maekar occupied now stands empty.

You don't realize it then, but your hand reached for your belly all along.

That evening, a royal supper.

A maid is sent to fret over your hair and dress, insisting to do it in the customs of King's Landing. And so you arrive to the meal with your family in tow, looking less Runestone and more dragon already.

"Your hair, it looks odd," Willam comments as you make your way down the half-lit corridors.

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, brother."

A herald announces your names and you enter.

King Daeron is not what the word king builds in a girl's head. He is a slight man, round-shouldered, pale like porcelain. His wife at his side, Queen Myriah, is taller than her counterpart, with smooth russet-brown skin, luscious dark hair and jewelry set with orange and red gemstones. A refined beauty in every sense of the word.

"Lord Royce, Ser Royce, Lady Royce," King Daeron says as he makes his way closer to you all. "Well met."

You all curtsy or bow.

The king turns to you. "Your house is one of the oldest in the realm, my lady. It is a delight for my house to join with one so ancient."

"Your Grace does my house honor," you say politely.

With that, you are introduced to the rest of the table, and take note of who is present and who is not.

Prince Baelor, the Crown Prince and Hand of the King, is the first to join his father. He is handsome, favoring his mother's skin tone and hair, save for the mismatched blue-brown gaze and a nose broken one too many times.

There is only one other party present.

Your betrothed.

Now that you see him properly, you see that Prince Maekar remains unchanged since your last encounter in Gulltown: that same square-shaped silver beard and straight hair cut below his ears. Slit, narrow eyes. Magnetic, intimidating, angry.

"My lady," Maekar mutters with a clipped tone.

"Your Grace."

With introductions done, you are all guided towards the dining table, with you seated across Maekar and your father and brother on both your sides. Neither Baelor's or Maekar's children are present, and for that, you are a little grateful.

"Seven days at sea, and you all arrive fresher than my council does most mornings," Baelor says once you are all seated. "Was the crossing kind to you, my lady?"

"Kind enough, Your Grace," you respond. "Though my aunt sends her apologies for missing supper. The last day at sea did not agree with her."

"I am sorry to hear that." 

King Daeron glances up. "Your aunt... she is one that married an Arryn man, is she not? I am told that her husband's house has claimed her rather thoroughly."

"Aye, my sister has taken to the Eyrie well and truly," your father grumbles in your stead, not looking pleased by this.

"Of course, my sister here is more firm in her ways, as all women tend to be in that part of the Vale," Willam says, already more bold from a cup of wine. You shoot him a look; he ignores it. "Which reminds me... I remember you, Prince Maekar. For you rode in the lists at Gulltown."

Something shutters behind Maekar's face. "Aye."

The prince doesn't elaborate. 

"I take it you participated as well, Ser Royce?" King Daeron asks Willam. 

"Of course, Your Grace." Your brother's eyes stay fixed on Maekar. "I never miss a local trial of arms if I can help it." 

"Is that so?" the king says. 

"Oh, yes. Gulltown is a town my sister and I visit frequently besides—we have trade routes, you see—so it was a good deal of friendly competition." 

"A farce of a tourney," Maekar scoffs beneath his breath, low enough you guessed he did not mean for the words to be heard by all. You catch them all the same, watching as he reaches for the wine. 

As he pours himself a cup, hiss eyes find yours, and you wonder if he is thinking as you are, of your meeting atop the hills. 

He looks away first. 

The fish course arrives. For a while, the conversation turns to lighter topics—a recent celebration for the namesday of one of Baelor's sons, a hunting party organized by Lord Baratheon, the quality of the wine. And finally: 

"And what do you expect of Summerhall, my lady?" Queen Myriah asks.

"I have no expectations, Your Grace," you answer. "I have never been fortunate enough to visit the Stormlands."

"It is much quieter than King's Landing of course, but so very beautiful," the queen says. "Do you enjoy the outdoors?"

"I ride. I… hawk." You clear your throat, skin prickling from the heat of the table on you. "I'm told the marches have good hawking country."

Queen Myriah throws you a bemused smile, like she hadn't expected this response from you.

"Hawking, my lady?" There's a kind interest in Baelor's gaze as he speaks. "A game of patience." 

"Some like to say," you answer. 

"Is it a tradition in Runestone?"

"Yes. Women and men are taught to hawk from a young age. Some take to it more than others." 

"Though my daughter has since tempered her hawking tendencies and learned to run a proper household," your father interjects, shooting you a look like you had given the wrong answer to the table. "And of course, she is at the prime of her child-bearing years."

Across from you, Maekar stills. You shift uncomfortably, a weight bearing down on your stomach, feeling like a brooding mare being assessed by prospective horse-masters.

At last, Maekar sets down his cup. "The lady is already here. You need not read out the bill of sale."

The silence that follows is especially jarring. Your father's jaw tenses; Willam's nostrils flare audibly. Only Baelor's expression holds—by the grace of the Seven or sheer will alone, you cannot say.

"May you both lead a long, prosperous life," Queen Myriah supplies at last, raising a toast in your direction.

You raise your cup in return, looking down at your food.

This meal cannot end quickly enough.

"And tell me, how was he?" your aunt asks in confidence later on, helping you adjust your new silk robes in your shared chambers.

"In truth, I do not think the prince likes me very much," you confess.

Your aunt makes a grimace at that. "I do not think that man likes many people. To think your father thought it well to marry you off to someone like that."

You stay silent, wanting to point out that she pushed for it, too. Your aunt has a tendency to air her opinions and paint herself the hero when she drinks too much. Judging by the smell radiating from her, she's had plenty, despite the seasickness plaguing her. 

"He did not seem so bad," you say, hesitating. "Only… angry."

"Yes. The complete opposite of your late husband."

"Aunt."

You shoot her a look that says enough. You have no intention to relive your losses right now, here in this strange, foreign land.

Your aunt purses her lips. "It is only… I wish I had been there now, at supper. You were surrounded by all these men."

"The queen was present."

"Not enough to make up for your father…" She sighs. "My brother has never been well-versed in court matters."

"Well… he is a Runestone man."

"Unfortunately."

It has always been a wonder to you, how a woman like your aunt, bred and raised in Runestone, could end up so different to the rest of her family. When she became a widow at the age of four-and-fourty, childless, it is with the Arryns she decided to stay, not with the Royces.

She adopted her late husband's ways. Perhaps I will as well.

A thought you do not believe.

Your aunt finishes tying the back of your dress and looks from the garment to you. "I did not mean to stir old feelings. I only meant to say that I might have helped with your future prince." 

"Be that as it may, I do not need help, aunt."

"Well, the prince could use the help, I'd wager. Will he court you properly?" 

"I do not think so." 

"Hmph."

"It could be worse. At supper, he... he was not so bad."

No, Prince Maekar had not been rude to you, nothing like you might have expected he might act. He even defended you at one point, though you suspect that the act was not done out of consideration of your feelings. 

No, it is not any of that.

It is just… the prince asked you nothing. Nothing at all.

It had been more than a year since Gulltown… and he gave no sign of ever meeting you.

Over the next days, you discover more of the keep. The corridors and its tapestries, the rookery, the library. You spend much of your time reading up about Targaryen histories, and your family is even offered a tour by one of the head stewards, who shows you the dragon skulls and the Iron Throne kept in the great hall. 

You do not see either princes again, nor the king or queen. You do, instead, find solace in the godswood kept in the eastern part of the castle.

You are sitting beneath its heart tree now, a great oak tree with red leaves that mimics a weirwood. With your face tilted toward the canopy, you look to the flowers pressed through the lower branches in thick white clusters that smell of nothing so much as childhood. For a few minutes, the Red Keep might as well be a league away.

That's when you feel the curious heat of them. Eyes, and more than one pair of them.

You are being followed.

"Whoever you are," you call out, looking straight to the two small figures with silver hair hiding poorly behind some pillars, "you are not hiding well."

They come out from behind a column, wearing black and red clothes that bear the sigil of Maekar's household. 

"You noticed?" the girl squeaks.

"You would do well to conceal your hair if you are to be discreet," you say, gaze straying to the girl's silver hair tumbling down in unruly curls.

They look at you sheepishly, but draw nearer.

They give you their names. Aegon and Rhae Targaryen. The youngest son and the youngest daughter, and as you suspected, part of Maekar's brood.

Aegon peers at you. "Our father does not know we are here."

"No? Mayhaps I should fetch him," you say, even if your intentions are anything but.

"Oh please, lady, don't!" Rhae pleads. "For we only wished to get a closer look at you."

"I have not met anyone from Runestone before," Aegon adds, "and I wanted to see if you have an inkling of the First Men in you."

"And what is your assessment, my prince?"

He frowns, his little mouth forming a pout that's deceptively sweet. "That you are oddly normal. That I do not see anything different in you than I do anyone else."

You almost laugh. The sound catches in your throat and emerges as something closer to a cough, but the impulse is there—bright and sudden, like the sun breaking through clouds.

You have not laughed in moons. Perhaps longer. Your smile dies.

"It is said that Targaryens are closer to the gods," you say. "Mayhaps you should look inwards."

"I do not believe it to be true. My brother Aerion is too mean for that to be true." Aegon makes a grimace. "He fancies himself a dragon."

You have heard the rumors. Aerion the Monstrous, they call him, though you'd rather see the truth for yourself. When it comes to the Targaryens, the realm has a tendency to exaggerate. 

"You are to marry Father, are you not?" Rhae asks.

"I am."

"Is that why you seem so sad?" Aegon follows up.

"Do I seem… sad, my prince?"

"I would say so," Aegon answers. Beside him, Rhae is crouching, looking at the flowers littering the tree. "Not crying-sad, just sitting-quietly-sad. My brother Daeron often looks like this when he thinks no one is paying attention."

"Oh." You look away, fisting your hands into your skirt. "It is not your father, nor your company, I promise. I am simply wistful each time I am before the godswood."

"Then maybe you ought not to visit it any longer," Aegon argues.

"That would be like stopping me from the air I breathe. The godswood are part of me, as I am part of it."

"Do you not believe in the Seven, my lady?"

"I believe," you counter, "in many things."

"Would you tell us stories about your gods?"

"I might, one day."

It is at that exact moment that you notice her—a small, brisk figure in gray robes scanning the corridor connected to the courtyard, her hands already coming up to her hips.

"My prince, princess… I believe your septa is coming this way," you say. "I would flee, if you wish not to be caught."

"Oh!"

"And children," you add sternly. When they look back at you, round-eyed and innocent, they are like deer caught by a hunter. "Please head straight to your chambers. I will be cross if I hear you went on more adventures."

"Yes, my lady Royce."

And with that, Aegon and Rhae leave you be. They manage to evade the septa just on time, and you shake your head, wondering what sort of mischief children like them get on in the Red Keep, and if you did the right thing letting them go.

Inevitably, your mind goes to your son, as it always does when you are in the company of children.

You have never spoken his name aloud to anyone, not ever. It wasn't a deliberate choice on your part, not the way things like this tend to be, but the truth is, you did not say his name back then, and now, it feels like a monumental weight has been placed on your shoulders. Even here, in the godswood, you don't feel ready to give the gods his name. 

And so you look at the empty space Aegon and Rhae stood moments ago, wondering how a man like Maekar Targaryen made children as sweet as these two. Then again, you wonder if your own son would have been the same—sweet like honey, clever like a raven—so far removed from your own rot.

Three days before the wedding, the queen sends for you.

That day, you are brought to her solar at the hour of the setting sun, when gold and peach catch through the western window and give the room a dreamlike feeling. The queen's solar is grand, with furniture that is decidedly Dornish, mixed with icons of dragons subtle enough not to feel like another Targaryen tribute.

She offers you some tea mixed with honey and lemon. Together, you sit on the balcony, overlooking King's Landing and its sunset.

"My son is not an easy man," the queen says after an exchange of pleasant small-talk. She looks to you with eyes untainted by judgment. "But he is a just one. As you might know, he is looking for more than just a wife in this second marriage. He is looking for a woman to help him manage his household."

"I am aware, Your Grace."

"I understand you lost a son, on top of a husband."

"I…"

You do not know what to say. You had not expected the queen of all people to broach the topic, and you've never been good at talking about your own emotions, least of all with strangers.

Still, the queen waits patiently for you to gather your thoughts, and you know you cannot remain silent.

"I did." 

"Hm." Queen Myriah looks to the horizon. "It is the cruelest of things, losing a child."

"Yes."

"But even so, I would ask you something, Lady Royce."

"Your Grace?"

"Give my son a chance, and give his children grace. They deserve that, at the very least."

You stare at her with a puzzled look. She offers you a tight smile.

"You have not made an attempt at getting to know the children. Aside from the youngest that wormed their way to you, of course," Queen Myriah states. She raises a hand as you open your mouth to say something. "I am aware you have scarcely been given the chance, that my son has not courted you as custom would dictate."

You frown, looking down at your cup of tea, staring at your own reflection. You do not recognize yourself, and not just because your hair is done differently from back home.

When you look back up, Queen Myriah's stern face softens. 

"I am not asking for you to go out of your way to get to know my son. As I said, he is not an easy man. But could you see it in your heart to meet the children in the days before the ceremony? It would ease an old woman's heart, knowing they have a woman's care looking after them." 

"Of course, Your Grace." 

The next morning, you go looking for the children, and find four boys in the training yard.

They are not alone.

Prince Maekar is overseeing their training today, and he seems to know you've come before you join him on the balustrades overlooking the yard. Perhaps the queen warned him; perhaps the whole keep runs on told things. His eyes go from you to the yard and back as you approach, and when he speaks, his voice does not rise.

"Let me guess," he deadpans, "my mother sent you."

You pause, interlacing your hands to the front of your skirts.

"Forty years managing my father's kingdoms, and still, she finds spare hours for my household," Prince Maekar mutters darkly. "Tell me, did she hand you a list of my failings?"

"She suggested I come to know the children."

"Know them."

In the courtyard below, Aegon drops his wooden sword as he fights another taller boy.

"You'll have been told already, I'm sure—the whole keep will have obliged you to tell what needs to be known," the prince continues. "That Daeron is a drunkard. That Aerion is difficult. That Aemon should have been born a maester, and that Aegon cannot hold a fucking sword to save his life."

"That is not—"

He glares. "All of King's Landing know my children."

At that, you stay silent, your face a perfect canvas of nothingness. 

One of Maekar's eye twitches. 

"I will spare you the errand." Maekar looks off to the boys for a moment. "Summerhall's stewards have done fuck all the last two years—the accounts, the household—take all of it." Maekar turns to you fully, blocking the view of the training yard. "The children are mine; they are princes and princesses of the realm and I am raising them as I see fit. They had a mother; that position is not vacant."

You meet his gaze full of fury. Maekar's behavior... it is the same way he behaved at Gulltown—three blows where one would serve.

"I was not applying, Your Grace," you say quietly.

Something shifts across his face. "You have your fucking answers, lady," he mutters. "Give my regards to my mother's spies. They'll be wanting a report."

You curtsy and leave the prince to his tempers.

The day of your wedding, you are awoken before dawn.

Seven women come to you—strangers that lull you of bed the way fine cattle is fed expensive grains before slaughter. They bathe you in milk and honey, brush your hair and style it in their southern fashion. They cinch your Targaryen dress tight and dab myrrh where it matters.

When you look back in the mirror, you do not recognize yourself. So much of your skin is bare, so naked compared to what you usually wear in Runestone, and the way the black silk hugs your curves leaves little to the imagination. Your hair is something new, and the rouge that has been applied on your cheeks seems to change your face entirely.

One aspect of your garments is decidedly Runestone, however, and for that you are grateful. Your aunt had wanted silk and lace for your bride's cloak. Your mother, for once, overruled her.

Wool, she said. Wool with runes. I know my daughter… she is a Royce before she is a bride.

And so when the maids finally fasten it at your throat—bronze-brown and heavy as armor, the words of your house sewn along the hem in runes no one in this city can read—you stand a little straighter for it. It is too warm for King's Landing, not colorful like the typical southern fashions, but it is you. 

You imagine Rhea Royce as she might have been once, and how she might have looked the day of her wedding to the dragon.

"The wheelhouse awaits, m'lady," says one of the girls, and slowly, you are beckoned out of your chambers.

The trip is too quick and too long all at once.

Long have you read stories of the sept—this great place of worship for the Andals—and still, it does not prepare you for the real thing. When you first see it, you are blown back by the sheer scale of it. Seven towers climb around the great dome, and at its crown a single vast crystal catches the sun and pours it down through a seven-pointed star of light, as though the Seven themselves were here to witness these proceedings. The air is stifling, the incense so thick you can taste it.

And there, at the end of all that spectacle, with his hands folded behind his back, stands your future husband.

Prince Maekar watches as you and your father step down the aisle. He is dressed as ever in fine black garments with red accents of dragons. For the occasion, his silver hair has been slicked back, putting his severe brows and full beard on display.

As you arrive, your father lets go of you. You take the last steps up the stairs alone, stepping past amber candles littering the floor.

The ceremony begins. You and Maekar stand side to side, facing the statues of the Mother and Father. The High Septon's voice rolls through the sept.

You know this liturgy, of course. You have, just a few years back, stood in Runestone's small sept that smelled of tallow instead of incense. And just as you feel Rhea's ghost lingering at your side, so too do you feel another presence now. Your late husband's, as if delivered by the Stranger himself. You wonder if Maekar feels his late wife just as keenly, standing where he stands.

Before you can ponder on all the specters bearing witness, a shift comes from your right, and you realize that the septon has finished his sermons, that the cloaking ceremony is beginning.

For Maekar has stepped behind you, and his cold digits come to the clasp at your throat all at once. You still, the knot in your throat bobbing against his long fingers. His touch recalibrates, and the bronze cloak slides from your shoulders like a skin being shed. Someone bears it away and for a moment, you are nothing but a woman, the way a newborn arrives to the world—bare for the world to see.

You shudder.

The new cloak is placed on your shoulder. 

The Targaryen garment is a stark contrast to your previous one, lighter, softer, a pattern of a dragon webbed between your shoulder blades.

Maekar looks at you as you adjust the clasp. Your gazes meet; your breath locks. The ghosts shift. He takes a step back.

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger—I am his and he is mine, from this day until the end of my days," you declare for the second time in your life, just as Maekar recites his own vows.

Then you turn, facing the prince for the first time since the ceremony started. His guarded eyes slide towards your face. 

"With this kiss, I pledge my love," the prince mutters.

You tilt your head in silent invitation. Against your own, Maekar's lips are cool and chaste. He smells of smoke and steel. Your eyes stay open through it all. As Maekar retreats, his jaw clenches. 

The congregation make a sound like the sea coming in.

Maekar offers his arm, and slowly, you take it. He sets a pace that is no concession to your skirts. Together, you step out into the sunlight. The bells of the sept ring you out, and half of King's Landing roars. 

It is done, you think. 

You are now a Targaryen wife.

The wedding feast is a blur.

Courses upon courses are served with people all around—singers, jesters, lords—all toasting the clever alliance drawn today.

You are at the high table atop a dais, seated between the king and your new husband. Your eyes track it all: the extravagant hairdos, the lavish dresses. The banners at the back, rafter after rafter of dragons, with one lonesome Runestone banner amid this sea of red and black.

In another life, you might have laughed at the symbolism. Here, you settle on taking a sip of Arbor Red.

Next to you, your husband seems to endure. That is the only word that comes to mind as you glimpse at him. For Maekar is half-slumped in his seat, feasting on grapes, nutty bread, and juniper wine, and when the occasional lord finds the courage to advance and congratulate you both on your engagement, he never makes a sincere show of gratitude, curling his lips and waving his hand, like all of this was beneath him.

You have no judgment to spare on his behavior, not when you yourself feel so little moved by the spectacle, and so you just watch him refill cup after cup with no conversation to fill the silence.

You meet the children one by one. 

Prince Daeron is first—the eldest, ten-and-six, blonde long hair and pale lilac eyes, unsteady on his feet. He bows too deeply and has to catch himself on the table's edge as he introduces himself.

"Erm… stepmother." He tries the word, winces at it, then abandons it. "My lady. I wished to say… congratulations."

"Thank you, my prince."

"I dreamed of this day, you know."

"Oh. I... see?"

"I only meant—you were a good omen, in my dream."

You push your cup of water towards him, thinking he could use it. Daeron seems to hesitate, but accepts the gesture.

"Thank you, my prince."

"Daeron," he corrects with a blank face, and leaves without bowing, cup in hand.

Prince Aerion is next, and he is something else entirely.

At four-and-ten with long silver hair, he is beautiful in the way of a fine blade. His jerkin is jet black, his shirt a crimson silk, bright as blood. When he kisses your hand, it is with a smile so perfect your insides curdle like milk.

"A Royce wed to a dragon. It has happened before, I'm told," Aerion says, tone smooth as oil. "That one ended badly for the lady, but may you have better fortune, Lady Royce."

"Aerion."

Maekar does not look at the boy at he raises his voice. Under the scrutiny of his father's tone, Aerion's smile does not falter; he only inclines his head towards you before taking his leave.

You take a sip of your wine, chewing the insides of your cheek thoughtfully.

Well. You had wanted to judge the rumors of Aerion for yourself. Now you have. 

You find the rest of the children as you make your rounds to greet your family.

There is Prince Aemon, another silver-haired boy of ten, that you find hiding under a table with a book with Aegon by his side. You try to greet the boys, but Aemon goes scarlet before burying himself in his book while Aegon crawls out and straightens out like he'd been caught doing something illicit.

"Good evening, my prince," you greet. 

For today's occasion, Aegon looks less ragged and wild, the same red and black garments his brothers wore. You're starting to learn that Maekar, or someone managing the household in any case, has a taste for dressing his household in tailored uniforms.

"You look different tonight, my lady," Aegon declares.

"Different how, my prince?" 

"Hm... Less sad?"

"An improvement, then." You throw him a tentative smile. Aegon studies you so seriously, so unlike how a child should act, how himself acted near the godswood. You find yourself wanting to humor the boy. "Did you know that among the First Men, a marriage feast is only considered blessed if a brawl ensues?"  

"Oh." He blinks. A little grin appears on his pinched cheeks. "Really?"

You proceed to tell him tales of Northern wedding traditions and blood spilled, and Aegon listens, utterly captured.

As you speak, a shadow folds over you. It is the last child, the one you'd not met yet—Princess Daella. She stands there, Rhae attached to her hand, listening as Aegon proceeds to tell you stories of Targaryen weddings.

When the story ends, you turn to the eldest daughter. 

Daella, more so than the rest of the brood, reminds you the most of Maekar, despite being the one to bear the least physical resemblance to her father. From him, she has inherited deep purple eyes, but everything else surely must be her mother: skin darker than that of her siblings, brown hair that curls like Rhae's and Aemon's. And yet, her features, serious and solemn, seem to scream Maekar.

"Your Grace," she says stiffly.

"Princess," you answer, watching as little Rhae gets on her tiptoes to study your dress properly, "it is a pleasure to finally meet you."

Princess Daella does not say anything to that, and does a last curtsy before withdrawing to her father's side of the hall with Rhae and Aegon in tow.

You find your way back to your seat as well. Supper turns to music, and as the dancing begins, the herald makes the announcement for the floor to open for the bride and her lord, and all turn toward the high table.

You feel the full heat of their gaze on you all at once.

Your husband does not rise.

Instead, Maekar declares at large: "The prince will not dance."

The silence that follows could be cut with a knife.

Somewhere down the tables, a lady coughs while another is hushed. Your aunt, three seats away, has gone the color of a plum. You keep your face blank, though you do not know how to react. There is the mortifying shame clawing at your neck at being openly refused, yes, but something else grows.

It's in the looks. The ones every lady and lord are throwing at you… you know them well enough.

It is the same look that you received after you lost your babe. Chokehold with pity.

"Then the realm must make do with a lesser prince," Prince Baelor announces, and the hall seems to laugh with relief. He rises, approaching. "My lady, would you join me? If your husband will surrender the honor."

"It was never mine," Maekar mutters.

You take Baelor's hand, not giving your husband another look. Together, you make your way to the middle of the hall, where the crowd has made space for your first dance.

The fiddles begin to play. You take a first step, then another, and before you know it, you are dancing with the heir to the Iron Throne while all watch.

Baelor is, unsurprisingly, an able dancer. Light-footed, self-assured; he has clearly done this many times over, and inherited the Dornish sense of rhythm that many lords from Westeros seem to lack.

As you dance, you find yourself wondering if Willam had been right to suggest your father should've pushed for a match with Baelor instead. How easy it might be to be married to a man like him. Someone kind, generous with words and attention. Then again, would you even deserve a man like that?

"What do you make of my nephews and nieces, my lady?" Baelor asks, tearing you out of your reveries.

You think upon the prince's question. You consider lying, but there is something in Baelor's face, or perhaps it is simply all the wine you've had, that loosens your tongue. 

"I met most of the children for the first time tonight." 

"Ah... My brother's doing?" 

"Mm." 

"I see." Something flashes across Baelor's face, a tightness you have not seen on him before, but it's quickly replaced by a polite smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Humor me, then. What are your first impressions of the children?"

"Well, they… they each seemed to have distinctive traits."

"That is one way to describe them."

"The eldest seems kind. He told me he saw my face in a dream."

"Did he now?"

"Mm."

"Daeron. He is a dreamer."

"Oh. Like Daenys Targaryen?"

Baelor raises a soft brow at you. "Yes, just so."

"What does it mean to dream, exactly?" you find yourself asking. "Daenys Targaryen, she... she dreamed of the Doom of Valyria, did she not?"

"You know your histories, my lady," Baelor says, twirling you once. When you meet again, it is with your palm raised against his. "Though not all dreams are omens of disasters to come. Some can be visions of good things." 

"Do all Targaryens dream?"

"No."

"I see." 

"If you wish for my advice, my lady. You would do well to heed my nephew's visions." 

"I will keep it in mind, Your Grace."

The music has you take turns around the room then. Over Baelor's shoulder, the high table swings into view—the king, the queen, the empty chair, your husband beside it, and his dark eyes meet yours for a moment, and you wonder if you offended him when you accepted Baelor's invitation, because he is looking the same way he looked back in Gulltown's feast. Sulking like a young princeling.

Before you can ponder on this very question, the second half of the dance begins, announced with a change in fiddles. With it, more couples rise to join the dance floor.

For a while, you scatter, handed from lord to lord. Each of them weaves their own version of wishes and happy returns, all clearly laced with their own agendas. You thank them, face placid.

When you are at last back in front of Baelor, there is a sense of relief to be back in his vicinity.

"We meet again, my lady-scholar," he says.

You huff at the jest. "My prince."

Baelor smiles politely and pauses, sweeping over you with a heavier stare. The end of the dance draws you closer, an intimacy that had been intended for your lord husband. In any case, it allows Baelor to bridge the distance, asking what you guess he's been waiting to ask all along.

"May I say something, my lady?"

"You are the Crown Prince," you say wryly. "It would be folly to refuse."

"Folly, perhaps, but never impossible. Besides… I speak not as a prince now, but as your brother-in-law." The music comes to an end. You curtsy as he bows. When you meet his gaze, Prince Baelor finally asks, "My brother. How have you found him?"

All around you, an applause thunders, the sound like the sky splitting in two. You feel the full force of it, rattling in your bones.

"You have been watching us all evening, Your Grace," you say. "You tell me."

Baelor chuckles—a real laugh, brief as it were. He offers you his arm to steer you back, and you take it gladly. "My brother wasn't always so closed off. Before Dyanna, he—" Baelor stops himself and turns to you. "Forgive me. A wedding is no place for befores."

"There seems to be a great deal of befores in this family, Your Grace."

"There is. You'll find we are all standing on it, pretending we are not."

Baelor returns you to your seat with a nod to Maekar. Before he takes his leave, he leans to murmur, only for you to hear, "What I know is this: Maekar hasn't stopped staring since I took you away."

You do not look to confirm it. You doubt Baelor's words, besides. You take your seat next to your husband, who is slumped in his seat, glaring into his wine.

The evening continues. You drink some more, you eat some less. You dance once with your father, and twice with Willam. The music accelerates and your legs grow heavy.

It is somewhere past midnight, as the hall is loose and loud, that you learn there is to be no bedding ceremony.

"Your husband forbid it," your aunt murmurs, as your father and her bid you goodnight. "Days ago."

You watch them leave, wondering what to make of this revelation, and why no one deemed to tell you.

Some would say the mercy was unnecessary, given that you are not a maid. Still, you feel a weight lift from your shoulders.

And so instead of drunken lords and torn laces, you are walked through corridors by ladies you do not know, undressed and changed by hands that are not your own, and left sitting on the edge of a bed that is foreign to you.

The hearth in these new chambers is already lit. The linen shift they have put you in is fine and thin. You sit with your hands in your lap and wait for your husband, feeling Rhea's ghost next to you—her hands reeled into fists, calling for violence. 

You grow uncertain, chewing the inside of your cheeks. You have not lain with anyone since your husband and he was a gentle lover. What will coupling with a dragon be like? 

Maekar arrives without knocking. He is half-undone from the feast—jerkin unlaced, collar open—and he stops three steps inside the door when he sees you. 

Something hard moves across his gaze. 

"What are you doing, woman?"   

"Your Grace?"

"Sitting there, waiting, just so some whoring septon can brag he blessed a royal bedding." The prince is already unlacing his own collar, short, irritated movements. "I have heirs enough to give me a migraine on the daily, lady. Four of them. Two daughters besides. I have no—"

Maekar stops himself, noticing you are not replying to his tangent. 

"I did not ask for this, you hear?" Maekar throws his collar down, jaw clenched. "This fucking charade." 

You still. "A... charade?"

Prince Maekar says nothing as you finally speak up. He crosses to the desk next to the bed where you're sat and takes a candle from it, clearly intent to be done with this exchange.

But you—

"Which part?"

You need to know. You cannot start your first night of this new life without knowing.

Maekar turns, looking to you as you inspect him. Up close, you notice new details of your husband that the dim light of the Great Sept of Baelor and the halls before robbed you from.

Maekar's eyes are lilac, a color that borders on indigo under the amber light, and there are marks on his ruddy face you hadn't noticed before—small scars on his nose from a fight, perhaps, pox marks on his jaw that are partly concealed by his silver beard. Deep wrinkles near deep-set eyes. A large maul, like an animal's. 

He is handsome in his own way. And yet—

Your eyes flicker up, meeting his charged gaze.

You realize you have been staring, that Maekar has noticed it too, and in the silence that follows, you look back to the hearth and its roaring fire, face devoid of any emotions.

"Which part…" you repeat with a drab, "which part is a charade, my prince?"

There is a shift to your right. A pause.

"All of it."

And then Maekar is stepping away from you, through a door in the western wall you had not known was there all along, and the door slams behind him.

You sit for a while on the edge of the enormous bed, in this too-warm room, in your too-thin shift, and you contemplate Maekar's words.

All of it.

Well.

You suppose you feel the same as Maekar does, though the truth is, you do not know how you feel. It has been so long since you felt anything at all, and everything that has slipped in between the cracks since your arrival has left you more confused than anything.

In any case, you have your answer. This is how your union to your new husband is to be.

Spared, some would say. Dismissed, others might say.

You do not know which side you've landed on.

And so, instead of pondering endlessly on this matter, you climb into the largest bed you have ever been in and blow out the candle.

That night, you sleep badly, with dreams of dragons feasting on hawks whole. 

The next sennights go by slowly and uneventfully, filled with activities preordained by the queen and king. You spend some time getting to know the rest of the family—you meet Baelor's sons, Valarr and Matarys, as well as Maekar's and Baelor's other brothers, Rhaegel and Aerys. 

The godswood continues to be your sanctuary, though more oft than not, you spend your time in the royal gardens with some part of your new extended family. The children are there, but sparingly; it is clear that when Maekar said he intended to keep you separate, he meant it. If the queen notices this decision on his part, she does not say a thing to you.

You have ladies assigned to you for the rest of the duration at the Red Keep, and you learn what are the fashions popular in King's Landing, and what gossips are making the rounds. You learn to do your hair like them and pray at the sept an appropriate amount.

Your husband never visits your chambers again.

For a while, that is your new reality.

That morning, your family gathers in the outer yard. This is goodbye; their ship awaits at the bay to bear them home and you do not know when you will see them again.

"You are a Royce, first and foremost," your father says. "Never forget that."

With a hand clasped on your shoulder, he looks at you with pressed lips, the way one looks a nervous dog about to be put down. He has never been good with having a daughter, your father, and so you spare him the emotional farewells. 

"I know, Father."

Your aunt is less economical. She weeps freely, fussing over your collar. "Write to me," she orders, damp and imperious. "And do not let that man make you grim. You have a tendency, you know."

You sigh. "Goodbye, aunt."

She hugs you for good measure, and slips a jar of candied violets into your hands, like she did when you were a little girl. The sight almost makes you smile. 

Ser Gerold is next. He stands at the edge of the party, and when you come to him, he looks at you with a prickle of fondness.

"Mind the snakes, girl," he says.

"Kind seas, Old Geld," you give him back, and something moves under the old knight's gaze that tugs at your heart.

At last, there is bright, foolish, Willam, and for once, your brother surprises you.

For your twin brother does not come empty-handed, and at the end of the lead rope he holds onto is a horse. A stallion—young, deep-chested, storm-grey, with the heavy bone structure that make his origin unmistakable.

Bred and raised in Runestone.

"It is yours," Willam declares proudly.

"How?" You take a step forward and offering a flat palm for the horse to smell.

"I have my ways." Willam seems to gloat and revel at your shock. As he watches you place a hand on the cheek of the horse, his voice drops an octave. "... So you don't forget home."

"I… I thought you did not care for horses."

"I don't, but you do. And I know you never replaced that old mare of yours."

Your mare had been killed alongside your husband, that day. You had never counted her among the losses—a woman who mourns a horse in the same breath as a husband and a child invites to be cursed—and you had not known, until this moment, that Willam knew how much her loss had weighed on you since.

"He has no name yet," your brother adds. "I thought you would want the choosing."

"Willam, I… I do not know what to say."

"Then say nothing at all, and write to me oft." His eyes soften. "I… I will miss you, little sister."

You embrace him then, burying yourself into your brother's broad chest, smelling leather and the distinct way your twin always smells. Home.

"And I, you," you whisper, voice more hoarse than anything that's come out of you this past year. 

Your family leaves that morning, and for the first time in many moons, you are truly alone. 

On the day you depart King's Landing, it finally rains.

It had been quite the morning. Rain had started pelting down at dawn, which meant that the yard was now more mud than anything else. For once, you caught a glimpse of the way Prince Maekar ran his household, and it left... something to be desired.

"Aegon, get in the fucking carriage," Maekar thunders, jolting his horse as he makes the rounds and inspects carriage after carriage. "Now."

At your side, a maid fusses with cover for the rain. 

"Daeron, you drunken sod," Maekar continues to holler somewhere. "Get on that creature you call a horse, or you're on foot for the way home."

Joining your side, Prince Baelor watches his brother skeptically and sighs. "Please mind him on the roads. I'm afraid Maekar can get prickly every trip back to Summerhall."

"I will do my best, Your Grace," you say, gaze now fixed at the stableboy approaching with your horse saddled in tow. You take the reins, checking the girth and placing a steady hand on his neck.

"Have you chosen a name for him?" Baelor asks.

"I have." You look back at the prince, highly pleased with yourself. "Symeon."

Baelor tilts his head, a gleam in his mismatched gaze. "Ah, a warrior's heart for a Runestone steed." As if in agreement, Symeon stomps one hoof over gravel. "You ride, then?" 

"If my lord husband permits it."

"Oh, I don't think my brother will refuse you."

"What will I not refuse?" Maekar mutters, creeping up on top of his own stallion.

The two horses sniff each other, before Symeon shakes his head with a nicker.

You pull Symeon back by the reigns, staring at Maekar directly. "I would ride." 

Maekar looks at you like you are another one of his children needing to be managed.

"It is not proper," he says.

"I know."

"Ugh," he pulls his horse away, "then you ride."

The acknowledgment almost makes you smile. Almost. Still, a slither of victory must be on display because, not a moment later—

"Keep to the procession's center, woman," Maekar grumbles, not deigning to look at you as he rides away. "I'll not have you slowing us down."

And with that, Maekar pushes his horse into a trot, moving towards the front of the line. You sigh and pull the hood of your cloak over your head.

"Well, this is goodbye," you say to Prince Baelor.

"Safe travels, my lady."

You get on your horse, glancing from Baelor to the king and queen standing a distance away, and finally to the Red Keep one last time, cool rain streaking down your face.  

This had been your home for a while. Now you leave it behind.  

Ahead of you, Maekar's column moves out first, black and red vanishing into the grey. You fall in behind it, careful, the way Old Geld told you to be.  

Summerhall and your new life await.

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Footnotes ˣ Summerhall: A Targaryen castle build by Daeron II. It is the main residence of Maekar Targaryen and his children. ˣ Daenys 'the Dreamer' Targaryen: A lady who foresaw the Doom of Valyria and convinced her family to move to Dragonstone. This saved the Targaryens from meeting their end, as other dragonriders did. ˣ Symeon 'Star-Eyes': A hero from the Age of Heroes, said to have sapphires for eyes.

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