local & anxious

Its head was high, just out of reach, and yet as it continued to do nothing, Ria huffed, rubbing the heat back into her arms.

‘You’re rather indecisive, aren’t you? Or do you prefer to watch and have all the facts first, as I like to do?’

It did not blink, only watched.

‘It would be nice to have one hint or another,’ she requested. ‘But I suppose that defeats the purpose of such a nonsensical dream, does it not? ‘Tis no wonder Prince Daeron dreaded sleeping—I go to sleep to stop my otherwise ceaseless thinking, not continue it, so an answer any moment now would go deeply appreciated.’

Unexpectedly, it moved, quick enough that when its head lowered and began to invade her personal space, Ria couldn’t help the single stumble back from the startle.

With that one reaction, something shifted. Its head flinched back, and if it had pupils, she imagined them shrinking, predatorial. As it began to rear back, Ria took another two steps away, the dread within her now colder than the mists that it was disappearing back into—to breathe fire? To snap back and consume her—?

The unstoppable crushing stone of its tail swooped out beneath her, and as the apothecary fell backwards, her back did not meet the ground but water.

Ice in her lungs was made tighter by her shrinking breath, panicked, stuttering. She swam up, at least, where she thought up was, as there was no light above to guide her, but hands—human hands, completely stone, gripped and dragged her down. One, two three, four pairs—one tried to pull her in the opposite direction, up?, but it was no match for the others, and as the water filled her lungs, dropping down heavier and heavier, the panic fled and she was left with one apparent, consuming thing—

Sorrow.

Ria gasped awake, choking on air so viciously she dry heaved over the side of her cot. For a time, she stayed there, focusing on her breathing.

Inhale; count five perennials of the crownlands.

Belladonna lily. Yellow wood anemone. Asphodels. Clustered bellflower. Rockrose.

Exhale; count five seabirds of King’s Landing.

Southern storm petrel. Great shearwater. Great cormorant. Yellow-legged gull. Western osprey.

She continued the motions, counting herbs, rodents, flowers, minerals, fruits, anything and everything until her breathing eased. Eventually, Ria sat up in bed, drawing the blankets with her.

‘Right,’ she whispered to herself, running a hand through her sweaty hair. When she glimpsed the outside sky through her small window, she saw the purple brightening of the horizon, but no sign of sunlight yet.

The apothecary could not recall the last time her dreams were so active, perhaps back along the Greenblood? Did simply speaking with Prince Daeron on their first meet spring her active imagination back into place? Or was Daeron’s magic flowing elsewhere, now that she had diverted it like a dam to a river?

Trying not to give it much thought, Ria ultimately decided it mattered little. The day before her was long, and even more than that, it was exciting. Though it was to start as it always did, with a visit to Joanna and Merek for breakfast and a list for the markets before joining the princes for the morning, later, while they braced the training yard, Ria had a new stop on her agenda. For now that a Targaryen Prince outside of their immediate circle had requested something of her, Grand Maester Osmund could deny her no longer.

Maester Yormwell was finally to show her the medicinal stores.

Ria could not withhold the bubbling laugh from her if she tried—and try she did not.

The stores had to be three times the size of their apothecary back in River Row, and not just the front of her and Luomen’s apothecary, but living quarters included. It was narrower than expected, about as narrow as hers and Luomen’s, but it stretched on far longer with candles instead of torches to light the way. Like the library but not quite as towering, the room was tall and would require a shorter ladder or stool to reach some of the higher stock, but everything was organised so beautifully along the shelves, in all sorts of jars, pouches, bundles, and leather wrappings.

There were two thin window that allowed a sliver of sunlight towards the entryway and back wall of the room, but otherwise, little light touched the place, and it was cooler than the rest of the Keep, nestled deeper down in the stone.

And yet, one foot in the doorway and it had already bloomed a warmth so deep in her that she’d felt as if she’d never freeze again.

Giggling as she hurried down the few steps from the doorway, Yormwell had nearly not moved aside in time as she barrelled through. Like an overwhelmed fly that had found the kitchen, she flitted back and forth while the maester watched, caught somewhere between exasperated and amused.

‘Yes, it is an impressive stock—’

‘—you have aurochs bezoar!?’

‘Among many, yes—’

‘I don’t believe I’ve ever seen antler velvet in person, but if we ever have any spare I know some of the courtesans of the Garden House would deeply appreciate—’

‘We are not using the royal medicinal stock to create sex tonics for the Street of Silk.’

‘They’d pay well—’

‘As do the Targaryens, the royal house of Westeros.’

‘Suit yourself, but you know where to find me should you ever decide on a lucrative recreational trade,’ Ria sniffed, turning to face him with three jars in hand. She would need to find the myrrh oil stock for Luomen. ‘I don’t know if I should ever like to leave.’

Yormwell aged three years looking at her. ‘I am regretting disregarding the Grand Maester’s wishes to prolong your introduction to our stores more by the second.’

‘Come now Yormwell, we are serving the royal house of Westeros,’ Ria echoed loftily, picking up a loose mandrake root while still balancing the other jars. ‘You shall now have me at my full capacity and strength to serve as dutifully and best as I can—is that ginseng root from Yi Ti?!’

The maester sighed and followed, all while lamenting the hours and sanity he was about to lose.

Unfortunately, Ria could not spend the day in the stores, much as she would’ve liked. There was, however, a renewed energy to her as she returned to Valarr and Matarys’ lessons despite the disturbed sleep, one that neither Targaryen missed.

Later that day she took dinner into the stores with her, eating as she continued her familiarisation with their stock and how it was organised and kept. The river mint was low and would require replenishing within the next half a moon, a note she wrote down to pass on to Yormwell, but when the heavy oaken door shuffled open sometime into the evening, it was not Maester Yormwell who greeted her.

‘We shall require more river mint,’ Ria said, biting into an apple and continuing her jotting of notes. ‘I’ve left a note on the missives and notices desk with that additional request for more bluebells as mentioned the night prior, but for now I shall prolong what we have here for the Prince Daeron, and see to brewing his tea n—’

‘That shan’t be necessary.’

Her quill stilled. Glancing up, she found the severe eyes of a maester older than Yormwell, with an expression cut straight from stone. A small scar nearly as old as he nicked the corner of his eye, just missing it. He was shorter than Ria, but that did not stop him from looking down at her.

‘Good evening,’ she said, the idea of apologising for her assumption that he was Yormwell immediately souring on her tongue. ‘I thought you to be Yormwell.’

‘Clearly,’ the maester responded, dry. ‘The Prince Daeron has reported you brewed him a tea of river mint these past two evenings. As his family maester, Prince Maekar requests I take it from here. Your services shan’t be needed.’

Prince Maekar Targaryen. The Anvil.

It was unsurprising that a man she had always heard and known to be as hard and immovable as his namesake would employ a maester of similar quality. And one just as apparently cold and stern, too.

The prickly part of Ria wished to simply hand the river mint over and leave the rude maester—who had not even given her his name—to his own devices. However, she did not think that fair to Daeron, who she had sworn to help as best and often as she could. She could not follow him back to Summerhall, but while here, she could make a difference, and in a way that only she could.

‘I see,’ Ria muttered, clearing the frustration from her throat. ‘Maester…?’

‘Melaquin.’

‘Maester Melaquin,’ she continued with a tight smile. ‘I understand the Prince desiring the familiarity of his own maester to see to this, but the water is boiled and the mint brewed in such a way that it honours the old Rhoynish practices—’

‘It is mint and water, nothing else, yes?’ He cut through her.

Ria’s brow twitched. ‘There is a touch of honey—’

‘Then that is sufficient,’ he cut her off again, hand outstretched. ‘I am familiar with mint’s brewing time and temperature. I need only the herb itself.’

‘The bruising of the mint and temperature boiled can be fickle—’

‘I am a maester of the Citadel, woman, I have dealt in matters that far surpass the delicacy of brewing tea.’

Ria gripped the river mint tighter, eyes flickering between his outstretched hand and immovable countenance while withholding the coarse language wriggling about her tongue. Perhaps Yormwell truly is the only tolerable maester of Westeros.

The apothecary had decided on her response the moment ‘woman’ was spat from his lips, and swiftly made an apology to Daeron in her mind. If only he could hear. She knew this kind of man, though, had seen him in many a City Guard and sailor; the kind that would not take no as an answer, especially from a woman.

When she nor he said or made any further move, Melaquin huffed.

‘Are you this determined in your tantrum?’

‘I know not what you refer to,’ Ria responded evenly. ‘Nor am I familiar with the practices of the Citadel or Old Town. I only know that of the Greenblood and River Row, where us lowborn are taught to exercise our manners through words when we desire something, not stick our hand out like an expectant child or beggar.’

Anger broiled in his brow. ‘Here I thought a lowborn of River Row would be familiar with the practices of begging.’

‘Usually, it is my patients who beg, as I am the one who holds something they want, not the other way around.’

‘You would wield that power over those paining and seeking your assistance?’

‘I would hand it over to them as eagerly as I always do, as all are well-acquainted with asking for what they seek.’

If Melaquin was capable of withering a person with his gaze, Ria fancied that she’d long be dust on the cobblestone floor for the rats to scurry across. ‘Then by order of Prince Maekar Targaryen, hand over the river mint.’

‘Of course, maester.’ She tossed him the jar with as fake a smile as she could muster, watching as he unfortunately caught it quite deftly. At least there were two and a bit more jars if she needed them.

Like carving into stone, Ria fast received the impression that Melaquin would not forget their exchange. He seemed a man who would keep every single memory with him until his dying days; which, she supposed, likely weren’t many years off.

But as the night slunk on and with no more bluebells to retreat into the library with, she found herself unable to deny sleep much longer, and as she pulled the blankets over her head, all the week’s words continued their burrowing under her skin.

‘Nonsense, it is because she is lowborn. All that filth followed her from Flea Bottom.’

‘There’s only ever one reason why a prince would elevate a woman to such a position—if anything, I’m certain she’s the one graciously thanking him.’

‘A sign from the Seven Above, most likely. Their discontent at a woman in such a position.’

‘I would not see you destroy yourself for a Targaryen’s sake.’

‘Need I remind you that you represent House Targaryen in—’

‘Then by order of Prince Maekar Targaryen, hand over the river mint.’

‘I’d prefer to keep our new apothecary at least a trice longer, before we inevitably scare her off.’

‘I dreamt of you.’

Once again, she was greeted by mists, and the sound of stone on stone.

‘You’ve employed a hedge witch into your services, brother,’ Maekar Targaryen grumbled. ‘Of that, I am now certain. Fucking tea of all things…’

Baelor couldn’t help the smile twitching at his mouth, his attention still half-fixed on Valarr and Matarys’ training in the yard below. Daeron and Aerion were with them, the Kingsguard wielding varying degrees of patience across the brood. His brother’s eldest did not move with the same vigour as the day before, and between that and Maekar’s grumbling…

‘In all matters she has attended to, she has walked those through the very real sciences and medicine behind it. Not one herb or mineral left unturned,’ Baelor calmly explained. ‘And yet, Daeron’s dreams are not quite a matter of science. I admittedly fall short in my understanding of how many plants work, lest they came up fleetingly in our lessons or have been broached by our maesters before. Perhaps if you asked her for her guidance instead of snatching the duty from her hands, she would be willing to oblige an explanation.’

‘Run and tell you, did she?’ Maekar asked, scowling.

‘No,’ Baelor denied, turning to his brother. ‘But the difference in Daeron from yesterday and now is evident, particularly in the training yard.’

‘In all our bloodline’s history, have you ever heard of such a thing?’ He asked Baelor, lower. ‘The taming of dragon dreams?’

The Heir turned one of the rings on his fingers around, his earlier amusement settling into something deeper, pensive. ‘No,’ he answered plainly. ‘Never.’

Maekar considered his older brother for a moment, several different questions and concerns on his tongue. One look at Baelor and he knew he needn’t say them aloud, however. The elder could hear them well enough. Had already thought them himself.

‘It’s water and fucking leaves,’ the younger prince dismissively snarled, less heated than before. He leaned forward and tightened his grip on the banister overlooking the yard. ‘How complicated could it be?’

‘Indeed,’ Baelor simply agreed.

It was sometime after dinner on his way to his chambers that Baelor Targaryen started thinking. While there were a never-ending list of duties that built up in the Council chambers by the day, especially with his father, King Daeron, leaving more and more as his responsibility, thoughts of his own family always found a way to slip to the forefront of his mind.

Marriage proposals for Valarr, was one matter. ‘The boy is four-and-ten. He’ll be of marrying age within the year,’ King Daeron reminded him, a stern but understanding glint in his eye. ‘There are many paths to take in his betrothal, and I would beseech that you choose particularly wisely. We must ensure we strengthen our family’s presence and ties—and undermine that of the Blackfyres.’

And then, of course, there was his nephew Daeron—and the apothecary.

‘In all our bloodline’s history, have you ever heard of such a thing? The taming of dragon dreams?’

Without meaning to, he had found himself outside the library again, but when all he found within was the good Maester Yormwell, the question came unbidden from his mouth.

‘Maester Yormwell, where should I find Apothecary Ria?’

The maester looked at him as if he knew something Baelor didn’t, and with measured sigh, he answered, ‘The medicinal stores, Your Grace. I fear they’ve become her new haunting grounds.’

With a nod and thanks, the prince made his way once more.

Ser Donnel took his post outside the door when Baelor found the stores, and it occurred him he had perhaps only ever been down there once, maybe twice, before.

It was cool when he entered, the candlelight and hearth nearer to the steps and door all dim. There were two more candles lit further down the room, but the apothecary had taken up her position at the table by the hearth, furiously scribbling notes with all matters of parchments, jars, dried sprigs, roots and pressed flowers before her. Firelight kissed the dark of her curls, sprung loose and without a headscarf to tame them. Her expression was stern, focused. Passionate. It nearly reminded him of Maekar, or perhaps his mother.

When she did not react to the drag and shut of the door, he assumed she had not heard him enter, and so as not to startle her, Baelor descended the stairs slowly, gently announcing, ‘Maester Yormwell claims you have taken to haunting this room. Am I to assume that, despite the best efforts of the Keep’s gossip and mine own brother, you still intend to remain with us?’

Though she didn’t startle, Ria’s quill scrawled abruptly. Glancing up, she placed the quill down, dipping into another one of her endearing curtsies.

‘Your Grace, I—’ he observed as she fully comprehended his words past the shock of his appearance, the tension half dissipating out of her. ‘You have aurochs bezoar and Braavosi salts, I could hardly intend otherwise.’

‘If I knew that was all it would take, I would have beseeched Maester Yormwell introduce you sooner,’ the prince responded. ‘Though, I do believe I did beseech as such. My apologies that it took this long to come to fruition.’

The Dornish healer shrugged with one shoulder, tucking a stubborn strand of her hair behind her ear. It bounced back into place almost immediately. ‘You have absolutely no need to apologise to me, Your Grace. Never has your hospitality, thoughtfulness or generosity faltered on my account.’

Baelor came to a stop at one corner of the table, a couple feet from where she stood. ‘I could have perhaps warned you better of the temperamental politics of both the court and mine own family.’

The apothecary made a quiet ‘ah’, tapping a finger against her notebook as she realised his insinuation. ‘Your sons, nephews and niece have all also been nothing but kind. Spirted at times, but I could never fault one for that. I… hope I have not offended the Prince Maekar. I should have been more considerate in my approach to Prince Daeron before offering my services, I apologise for over-stepping.’

 ‘While prior communication is always advised, you have done Daeron a service others of my line would not have thought possible before,’ Baelor lightly warned and thanked in the same breath. ‘That is a realisation that heralds both caution and admiration, and you’ll find that my brother appreciates a certain directness in such matters. He is not one to mince his words.’

One of the jars before her caught his eye, the label reading ‘River Mint’. There were two more jars of it strewn about the table, one half and the other entirely full. The special herb in question.

Ria followed his gaze as she nodded, and when neither said anything for a moment, Baelor shifted, leaning against the table. ‘Tell me of this river mint.’

With her head turned, she stared long and hard at the nearest jar, long enough that Baelor spent time attentively tracing her features. There was a subtle sharpness to her jaw, but her cheeks were soft, as was the gentle downward curve of her nose. Dark circles sat beneath her eyes, but they were only truly noticeable with the shadow cast from the firelight. What had kept her up? Knowledge, dreams, winding thoughts?

He noticed that the ear that faced him had the tiniest pinprick of a hole in it—pierced? Generally, only highborn ladies had their ears pierced, so as to show off their jewelled earrings. This wasn’t recent, either. When did she have the opportunity?

‘It has more benefits than just fresh breath and oral hygiene,’ she half-heartedly joked, drawing him from his reverie. ‘It is beneficial for congestion, digestion, and respiratory ailments such as colds. It’s antimicrobial, a decent insect repellent and conducive to stress relief. It’s…’

When she trailed, Baelor remained perfectly still, examining the small knot creasing her brows. His fingers twitched, wishing to soothe it.

‘… it’s a piece of home.’

 The words were fragile, soft. If Baelor was not so near, he may not have heard them. He didn’t dare say anything at first, simply watching the firelight play across her wistful countenance. He waited, patiently, and as anticipated, Ria found both the strength and words to continue.

‘River mint used to be found all along the Rhoyne when the Rhoynish cities still stood,’ she said, picking up one of the jars. ‘I’m certain there were and are many more herbs that still line its banks, but mother supposed we brought the river mint with us when Nymeria left the Rhoyne because the giant turtles favoured them so. We call them the Old Men of the River after the god who bears the same name, son of the Mother Rhoyne. Even though no giant turtles live in the Greenblood of Dorne, this still connects us to them, to the Mother’s son, to the Mother herself. It would be more like a mutated variant than the original herb, now, after adapting to Dorne’s arid climate, but in a way that’s what we did as well. The people. I often wonder if I ever met any of the dwindling Rhoynar that still live along the Rhoyne’s banks, would they think me Rhoynish? Or Dornish? Likely Dornish, though I’d wager I’d be more like to meet a pirate than the Rhoynar if I ever did make the journey.’

‘Would you lament that?’ Baelor asked. ‘If you were considered one over the other?’

Ria’s fingers played with the lid of the jar. ‘Strangely, no, I don’t think so. My mother and the orphans along the Greenblood are stubborn in their Rhoynish ways, unwilling to adopt Dornish customs, but I learnt some of them in our ventures to Planky Town. Dorne became a home when my ancestors were displaced, and while it is well and good to maintain our customs and not allow them to be lost, Dorne is rich in its own culture. Though, I recall the time I came home with mamá after visiting Planky Town when I was a girl of six. We used to live on boats in the Greenblood, and when we had grand nights of dancing, singing, feasting and storytelling, we’d lash all our boats together and make a floating town out of them. I deigned to sing and dance a Dornish song on one such night after my visit, and though mamá thought it endearing, some of our elders decidedly did not.’

Baelor smiled with Ria at the memory, picturing the young apothecary leaping and twirling along the planks of a boat, utterly carefree. ‘You were six, I do hope they weren’t so stern in their reaction.’

‘They were fine,’ she waved off with a laugh. ‘Mamá and I let them huff and puff for a turn. Sometimes elders simply need the opportunity to do so. I refrained from making the same error in their presence again, however.’

Baelor was familiar with many Dornish dances from his time spent in Sunspear alongside his mother. It was quite the passionate and often sensual culture compared to the rest of Westeros, perhaps only matched in spirit by the Stormlanders. It was unsurprising when his brother took a Dayne as his wife, particularly Dyanna, who was as impassioned and unyielding as their mother and many a Dornish woman.

Then came the sudden urge, the image, unbidden to his mind’s eye. Ria in Dornish dresses and silks, loose and designed for Dorne’s hot weather. Ria dancing as the Dornish do, singing as the Dornish do, a call to motion, assured and stirring—

‘I often think of my time in Sunspear when I was a child as too short,’ he said with a subtle clear to his throat, ‘but I also think no matter how much time I spent there, I still would have thought the same. Do you still consider it home after all these years?’

She pressed her lips together, pensive, and then answered, ‘Yes, but River Row is as much my home as the Greenblood and Dorne is. I think you can have more than one home, for home is in the people and the memories, it’s in the food and the plants and the smells… what smells take you back to Sunspear?’

The prince hummed in thought, relaxing further against the table. ‘Dornish spice, sea salt… the Water Gardens had all matters of flowers, but selluka, apricot flowers and jasmine are some of the ones that immediately take me back to them, and are my mother’s favourites… and citrus. I can’t recall going a day without sharing an orange with mother, or without lemons to flavour the meals. And what of the Greenblood? What smells take you back there?’

With a fond smile, Ria unscrewed the lid of the river mint jar and plucked a sprig from it, treading closer. ‘May I?’

Baelor felt his airways shrink as he nodded, and closer still, his apothecary stepped forward, until she was near enough to almost share in his warmth but just far enough away that her skirts narrowly avoided brushing him. Respectably far, too far. When she raised her hand up, the river mint close but an appropriate distance away, Baelor decidedly closed the gap with one more step and a bow of his head.

Skirts brushing his shins, he encircled his fingers around Ria’s raised wrist, steadying her, though he felt her pulse jump. His thumb brushed over her palm and the sprig, drawing her hand to his face, to his nose, as he inhaled. Deep.

The mint was stronger than other mints he knew, somewhere between spearmint and peppermint, but he could still smell the earth that clung to it. And the river, the water that grew it, sustained it.

Running his fingertips along the hem of Ria’s sleeve, his eyes flickered to her and caught her stillness, the small opening of her mouth, the wide blue of her eyes. It was intoxicating, more than any wine he knew. He could gorge himself on it in for days and still not be quenched.

After she had blinked one too many times, however, Baelor exhaled and drew enough away to speak. ‘Powerful, to be certain. I’m surprised this is what soothes Daeron to sleep, for I now find myself very much awake.’

‘The honey helps,’ Ria whispered, her pulse still aflutter beneath his fingertips, ‘as does the warm water.’

‘Hm, true enough,’ he conceded, and as the firelight continued its hypnotic pattern across her features, Baelor was struck with an idea. ‘You are familiar with a great deal more plants than I, but if we are to talk of pieces of homes long lost, and their place in our homes today… have you heard of Valyrian thyme?’

Like a match struck anew, the spirit in her eyes regained their senses and hunger, and Baelor suddenly found his earlier self stood corrected—this was the single most intoxicating sight he knew.

‘Never, not in my mother’s or Luomen’s writings, and I haven’t yet seen it in my stock taking,’ she breathed, her wrist already slipped from his grasp, the mint returned and her quill replacing it. ‘Is it so different to other variants of thyme, like lemon thyme or silver thyme? Is it in here?’

Tampering his amusement, Baelor couldn’t help relishing the small rush of his blood. This is what he thrived on, though he only ever admitted so inwardly; knowing and remembering details where others didn’t, teaching and sharing where others may not. Ria had done so often since their meeting, and so only to himself did he admit in that moment his satisfaction being able to pay that back.

‘Indeed it would be,’ he assured, glancing the shelves. ‘Shall we search before I share further?’

It took a short while, but true to his word, the pair eventually found the thyme. It looked replenished recently, and as Ria brought it back over to the hearth for inspection, Baelor divulged, ‘In High Valyrian we call it “ānogar dōron” or “blood stone” for its colour, which looks equal parts red and violet when creeping along the volcanic landscape of Dragonstone. Like your river mint from the Rhoyne, my ancestors brought this thyme with them when leaving Old Valyria, and like our bloodline and that of the Velaryons and Celtigars, is it some of the last remnants of our lost civilisation. It favours heathlands and volcanic slopes, which meant in all of Westeros, only Dragonstone could have been its home, and there it now blooms aplenty. It warms the chest when spiced with meats or brewed, and blends well with other herbs when treating coughs. The smell is also quite strong…’

He extended his hand to the apothecary, who was caught between watching him as he spoke and turning the jar over.

‘May I?’ he echoed.

She hesitated in handing it over, drawing a twitch from his lips, but when she did, the prince patiently unscrewed the jar’s lid and picked a sprig from within, holding it between them. He held it closer than Ria had when she offered the mint, and when she shifted forward, leaning towards his hand, Baelor fought the urge to use his free arm to wrap around and pull her nearer—

Both of her hands enclosed around his wrist, some fingers firm in their grip while others featherlight as they ghosted his palm and knuckles. Like when she treated his tea burn, he was struck by how equal parts soft and calloused they were, a likely mix of her profession dealing in oils as well as harder roots, minerals and the labour involved—and they were expansive, not quite as large as his but not small and dainty like a child’s or noble lady’s. Slender, strong. She’d wield a sword well.

Ria’s nose brushed one of his knuckles as she inhaled, and unconsciously, with her head so near, he did the same. Baelor could only describe it as stepping into one’s home for the first time, for it wasn’t one or two scents that stood out from her, but many; a progression of herbs, spices, flowers, earth, water, ink, parchment, smoke—room after room, scent after scent, all soothing, homely.

‘It is strongly aromatic, but it’s floral notes are more subtle,’ she noted, and his eyes fluttered open again. He hadn’t realised them shut, but was glad for her drawing, for the moment he focused on her again, it was to watch as she plucked part of the thyme from the sprig and placed it in her mouth.

A glimpse of tongue, and lips enclosed around her fingertips, drawing them back with a quick and gentle suck, glistening in the firelight—

‘Mm, I can see why it’s valued for its warming qualities. This would actually pair nicely with the river mint in Daeron’s tea, if Prince Maekar permitted me to make it again. Thank you for sharing with me such a special piece of your history and home, Your Grace—’

‘Baelor,’ he strangled the word out, eyes heavy lidded, ‘if you will. At least when it is the two of us.’

Her remaining hand slipped from his wrist. Immediately, he lamented the loss of warmth, but found it swiftly returned when she beamed at him. ‘You and Valarr are more alike than you realise, but very well, Baelor. Thank you for sharing this with me.’

‘And you with me, Ria,’ he thanked, loosening his grip on the thyme. ‘I shan’t forget so special and personal a memory as those you shared with me today.’

‘Perhaps the next time you go to Dorne or Dragonstone—if you require an apothecary, that is—you may consider taking me with you?’ Ria requested. ‘It could be a valuable trip to replenish more stock, and if the young princes are to join, we could continue their lessons.’

‘I think, after this evening, I would be remiss to leave without you,’ he admitted, breathing in again.

The honest truth of it was, he knew he could scarcely leave for anywhere without her now. Her scent would haunt him to every corner of Westeros and beyond; as would the medley of river mint and Valyrian thyme.

The medicinal stores felt colder, emptier, after the prince’s visit the previous night. The intensity of his presence filled the room in a subtle and intimate way, one that Ria never would have anticipated sharing with a Targaryen prince, let alone the heir to the Iron Throne. With her dwindling reserves of sleep however, now admittedly made worse by last night, he had caught her rather vulnerable, and instead of calling her out for her impropriety, he continued to question, to ask of the Greenblood, of her. And then he shared in turn, so willingly.

He truly was the heart of chivalry and the soul of wisdom, and his kindness matched both equally.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to reconcile him with the victims she had seen in the wake of the Redgrass. The men she had treated on both sides told of the mania in his and Prince Maekar’s eyes, in the viciousness of their blows, the bloodied and unrelenting fervour in their advance. The Blood Raven and his Teeth archers, though equally as terrifying and arguably more responsible for the victory against the Blackfyres, felt more distant a horror to her than what the Hammer and Anvil wrought—the Hammer, who shared with her his memories of Sunspear as a boy, and the Anvil, who most certainly was displeased with her meddling with his son.

Pulling the rambling thoughts like weeds from her concentration, Ria turned the jar of Valyrian thyme around in hand again and glanced between her notes and the herb. It was certainly a variant of creeping thyme, though more bitter than other thymes, despite its warming qualities. Somewhat similar to oregano.

I wonder, if only a small amount was brewed with the river mint, would it channel the magics of Old Valyria? As the river mint does for the Mother Rhoyne? She pondered, tapping her quill against the parchment and stifling a yawn. Would it worsen the dreams, or dispel them even stronger? If brewed by itself without the mint’s interference, but in the same Rhoynish manner, would it be conducive to clearer dreams—?

SLAM!

Ria jolted, slamming the jar down harshly. Snapping her head towards the hurled open door, she found its offender already at the bottom of the stairs. His long strides made quick work of circling the table until he stood between it and the hearth, his presence an overwhelming bastion of iron and flame.

Prince Maekar Targaryen.

‘What fucking witchcraft are you playing at?’

The words were low, not a yell despite his demeanour suggesting it would be otherwise. Instead, they simmered, and somehow, that was even more daunting than a yell ever would be.

Blinking, it took Ria a moment to regain both her breath and senses, quickly dropping into a curtesy. ‘Your Grace, begging your pardon, but I do not dabble in witchcraft—’

 ‘A well-rehearsed response that I’m certain you’ve already exercised on both my brother and the maesters,’ he scathed. ‘But I will not be so easily swayed. The ingredients of this so-called tea you have brewed for my son, I would have you list them. Now.’

‘That is a realisation that heralds both caution and admiration, and you’ll find that my brother appreciates a certain directness in such matters. He is not one to mince his words.’

The visage of sundered and ribboned flesh came to her mind’s eye, those caught by the might of the Anvil’s mace. Caved-in armour, broken ribs, dislocated jaws, snapped cartilage and bone.

 ‘Boiled water, river mint and honey, Your Grace,’ she listed. A new energy, indecipherable, buzzed under her tired skin. ‘Nothing more.’

‘Then why can’t my maester replicate it?’

He was staggeringly Valyrian; the silver-gold of his hair, the piercing violet of his eyes, impressively taller and broader than his elder brother. His doublet, a shimmer of black lined with red so alike to velvet yet not, winked when the firelight caught it, the subtle detail of dragons in the black of the design. Ria nearly thought fire would blow from his nose.

Unlike the Dornish features of Baelor and his sons, which inspired familiarity and fondness in the apothecary, made even fonder by their temperament, Prince Maekar Targaryen alit something of an immediate danger within her—

Or perhaps it was the short temper of her surmounting fatigue.

‘Perhaps a matter of skill, Your Grace,’ Ria replied, her expression neutral but tight. ‘I would be glad teach Maester Melaquin the method I use, but he made it quite clear my services weren’t required.’

He scoffed, the sound nearly a laugh, but not one of amusement. ‘You would exercise insolence when confronted with this matter?’

‘I would exercise honesty, Your Grace, as I am conscious wasting your time,’ she refuted.

‘I believe we are past that point,’ Prince Maekar groused, his sharp eyes surveying her closely.

Ria held his stare. ‘Then how should you like me to rectify that?’

He blinked, expression inscrutable. The fire cracked loudly beside them, and much like the night prior, the apothecary found the room far too warm. The summer swell made it hot enough. The fire’s only purpose was for light, but between it, the summer, and the hot-blooded Targaryen, Ria was seriously evaluating whether she should consider working in the dark.

‘I would have you make the tea before me, right here and now,’ Prince Maekar commanded.

‘Very well, Your Grace,’ Ria complied, nodding her head, ‘but I shall have you assist, if you would.’

The prince raised a brow, and yet, he still managed a scowl. ‘You would order me about?’

‘I would ask you assist so you may see there is no treachery afoot. I will even make a larger batch, so we both may share in the tea before Prince Daeron.’

‘And how do I know you shall not interfere with the cups upon serving?’

‘You shall serve them yourself; that is how.’

Prince Maekar narrowed his eyes. ‘Me serve you tea? You possess no small amount of impertinence for a lowborn apothecary.’

‘His Grace, Prince Baelor, did not hire me for my demureness.’

The corner of his mouth twitched, more likely into a deeper scowl, but Ria preferred to imagine it was in amusement. ‘Clearly fucking not.’

Despite the roiling mass of heat and tension that emanated from the towering Prince Maekar, always near to her as she worked, he surprisingly took her orders well, if with minor grumbling.

The recipe truly was simple, but immediately, she knew there were moments that wouldn’t avoid his scrutiny. Her endeavour to talk him through the process, explaining it, would hopefully deter any cries of witchcraft, but there was the inescapable truth that magic did have its hand in it. Nothing foul, but would the prince know the difference? Or care enough to know?

Firstly, she requested Prince Maekar fill the teapot with water from the nearby pump as she snipped a stem of river mint in half, and after he had placed the pot over the fire to boil, she beckoned him over.

‘I lightly bruise the leaves to draw out a stronger flavour,’ she explained, passing him half the sprig, ‘and though the stems offer a more bitter profile, it is also where the herb’s moisture lies. The honey we add later helps with the bitterness.’

Lightly crushing the leaves, Ria found that Prince Maekar’s presence did not induce any further frustration or tension as they worked, even if there was still an underlining of unease that would not flee easily. Though he was not pleased, he had halted his grumbling and made no derisive comments or glances. If anything, he was attentive to both his work and hers, watching as she bruised the leaves and attempted to mimic her manner when he realised he was being too harsh with his own.

But then, came Ria’s first concern.

‘Next, before I place them in to boil, I find the largest leaf and a pin,’ she continued casually, retrieving one nearby. ‘And into the leaf, I mark these four small symbols.’

‘So—’

‘Not witchcraft,’ she immediately refuted. ‘Just old Rhoynish symbols that translate into words.’

As he observed, he pointed out, ‘Words are not science, as my brother often preaches you practice.’

‘Words are a form of energy, just as dreams are,’ she countered and she finished with the mint leaf and removed the pot from its boil above the fire. ‘Would you say your dreams are witchcraft?’

He glared. ‘That’s different.’

‘How?’

‘They come with our blood.’

‘And this comes with mine,’ Ria shrugged. ‘Science and medicine, the kind you are familiar with and Prince Baelor advised I specialise in, is what I deal in for all matters that can be treated with it. However, I am not so daunted and close-minded that I’d entirely ignore these kinds of blood conditions either, not when we have a world rife with energy too many are frightened to understand. Historically, you’d be surprised how much of it crosses over with another as well. Did you know, despite these being Rhoynish symbols, they are not solely of Rhoynish roots; they are actually closer to High Valyrian.’

He surveyed her heavily and asked, ‘What are the words?’

‘Thara Tharō,’ the apothecary pronounced, if a bit shaky. ‘Not quite Rhoynish, not quite High Valyrian, but the two cultures, despite their differences, also had a habit of borrowing small practices and words from one another for a time around the Spice Wars. The translation has long been lost, but the energy is still there, like it is for your blood, for Prince Daeron’s blood.’

They waited for the water to cool just enough from its boil before she had Prince Maekar put the river mint in, and she a drizzle of honey. After the first minute of its steeping passed, Ria crouched nearer to the pot, and warned, ‘Do you like singing, Prince Maekar?’

He scoffed. ‘If you are about to request that I fucking sing—’

A smile ghosted her lips. ‘No, Your Grace, I only ask that you endure my humming.’

It was more haunting, the humming and vocal trill notes of the lullaby her mother had scribed in her journal, than much of what she remembered from her time in the Greenblood. Though there were nights of remembrance and mourning, of calling out to the Sorrows and ancestors long gone, as a child she was so focused on the happy; nights of merriment, songs of adventure and wonder, of daring feats and love. Reading the notes in mamá’s journal was difficult, in that she had never quite studied music theory fully, but something deeper down must have remembered the cadence and rhythm of the mournful nights, despite the best efforts of a child’s memory only wanting to cling to the joy.

The minutes passed by, and Ria was so absorbed with the singing and scent of mint winding up from the pot, that it wasn’t until the humming quietened and she opened her eyes that she realised either Prince Maekar had made no sound throughout, or she hadn’t heard it if he did. When she turned and glimpsed up at him from where she crouched, the manner in which he regarded her was distant and guarded, but even more so there was also a profound contemplation settled in him, cast severer by the light and shadows of the fire. It caught in the pox scars of his cheeks, the sharp set of his brow, the minor crookedness of his nose, like Baelor’s—they must have broken them many a time in the training yard or battlefield.

Ria was reminded of her time in River Row, when the sun would crest the top of Aegon’s Hill in the morning and cast the long shadow of the Red Keep across their winding street. The chill lingered in the air longer, the dampness and salt struggling to dry until the later hours of the day when the sun was at its peak.

Fire only ever touched water through the light or shadow it cast, and Maekar Targaryen cast felt very much like the Red Keep in that moment, and Ria felt equally like those streets of River Row in the early hours of the morning,

‘More energy, I take it?’ He mocked.

The accusation had lost most of its heat and was spoken so dryly that Ria couldn’t help the amused smile that bloomed across her lips. ‘Sometimes things lie dormant, sleeping, and simply require a gentle lull to wake up. In waking the energy up in the mint, it will stay awake and guarded while Prince Daeron sleeps.’

Sight and smell are profound triggers of memory, and though she could explain that the humming would wake the memory of the river mint and its water all the way back to the Greenblood and Rhoyne, Ria had an inkling Prince Maekar would care little for a Rhoynish deity’s interference.

She and the Prince extracted the stems from the pot, plucking the leaves to return to the water while removing the stems entirely to avoid over-bittering it. Once done, Ria made a point of steering clear as she informed Prince Maekar where the teacups were, and in the final moment of truth, she stood perfectly still as he served her a cup of tea.

Though he poured himself a cup, he did not touch it, only watched Ria as she took her first tentative sip after much light blowing. Prince Maekar never lessened in his intensity, nor did he blink often as she made her way through the cup, until all of it was drunk up more swiftly than she would have preferred to take it. It was only then that he touched his own. His cup hovered by his nose, inhaling the tea deeply before he finally took a hearty drink, maintaining strong eye contact with her throughout.

Eyes so fiercely violet, so like Baelor’s Valyrian thyme.

Perhaps half-way through his cup, did the prince finally fill the space between them with more than just the dwindling crackling of the fire, remarking, ‘It has not the flavours of a good, spiced wine, and I’ve never particularly enjoyed tea… but it is sufficient, even if your dabbling in “energy” still calls it into question.’

‘My lord father hovers,’ Prince Daeron had told her in the library one night, blowing on his tea. ‘Especially after mother’s death. He means well, I’m sure, but it is easy to see that he never anticipated having to care for us without her. He overcompensates for it, I think, as a result, but not always in the way we need it, as he isn’t certain himself… I already see the difference in Aerion. I wonder what Aemon and Egg will be like? Or Daella and Rhae? They shan’t remember mother, not like Aerion, father and I. I do not know if that is for better or worse.’

Baelor’s words. Daeron’s words. Memories of the Redgrass. Tales from servers and soldiers and vassals alike. All painted the portrait of a very complicated man, but after half an hour with him, one thing to Ria became quite clear.

‘It is an admirable and heartening quality, to see how fiercely and deeply you look out for your children, Your Grace, and it does not go unnoticed by Prince Daeron, either,’ Ria commended in full sincerity. ‘It is a quality I have also seen in is His Grace, Prince Baelor. I would not beseech you to trust a woman with her tea that you know nothing of, especially when it involves those you care about so fiercely, but for whatever it is worth, please let it be known that I believe every one of those Targaryen children to be good kids. The path to adulthood is knotted and precarious to navigate, and so they may stumble here and there as all mortals do, but here and now? There is good in every one of them, and I would never seek to spoil that, not when I’m in the profession of healing and growing.’

For a long time, Prince Maekar stared at her. Like in her dreams, she felt rather bare stood before the great stone dragon who did nothing but stare at her. But she did not startle or stumble back this time. Ria saw to it that she maintained her fortitude, even as every possible thought passed through the prince’s mind and eyes.

A lifetime could have passed by the time he stood and collected the tea tray, a third and final cup on it for Daeron. He did not nod or thank her, but the act of accepting the tea spoke multitudes more than a ‘thank you’ ever could.

With a final parting stare about her, Prince Maekar Targaryen said, ‘The tea grows cold, and I shan’t let the only pot of tea I’ll make in my entire fucking life get cold before my son has the chance to drink it.’

The prince’s departure was as swift as his entrance, and when Ria turned in to bed that evening not long after her, she woke the following day more rested than she had in some time—and entirely free of dreams.

A/N:

Maekar: Why the fuck can't my maester make your tea????? Ria: Idk bro skill issue

As mentioned in a recent post, I was struck with the gif / moment of Anthony Bridgerton gone feral and smelling Kate when she walked by him in the show while writing the Baelor / Ria scene. I feel like up until that scene, it was definitely a more subtle fancy tickling away at him, but man is now certifiably down bad with a graduate certificate from the Anthony Bridgerton Academy of unhinged yearning.

Fun inspo / historical fact of the chapter: part of the Rhoynish tea spell is actually based off a REAL life spell from the Ancient Greco-Egyptian Magical Papyri! Specifically, PGM CXXIII a. 51-53, which is a brief spell against sleep that the Greeks / Egyptians used. The instructions are simply 'For Sleep: on a bay leaf [write]: 'insert four symbols here (THARA THARŌ)'. There are some whack spells in the Greek Magical Papyri, including wayyy too many for love and sex.

She allowed a small smile, sparing him a glance from the corner of her eye. ‘I’ve been often told my countenance while thinking is rather unwelcoming.’

Amusement graced Prince Baelor Targaryen. ‘I do not believe I could ever classify your countenance as “unwelcoming”. Pensive, intent, passionate—but not unwelcoming.’

‘Then you are kinder than most, Your Grace,’ she quipped, ‘but this I knew.’

They spoke so low that Yormwell still had not noticed the Hand’s presence, muttering to himself high above, and yet, the prince did not announce himself to the maester. Instead, he leaned closer, eyeing the tomes Ria was inspecting.

‘The boys are to learn more of their Valyrian heritage today?’

‘The language, more like,’ she answered, wiping the sweat from her brow and shuffling further right to continue her search. The prince unconsciously followed. ‘But the tome was not with the other language texts, hence—’

The cry met her ears first, and then in a blink, before she even had the chance to flinch or look up, the prince was towering over her. Crowded against the shelf, Ria realised his true height for the first time, as there were few people she often had to look up to, but even more obvious was his warmth and subtle broadness, overwhelmed by the clean smell of Dornish spice, something woody, and… orange peel?

Even more than all that, there was the book he had caught above her head.

The prince’s long arm lowered sometime after the initial shock and realisation, attention fixed on her. ‘Are you well?’

‘I scarcely had the opportunity to be otherwise,’ Ria jested, still half-startled. Sweat gathered across his hairline, a gentle shimmer, only noticeable at this near distance. ‘Thank you for your deftness, Your Grace. It seems my pensive countenance could stand to be more welcoming to my awareness and surroundings.’

His mouth quirked, but the moment was intruded upon by Yormwell, who had begun to flounder above, ‘Your Grace! My apologies, I did not hear you come in—and Ria—are you—’

‘She is well, Maester Yormwell, as am I,’ the Heir assured, stepping back enough to be appropriate. He took half her breath with him. ‘Though I would advise more caution in the future when handling tomes at such a height. I’d prefer to keep our new apothecary at least a trice longer before we inevitably scare her off.’

‘Of course, Your Grace,’ the maester agreed, starting his slow climb down the ladder. ‘If I may, I would advise in turn to place down the book, as it’s unwelcome inhabitants are what startled me in the first place.’

With a frown, Baelor and Ria exchanged a look before opening the book and were met by the unseemly sight of scattered tiny holes ridden with booklice and larvae—moth larvae? Silverfish larvae?

‘Cursed little creatures!’ Maester Yormwell huffed as he reached the bottom of the ladder, Ria gently slipping the book from the prince’s hands into her own for further inspection. ‘This is an immaculately kept library; I cannot recall the last time we had such an issue.’

‘It is an unseemly warm summer,’ Ria remarked, turning the book over and surveying where the worst of the damage was. The spine, likely the glue. ‘Many bugs are breeding faster, more often, and the humidity has been worse in here as of late.’

‘We shall have to burn some incense, flush them out,’ Maester Yormwell declared. ‘And hope this is a rarer case.’

It was, unfortunately, not a rarer case.

It became so common that the Keep started buzzing about it, and instead of the logical reasoning that she gave for why it was likely occurring, Ria instead had to listen to the chattering of ladies-in-waiting, maids and the Keep’s nobles spreading divine falsehoods.

‘Tis the hedge witch, the prince should never have allowed a cursed magic wielder into the Keep.’

‘Nonsense, it is because she is lowborn. All that filth followed her from Flea Bottom.’

‘I’d wager she’s responsible, a means to undermine the maesters. Watch her provide a solution so that the Hand graciously thanks her again.’

‘There’s only ever one reason why a prince would elevate a woman to such a position—if anything, I’m certain she’s the one graciously thanking him.’

The giggles that fluttered about the ladies made Ria want to twitch as she passed them by in the hall, arms full of tomes. The other whisperings she could stand, but undermining her position as a result of, what? Her engaging in false relations with the prince?

That accusation crawled under her skin, demeaning not only to her but to him. Sleep was perhaps the one place she felt all the wriggling words crawl out from her, consumed by the quiet. Ironically enough, she nearly thought the library a second haven from this, as it held no interest in the nobles of the court, only she, the bugs and the maesters, until she overheard a conversation between Yormwell and Grand Maester Osmund one day, the latter accusing, ‘A sign from the Seven Above, most likely. Their discontent at a woman in such a position.’

Even though Ria could not see Yormwell’s expression from where she stood nestled amongst the shelves, she did hear the hesitancy in his voice when he responded, ‘While the apothecary is unorthodox and certainly trying at times, it is a humid summer, Grand Maester, one of if not the worst in recent memory.’

‘And is that not in and of itself an omen? Breeding these infestations as a sign that the woman has infested the dragon household and all that is sacred in our order?’

‘I think that it is certainly a sign of an unprecedented summer, as well as many old texts that require restoration and rebinding. I do not claim to know the gods’ will beyond that.’

Something in Ria warmed at Yormwell’s subtle defence. They did not often see eye to eye, thus the fact that he actively denied feeding the rumours closing in around her, particularly to the Grand Maester, was an unanticipated gesture. Whether it was for her, or because he would rather perpetuate facts than peddle gossip, mattered little. The act was enough.

And so later that day, when Ria had quite enough and the maester thought himself alone in the library, going through texts pile by pile, she rounded a shelf and heaved a book onto the table before him.

With a jolt, the older maester scowled at her. ‘Is such force quite necces—’

‘How fairs our trading routes with the North and High Garden?’ Ria asked, fingers drumming on the book.

It took a moment for the maester to register her words, eyes flitting to the title of the text she rested against; Perennials of the Northern Kingdoms. ‘They are well enough, though the Northern kingdoms prefer keeping from the business of the South as oft as possible. The Crown has a far better relationship with High Garden and House Tyrell. Why the sudden fascination with—’

‘High Garden has bluebells amongst their grown flowers, but the largest population of wild bluebells are concentrated in Hornwood and Wolfswood, south-east and north-west of Winterfell,’ Ria explained, opening the book to the map of the North for his reference. ‘If we could convince the crown to harvest them, then—’

‘And why is the harvesting of bluebells necessary?’ Yormwell asked. ‘They are highly toxic, and as such are not worth the risk of growing them in the crown’s own gardens.’

‘All damage done to the library’s texts have been limited to books thus far, have they not?’ she inquired. ‘Not scrolls, just books?’

Yormwell’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, that would be correct.’

‘And all damage has been central to the spine, where the pages are bound, correct?’

‘That would also be correct, yes—’

‘I imagine different texts of different ages have been bound differently, but would it be correct in assuming most involve a glue with an animal protein as a base?’

Recognition flickered in the maester’s expression. ‘That is the more common binding glue, even at the Citadel.’

‘Animal protein is animal fat, as far as bugs are concerned,’ Ria elaborated, pulling out a chair to sit before him. ‘While it is the stronger adhesive to most alternatives, it runs the risk of attracting hungry silverfish, beetles, moths, booklice and other insects in a warm summer like this when they’re breeding incessantly. Alternatively, the scholars of Qohor harvest a great many bluebells—or as they call them, bell bottles—from the Forest of Qohor for their sap, and use it as their most common bookbinding glue ingredient. It’s precisely the toxicity of that sap that deters all bug infestations. I think the exact ratio of bluebell sap to the other ingredients is a little finnicky if we wish to achieve an adhesive equal to animal protein, but between the two of us it is more than achievable.’

Yormwell leaned back in his seat, running a hand through his thinning red and grey hair. ‘And you have come to me with this discovery.’

It wasn’t a question, but neither was the sentence finished. Ria could hear the end of it perfectly; instead of His Grace.

Though a muscle in her jaw wished to jump, Ria kept it clamped. ‘I am not always going to agree with you, maester, in fact it will likely be a seldom occurrence, but I am not so bitter and barbed that I would risk furthering the damage of centuries old texts, and I am not so prideful that I would seek to rebind an entire library on my own accord.’

His eyes, though stern and calculating, twitched upon her finishing admission. Glancing around them, he took in the five towering stacks already at the table, and then the many shelves beyond.

‘There must be at least hundreds of books in this library, if not a couple thousand.’

Ria shrugged. ‘A wise estimate.’

Yormwell already appeared tired. ‘And you wish to achieve this amidst the princes’ lessons and all your other duties?’

‘I have time in the evenings,’ Ria reasoned. ‘My mind is oft restless, it could be a good means to ease it to sleep.’

Yormwell blinked at her. ‘Ease it to sleep?’

‘Yes.’

‘By working with toxic sap?’

‘It’s not toxic to inhale, just to ingest and touch—and I shall wear gloves!’

‘… you may be mad.’

‘This I have been told.’

‘… very well, then. Suppose us both be mad.’

And yet, as the maester and apothecary started the slow and painstaking task of rebinding every book within the Keep’s library each evening—some evenings only one of them available and present—the madness that found them was not their own.

He was younger, but haunted by something far, far older.

Convincing the Hand to trade with the North for as many bluebells as required was perhaps too easy a task.

‘The preservation of knowledge is a pursuit as noble and important as any of the requests brought before the crown and council,’ Prince Baelor responded, nodding at the two of them. ‘Consider it done, my good apothecary and maester. I will see emissaries sent on the morrow.’

When they departed his study after the request, there was a moment that both Ria and Yormwell stood in the hall, blinking at each other.

The maester looked to her. ‘Are all your requests so readily met?’

‘I… suppose they are,’ Ria admitted, a small but excited twinge in her chest.

Ser Roland snorted his amusement from where he stood by the door, earning a warning whack from Ser Donnel as the maester and apothecary made their departure.

Rebinding an entire library was something Ria anticipated to take at least a year or more, even with Maester Yormwell’s assistance, as no other maesters seemed inclined to assist. Though there were evenings that they worked together at the same hour, there were many where they didn’t. Either way, it fast became the second haven away from the Keep’s whispers she had originally hoped it to be in those late hours, where few words were ever exchanged between them and even fewer visitors, but there was a peace in that silence, an understanding brokered that was most unanticipated but equally as welcome.

On one such evening, as it crept ever closer to the hour of the wolf and Yormwell had bid her good night, Ria happened upon one of the library’s tucked away inhabitants, entirely undiscovered to her prior to that night. With the discovery, however, came the unbidden thought that they really should rename the time to the hour of the dragon.

Prince Daeron Targaryen was so very unlike his cousins and uncle.

When in the presence of Prince Baelor, Valarr and Matarys, Ria was struck by both the light they cast as well as the shadow that followed. Sometimes the light was more fire and power in its immensity, as was the case with Baelor, but other times it was more warmth and brightness, as it was with the boys. The shadow that followed was less them than a product of them, as if they were like Father Khepra high above them all.

Daeron Targaryen felt more shadow than fire.

Working by moon and lamplight, the apothecary was carefully applying the bluebell glue when she saw the dark in her peripheral shift. Halting, her head remained still but her eyes snapped to the movement, and from the dark into the moonlight floating down from the tall window, shuffled the boy of three-and-ten. Only one-year Valarr’s junior.

With unkempt, paler hair than his cousins but not quite the white of Valyria, there was a sallowness to his countenance, overshadowed by the hollow bloodshot of his blue eyes. The boy carried himself like a man whose bones were empty and instead filled with the hauntings of others.

Immediately, as was instinct, Ria rose. Pulling off her gloves without cross contaminating her skin, she breezed across the space to the boy with a hand outstretched, only hesitating when he shuffled back a step, half back in shadow.

‘Prince Daeron—apologies, I did not mean to startle,’ she said, arm lowered and fingers twitching by her sides. ‘I did not see you there, and you appear—… are you well, my prince?’

Those pale blue and bloodshot eyes roamed about her, when suddenly, it was as if the clouds had cleared from them. Sharp clarity entered him hand-in-hand with recognition as he tread forward.

‘I dreamt of you.’

The words were as fragile as his expression, and there was little Ria could muster for an immediate response as the silence stretched on, but after some time he continued, anyway, ‘… but you were not in moonlight.’

Ria was concerned her very body would breathe too loud and big and frighten him off, and so she ever so gently sunk into the cushions of the reading nook by the window, head atilt as she left room for him beside her.

‘Where was I, if not in moonlight?’ she asked, quiet, not sure herself.

He did not join her, but he did shuffle one step closer, the panes of the window crisscrossing shadow along his focused expression. ‘You were among mists at first,’ he started, and slowly, she lost him to the dream, ‘grey and still all around, no breeze or sky in sight, and as you wandered, you found a great stone dragon. It had wings so large it could block the sun from the Keep, but it did not frighten you. Instead, you walked forward and pressed a kiss upon its snout, and slowly, stone turned to flesh, cold turned to warmth. The mists disappeared and revealed the sun high above, and the last I saw of you was swallowed by the dragon’s shadow… but you were smiling, happy, as was the dragon.’

Something cold and other slunk up Ria’s spine, freezing the breath in her lungs. For once, she had no response, only an unknown dread overruling her morbid fascination. It wasn’t until she refocused herself and her breathing, watching as the uncertainty of youth entered Daeron’s eyes while he too came back down to earth, that the apothecary scrambled for a response.

‘So; mists, sunlight and shadow, but no moonlight?’

He was wary when confirmed, ‘Mists, sunlight and shadow, but no moonlight.’

‘Hm,’ she wheezed more than hummed, the shake of her voice seeping away the more she grounded herself. ‘Probably a good thing. Moonlight is not nearly as flattering for my features as sunlight is. Drains me terribly, I’m afraid, and if I’m to kiss a dragon, I would certainly wish to look my best.’

The breath that startled from him could nearly be considered a laugh. ‘Of course, couldn’t have the dragon think you ill.’

‘Exactly right. Could you imagine? The first dragon to wake in fifty years and it immediately thinks it’s to be greeted by some sickly creature. I hope in the very least that I chewed some mint or cardamom before I kissed it, lest I also stink of death or lunch.’

The laugh that trembled out of Daeron was not entirely of his own volition at first, but as he loosened, just a bit, it became more welcome. Running a hand through his sweaty, jaw-length hair, the Summerhall heir sunk into the cushions beside her, yet still maintained a distance.

‘Most think me mad when I speak of my dreams, but they’re not like others’. If they were, I’d sleep a great deal easier, and not have to haunt libraries, gardens, kitchens or father’s wine cabinet in my attempt to drive them off.’

Wine cabinet? He was a scarcely a boy grown, but then again, three-and-ten was around the age where such proclivities started. Valarr’s restraint—or lack of interest—was not shared with his cousin, then, but neither were the horrors of these apparent dreams.

Perhaps it was an active imagination, the like of which Ria had seen in sailors before, begetting insomnia from terrors they’d seen at sea and other lands, but a small part of her felt that wasn’t right.

‘Tis their fire blood, Ria,’ her mother had said about the Valyrians once. ‘It breeds conquerors and madmen, and sometimes—very rarely—great men, but never quiet ones. A fire may burn amongst quiet, but never silently.’

Magic was not often something the apothecary preferred putting much stock in, but sometimes there were things older and more defiant, things that would not stand to be explained any other way, and sometimes it would lie asleep in one’s blood, generation to generation, until something intrigued it enough to wake.

This isn’t madness, Ria thought. This is a tired boy plagued by his own flesh and mind.

‘Trust me, young prince, you are far from the mark of madness,’ she assured, undoing the bandages around her left forearm. Beneath, the gnarled scars, finally healed, stretched across the expanse of her olive skin. Ria could hardly remember a time she hadn’t had a rash, bubbling skin or an open wound in the area. ‘I possess what others have titled the “unnerving” or “mad” habit of testing new poisons, balms and poultices on myself. This is something I voluntarily do, with perhaps too much fervour, but alas, the very nature of discoveries and breakthroughs are not meant to be careful and silent. A touch of madness goes a long way.’

Daeron looked both horrified and intrigued, asking, ‘Is that the mark of madness then? Choosing it as opposed to having it thrust upon you?’

Ria shrugged, her fingers tracing the scars. ‘Both are certainly means of it, but the act of dreaming is not in and of itself madness, just as a poison does not harm if you do nothing with it. So long as you are not harming yourself, then you are quite sane as far as I’m concerned… if a bit sleep deprived.’

The prince snorted, shoulders slumped as the smile wobbled along his mouth. The apothecary weighed the dark under the prince’s eyes as he did, hollow and sunken, utterly carved into his features. The words that followed were as unbidden as they had been for the last two Targaryens.

‘Could I interest you in some tea?’

Nearly a week had passed, and after Yormwell’s departure each evening, Prince Daeron would find Ria with a new tea awaiting him. Each time they would talk as she bound books and the tea would help ease him into sleep, but never did anything to abate the dreams that followed.

Partway through the second week, Ria had begun to grow frustrated. From camomile and lavender to valerian root and hops, nothing targeted the dreams effectively enough, only the sleep. Eventually, the apothecary had to relent that the subtle art of teamaking and brewing would not be enough in this instance, and that short of inducing a coma—which could linger for an undetermined length of time and still not defeat the dreams—there was little that could compete with whatever magic crept in Daeron’s Valyrian blood.

‘I have resigned myself to it,’ he shrugged heavily, defeat in his eye. ‘I look forward to being old enough to acceptably drink, as the couple times I had done so in the past have been the only balm I’ve ever had.’

She saw a vision of him in five years’ time in that moment, older, asleep in a mud and shit-ridden gutter with bottles about, ruined and hollow yet silent, and something in Ria panged.

There is more to Daeron Targaryen’s life than that. His ancestors survived the Doom of Valyria just as hers had survived the floods and curses of Chroyane, and she would not allow their lives to amount to any less than what befits them.

Though Luomen had not been pleased with her new role, if the harsh set of his brow and unplaceable hum had been any indication, he had refrained thus far from offering whatever true thoughts lingered in the back of his mind and throat.

Until he caught her rifling through her mother’s old notes.

‘Ow!’ Ria yelped when he jutted his walking stick into her ankle from where she knelt over her mother’s chest of belongings, swatting him away with the loose parchment in her hand. He finished at the Garden House brothel quicker than anticipated. ‘Must you harass me? I already seldom have the chance to visit—and I thought you were with Sage and Dahlia?’

‘Dahlia is not with child, just a summer sickness,’ Luomen advised, peering down at her. ‘Now what ailment has a daughter of the Rhoynar on her knees for a Targaryen princeling?’

‘If I thought you’d heed it, I’d advise you be kinder with your words,’ Ria grumbled, continuing her search. ‘And it is no normal ailment. One of Prince Maekar’s children, Prince Daeron, is plagued by odd dreams. They are as relentless as you are, and no herb or powder is doing the trick, not even with a slight Rhoynish touch. I fear it is some old magic of the blood, so I shall need one of mama’s stronger brewing practices…’

When Ria heard no derisive scoff, she halted. Peering over her shoulder, there was a severe expression set in his features, intense but unidentifiable to her.

‘I can’t decide if you know something but do not wish to tell me, or if you are pondering a new way to insult the art of magic,’ Ria admitted. ‘Magic is just another form of science, Master Luomen; one not so readily understood or as predictable as other sciences, but science, nonetheless. And these dreams… it is strange, I know, but the way he describes them… they are never clear in their intent, but there’s something twisted amongst them… as if—’

‘There are red priests and priestesses in Volantis who speak of the Targaryens' fire blood, and their ability to dream of things to come,’ Luomen spoke lowly, gravely. ‘There was one priestess in Asshai who claimed it the very reason why they survived the Doom. There were a lot of magics that died with Valyria, and then again with the last dragon… if the princeling is tormented by such magics, perhaps it is because their bloodline clings to a world it should no longer be a part of. Either way, it is not something you should win against.’

‘I take back my earlier reservations—you absolutely should be kinder with your words,’ Ria whispered in warning, as if Kingsguard would materialise from the walls and call out his treason.

Luomen continued to calmly urge, ‘More than once in history has the forces that be sought to wipe them from this world, including their own family. You forget that I was born a week after Rhaenyra Targaryen’s death, and was raised in the aftermath of the False Dawn—now that, was a cruel and hungry winter. Dragon fire had sundered much of the realm and crop, the Riverlands bearing the worst of it, and outlaws and ironborn raided and roamed both sea and land alike. It was nearly the Doom brought to Westeros—it would have been, if the dragons and their riders continued their family dispute.’

‘But you are from Yi Ti,’ Ria muttered, confused.

‘My father was from Yi Ti, but he fell in love with my mother—a merchant’s daughter of Gulltown—in the Vale. I was raised there until I was seven, after which we sailed to Yi Ti, my parents having had enough of Westeros’ suffering,’ Luomen explained, much to Ria’s shock. ‘My own opinions and experiences aside, if there is one thing that is indisputable about Targaryen blood and magic, it is that it has spent centuries fighting and winning over all else. It will cling to that boy like a disease, and though your mother was a clever and resourceful woman—and now you are that twice over—this is not a matter of being clever. You would seek to best a magic that is old and does not know how to lose.’

‘My blood is old as well,’ Ria contested, the cold steel of stubbornness heavy on her tongue and in her eyes. ‘And no matter which way we phrase it, Targaryen blood is Valyrian blood, and Valyrian magic has lost to Rhoynish magic before. The city of Chroyane sits among mists with its would-be conquerors in the Sorrows below, the Stone Men and their Shrouded Lord cursed forever more—all a testament to Rhoynish might.’

‘Prince Garin destroyed his own city to defeat the dragons and invaders of Valyria,’ Luomen reminded. ‘I swore an oath to your mother that I would care for you, and I would not see you destroy yourself for a Targaryen’s sake.’

‘I’m hardly destroying myself, Master Luomen,’ Ria refuted, internally cheering when she found her mother’s small leather-wrapped notes. ‘I’m simply preventing a boy from destroying himself. It likely won’t even be a permanent solution, only a temporary one—I haven’t practiced anything quite so extravagant since leaving the Greenblood.’

The older apothecary tapped a finger against his walking stick, entirely unconvinced.

‘Hm.’

‘Don’t you wish to know?’ Ria asked, a twinkle in her eye. ‘Aren’t you the least bit curious to see if I could win? If the old Rhoynish brewing practices are enough to drive the mad dreams away for one night?’

‘Hmm.’

‘I’ll raid Keep’s myrrh oil stock before my next visit.’

‘… and lemon cakes?’

‘And lemon cakes.’

Luomen scowled. ‘If you happen to find river mint from the Greenblood in a jar two over from the meadowsweet, then it’s none of my business what you do with it, even if I shan’t ever agree.’

Ria leapt up with a ‘yes!’, hopping over to the shelves and making haste from the apothecary, but not before she hugged her mentor side-on.

‘I’ll let you know how I go!’

‘Hm.’

Sleep did not find Ria that night, and so she found the library again, continuing her restoration and rebinding efforts. The teapot and cup amongst her many stacks of books had long run cold and empty, her conversation with the young prince rolling over and over again in her mind.

‘You know, I’m impressed you have this many different herbs to try. I think my maester stopped after three.’

‘Yes, well, clearly his "Seven Above" has some grand plan for your suffering that they nor he have deigned to share with you if he stopped after a measly three.’

‘My sisters’ septa would wash your mouth out for that blasphemy—but fear not, your secret is safe with me, miss apothecary. Now, what witch’s brew awaits me this evening?’

‘A simple one—river mint from the Greenblood, a descendant of the river mint that used to call the River Rhoyne home.’

‘Wonderful! At least my fresh breath shall not offend the maids when I wake screaming.’

While the river mint has its benefits for congestion, digestion and colds, Ria refrained from sharing that it was how she brewed the water that hopefully made all the difference that evening. The river mint was but a conduit, connecting her back to the Greenblood, back to the Rhoyne. She hoped one mother listened to her pleas.

The gentle touch of dawn’s first light found her through the windows at the same time Yormwell did, the shuffle and clink of his maesters’ chains as loud as the morning crow.

He surveyed the sight before him; the dark circles of her eyes, the many newly bound books clamped and set around her, the cold tea set and one empty cup, and the dirtied mortar and pestle by the plucked stems of the bluebells.

‘We may need more bluebells, Maester Yormwell,’ Ria announced with a yawn, just stopping herself short from rubbing her tired eyes with the gloves still on.

Yormwell sighed. ‘You need rest—did you get any at all this past night?’

‘My mind was restless,’ she admitted, pulling the gloves from her hands. ‘I sought a better use of my time.’

Like a chastising father, the maester tutted. ‘You shall be half-asleep for the princes’ lessons today. Need I remind you that you represent House Targaryen in—’

‘—in all I do, look and say, yes, yes. I shall clean up here and refresh myself—’

He put a hand over hers, stilling her from picking up the mortar and pestle. ‘I shall clean here, while you freshen yourself, have some tea and breakfast, and join us in the gardens for our history lesson. With the Dawn Age wrapped up, the Age of Heroes is next, and shall require your full attention.’

Ria frowned, suppressing another yawn. ‘I was under the assumption we are to start the day with mathematics and history after? As per the lessons schedule.’

‘We are starting the day with mathematics,’ Yormwell explained with a pointed look.

Reading between the lines, Ria was caught between a wince and thankful twitch of her lips, muttering, ‘Ah, yes, understood.’

The apothecary both looked and felt noticeably more refreshed after taking the maester’s advice, but it did not erase the many nights of restlessness that had plagued her since meeting Daeron Targaryen.

What if Valarr and Matarys face the same one day? What if Prince Baelor remarries and has more children, equally as tormented by such dreams? She would see Daeron sleep, if not for the sake of the haunted boy, then for the sake of any future Targaryens under her care. And, selfishly, for her own stubborn sake too; she could not lose.

The shaded pavilion of the gardens did enough to abate the sun's light but not its heat. As she and Yormwell walked the boys through the tales of Durran Godsgrief and the building of Storm’s End, Ria swatting at the flies with her fan, a small commotion caught all their attention.

Running through the gardens with what could only be described as a gaggle of Targaryens following him, was Prince Daeron. Atop his shoulders giggled a boy who could not be older than three or four, stark white hair standing up in stubborn tufts. Chasing after the pair were two more boys and a girl; both boys shared the striking Valyrian features of silver-gold hair and violet eyes, but the younger girl’s hair was a deeper brown, her lilac eyes lighter than that of her brothers.

Daeron was clearly the oldest, but the second oldest, a slim boy with angular features and a sharpness to his eye, did not look far behind. Perhaps nine or ten—meaning he was likely Aerion Targaryen. And the others—

‘Apothecary!’

Daeron, spotting her with his cousins in the pavilion, made a spirited beeline for them, his siblings trailing despite the halt to their play.

Yormwell leaned towards her, whispering low at the same time Valarr did the same.

‘You are familiar with the prince—?’

‘You know Daeron—?’

‘You are wonderful! You delightful witch,’ Daeron, unable to keep the broad grin from his face as he knelt amongst the cushions with her. His brother continued to giggle on his shoulders from the abrupt drop and sway. ‘I cannot recall the last time my dreams were so silent—well, perhaps not entirely silent, but the sound of running water was soothing, and I saw nothing! Where did you say that mint was from? The Greenblood? That is over the continent, is it not? Amongst the Free Cities—’

‘It is in Dorne,’ Aerion cut him off with what could only be labelled a sibling-like sneer.

‘Right, yes, Dorne, of course,’ Daeron waved his brother off, ruffling his hair when he scowled at him. ‘You have more, yes? For this evening, and tomorrow?’

The apothecary blinked at him. This, I did not think through.

‘We—’

‘—can certainly source more, my prince,’ Maester Yormwell maintained enough grace for the both of them, eyeing her pointedly. ‘Tis not my fault you have decided to join me as accomplice, Ria wanted to say but was instead beaten by Daeron’s ardour.

‘Brilliant! I shall need as much as you can brew—’

Matarys’ brow furrowed, climbing over Ria’s skirts to block her from his enthused cousin. ‘She is our apothecary—’

‘I’m certain you can spare her for one cup of tea, cousin—’

Valarr unconsciously leaned further into her side, half in front of her. ‘In any case, we are in the midst of our history lesson, Daeron. Perhaps later is a better time for this conversation—’

‘What are you learning?’

The younger boy, Aemon Targaryen, clung to Daeron’s side while eyeing the books before them with a certain element of wonder. Though his voice was not shy in asking the question, it was calm, far calmer than she expected of a boy of perhaps five?

‘We are exploring the Age of Heroes, my prince,’ Ria answered, resting a hand each on Matarys and Valarr and easing them back onto the cushions, her thumbs rubbing gentle circles, ‘and their many great figures. From Bran the Builder and Durran Godsgrief to the Grey King and Florian the Fool. ‘Tis an exciting age, if one shrouded in much mystery. Though their veracity is difficult to pin, as they only survived through runes and the tales of septons thousands of years later, there is a thread of truth woven in; like much of the magic that formed and still lies in this land. You are welcome to join, so long as we don’t disturb Maester Yormwell too much.’

Though Ria felt Yormwell bristle at ‘magic’ and her badgering, the excitement of the children around them increased tenfold, even in the sharp eyes of the petulant Prince Aerion.

‘Please Daeron!’ The girl—not as young as the newer born Princess Rhae, Daella, then?—pleaded, pulling on her brother’s arm. ‘Want to know about the Grey King and Flora the Fool—’

‘Florian the Fool.’

‘Florian!’

‘If the septas have failed to share these tales already, then she should learn of such things, lest it stunt her learning later,’ Aerion chimed in, arms crossed. ‘And we should supervise; ensure this woman speaks true.’

Daeron pulled on Aerion’s ear, the latter yelping an ‘ow!’ when he did so. The boy on Daeron’s shoulders, who could only be the Prince Aegon, laughed.

‘If Apothecary Ria is to give a history lesson, then you will use either her title or name, not woman.’

‘She is a woman is she not—’

Much of their bickering carried on into the tales, but the further they delved, the more enraptured they became. Before long, Ria was positively dripping sweat from the smothering of the circle of seven Targaryen children, but as she held and turned the rebound pages of the book, the sweet smell of bluebells wafting up as Valarr fanned them both, there came a tender feeling, creeping like the gentle light of dawn that morn. It settled like the last breeze before the wind rested, or like the blanket of your bed upon the final shift into sleep.

So tender and peaceful a moment it was, that none but the flies dared disturb them, not even the warm and watching mismatching eyes of the Hand, nor the sterner glare of violet from his younger brother that followed.

A/N: Ria has a pretty complicated relationship with 'magic'. I think it is easier for her to classify it as a science, and in a way it is, but with such a large unpredictability factor, she's always hesitated to put much stock in it.

I think a lot of academic and logic / science-inclined characters have a tendency to wave off magic as something 'other', but much magic - especially in ASOIAF - kinda works on a decently tangible scale of steps and /or ingredients, and to work in tandem with the actual medicinal and physical properties of plants, minerals and chemicals is something I noticed happen a lot in the ancient Greco-Egyptian magical papyri I studied at uni (which is a double-win! As that's where I'm drawing inspo from for Rhoynish culture, as explained in the last notes).

Either way, the true highlight of the chapter (as always) was writing Ria's dynamic with the Targaryen brood, which has drastically gotten larger, and perhaps larger still next chapter 👀

Baelor halted, considering his brother. Placing his quill down, he clasped his hands together and rested them on the desk, leaning forward. ‘You think I have not thought this matter through, but I have. Extensively. These are my sons I have entrusted her with, after all. I would not do so lightly or carelessly, Maekar.’

Maekar drummed his fingers against the chair’s armrest, silent a moment, and then asked, ‘What do you see in her that the maesters lack? Not that I think so highly of them by any means. Should I find out she is pleasing to the eye—’

‘You would think me that shallow?’ Baelor asked, brow furrowed.

‘I would think you lonely,’ Maekar clarified, some of his edge gone. ‘As I have been.’

Some of the tension loosened from the Hand, who was now more tired than defensive. Leaning back in his chair, he turned the ring on his finger in thought for some time before answering. ‘She is of the temperament and wisdom I wish to see reflected in Valarr and Matarys. Respectful, but unwilling to be carelessly trod upon. Clever, but not boastful. Passionate enough to inspire Valarr in matters he would otherwise deem uninteresting. Open-minded enough to consider other perspectives without becoming paralysed with indecision. Brave enough to toe the line between bold and reckless with a deliberate consciousness. All of this I learnt after two interactions with her, and had already made my decision after one. Though you are right in saying I have not known her past a couple exchanges, they weren’t a simple passing in the hall, but with the potential to be far more fraught, and instead she showed these qualities in full before Valarr even recounted anything of his time with her. Though there is a desire to see the boys raised alongside a feminine influence so they may remain respectful and considerate as they grow, it was ultimately everything else about her that weighed more heavily in my decision.’

The younger prince grumbled, but did not protest. Instead, he asked, ‘And you are willing to stand by that decision in the face of all who would ask? The King included?’

Baelor didn’t hesitate. ‘I’ve stood by it in the face of you, have I not? All else will be simple in comparison.’

With a very apparent scrunch to her face, Ria declared, ‘Respectfully, no.’

Maester Yormwell’s sigh was caught between tired and frustrated. ‘It was not a question.’

Her stare cut to him. ‘And yet, my answer remains.’

‘You seem to be of the impression that I or any of the other maesters desire you to wea—’

‘I’m quite aware of yours and the other maesters’ opinions, which is why I fail to see how my answer frustrates you so.’

‘Because you are serving the royal house of Westeros—’

‘Yes, I am, and my skills and devotion shan’t wane simply because I decide to not wear these—… robes.’

Potato sack, more like it, she thought, but despite her distaste, she did try to recall some of her manners.

They were similar in make to maesters’ robes, but rather than the dull grey that belonged to their order, they were entirely black. One of House Targaryen’s colours. It was not the colour she was opposed to, but rather the design and fit—one that absolutely did not have the physique of a woman or someone of her height in mind.

Maester Yormwell, a pious man of four-and-fifty that was perhaps the only maester she had ever met with colour still in his auburn yet greying hair, was the unfortunate soul Grand Maester Osmund and Prince Baelor had cleaved to her in Ria’s new duties. As Matarys, Valarr, and Baelor’s personal family maester, his duties were not just that of a healer, but a teacher and scholar, a duty they now shared.

A female apothecary would take the court and even the rest of House Targaryen some adjusting to, so she understood the sharing of duties and in only keeping her to the Prince’s own family unit, and even if teaching wasn’t something she had done before meeting Valarr, nor was something she was much interested in, Ria realised she had already been doing it with him in the kitchens. And she’d enjoyed it—she nearly dared think she was good at it.

The issue, aside from the robes, was what Maester Yormwell taught.

The robes were a matter Ria easily won, now traded for a simple brown woollen dress, headscarf and apron—black was too stifling with the King’s Landing heat—and in matters of arithmetic and geometry, she could not fault the man. He was clever, and well-spoken, and precisely the kind of slightly more tolerable maester she would expect Prince Baelor to employ.

But in all other subjects, there was always something they could not agree on—or that he was outright incorrect about.

There were moments where she pointed it out politely, only to be dismissed. Not wanting to cause a stir so early into the role, Ria allowed it to slide—

Until...

One morning, the young Matarys, whom had taken to her even more immediately than Valarr did, was practicing his penmanship while Valarr learned of biology. They were in the royal library, and the first time Ria had beheld its magnificence, she had openly gawked.

Books upon books upon scrolls; so many that you required a rolling ladder to reach the highest shelves. For all her gripes with the maesters, they kept a repository of knowledge for the Targaryens so grand that it was perhaps only matched or surpassed by the Citadel itself. Already, she knew she would lose sleep to her reading for the rest of her life and still not make it through every text the library held.

She recalled her initial excitement drawing a smile from the stern Ser Donnel, who had guided her there on that first day. So central a memory it was, that she nearly forgot why she was there in the first place.

To meet Maester Yormwell.

From there, the library did not lose its magnificence, but it did share the space with her and the maester’s frustrations.

Such as that morning.

Though she was focused on Matarys, breaking off bits of lemon cake as a reward for him every time he wrote a particularly well-done line, Ria still eavesdropped on Yormwell and Valarr’s biology lesson from where they sat across and two seats down from them on the large table. With Valarr to be of marrying age over the next year or two—a couple years too young in her opinion, but women had bled younger, and worked the Streets of Silk younger still—there was the matter of sex health and intercourse that Yormwell was taking him through. However, there was a decidedly very large emphasis on men’s biology, and even then, it still felt as if the maester circled the matter rather than the more plain and blunt approach Ria would have taken.

She was close to interjecting with an inquiry as to when female biology and sex health would arise, when finally, it did arise—just not in the way she anticipated.

‘Women, you see, were gifted with the art of creating life in their wombs, which is why they lead a life most fulfilled once married and bearing children. Biologically, it is what their bodies are destined for, and why the three womanly aspects of the Seven Who Are One follow the woman’s journey through life—Maiden, Mother, Crone. When a woman turns and deprives their womb from this purpose, it causes the womb to move and creates a great illness within called hysteria, which manifests through several—’

‘That is—’ Ria was nearly at a loss for words, utterly aghast, ‘—absolutely untrue.’

Yormwell’s gaze was sharp, like that of a scolding father. ‘The Citadel has conducted studies for many a year—’

If she had to hear that line one more time—

‘Your Citadel forwards the studies of male biology and medicine above all else, and only ever operates on and studies the physical bodies of women once they are dead, as it is forbidden to do so while living,’ Ria interrupted, past the point of civility. She had heard the tales from Luomen even before Yormwell opened his mouth, and more than anything, this was a topic that she would never remain silent on. ‘You have not even an inkling of their function while living, nor have you ever admitted a woman to your order for her to conduct her own studies. Tell me, why do women bleed once a moon?’

Yormwell shifted where he sat, eyes flickering between Valarr and Matarys. ‘This is not the most appropriate—’

‘A woman’s body is as appropriate a point of discussion as men’s, and the more you skirt and avoid understanding it, the more embarrassed you shall be by your lack of knowledge, and the less human we shall be, reduced to nothing but a womb that absolutely does not need or desire a man’s involvement or baby to be fulfilled. So tell me, what does your Citadel teach about women’s bleeding?’

Kindness was entirely gone from his ale-coloured eyes, yet the maester still mustered enough patience in his tone upon responding, ‘A women’s body naturally leads a more sedentary lifestyle, and thus is less efficient in utilizing the blood you produce. Such a build-up of blood and the other humours in the body then can only be eliminated through menstruation for the sake of your—’

Turning to Valarr and disregarding the maester’s protests, Ria explained, ‘A woman’s body, similarly to the moon, goes through a cycle each month, induced by the hormones we produce, while a man’s body goes through a cycle daily due to both the testosterone and hormones he produces. The four phases a women goes through in her cycle each month are; the menstrual phase, where our uterus or womb sheds its lining; the follicular phase, which starts on the first day of this shedding or bleeding, where the changing hormone levels cause the lining to thicken and follicles to grow on our ovaries, which are separate to the uterus, and eventually one will mature into an egg; ovulation, where the matured egg is released from the ovary, and is at its prime to be inseminated by a man; and finally the luteal phase, where the egg travels through our fallopian tubes to our uterus, the lining continuing to thicken in preparation for either a potential pregnancy or to start menstruation again—’

Yormwell seemed too satisfied as he interjected, ‘See? Even your unfounded teachings prove a woman’s body ultimately cycles around childbearing—’

‘While basic biology makes childbearing possible, each body is very different,’ Ria continued, frustrated, ‘and greatly affected by matters such as your ancestry, lifestyle and diet. There are women and men who are infertile and unable to reproduce, or only able to do so in very select circumstances, and ultimately, this is biology, which should not be confused with human purpose or mistaken as an act of divinity. Just because men are biologically capable of increasing and retaining muscle mass, does not mean all of you become warriors and knights, because that is not your purpose, otherwise you would be wielding a sword in a yard somewhere instead of fruitlessly debating here with me.’

‘A debate would infer that your claims have scientific grounds to stand on—’

‘The great scholars of Yi Ti have more than enough scientific grounds to substantiate—’

‘What does a low-born of River Row know of Yi Ti’s scholars—?’

‘My mentor is from Yi Ti, and has travelled much of the world—’

‘And yet has found himself in River Row—’

A series of thuds and splatters startled all four of them from the argument, as Matarys, who was leaning further over the table and around Ria to watch the debacle unfold, knocked one of the taller candles sat upon the table over, creating a knock-on effect as it fell into the other candles one by one.

‘Gods!’ Maester Yormwell cried and jerked back as hot wax splattered over all the parchment and books, candles rolling and catching one parchment alight—but Ria, who had immediately drawn Matarys’ chair back and away, flipped the bottom of her apron up and over the flame, smothering it.

As Yormwell cleaned himself of wax and surveyed the parchment and books, Ria was already checking the younger prince for burns or wax spills while casting her eye over the older, asking, ‘You two are well?’

Matarys, who already appeared thoroughly chastised, muttered, ‘Yes—sorry, Miss Ria, I did not mean for that to happen.’

A sigh that mustered all the patience left in his body passed Yormwell’s lips. ‘Accidents happen, my young prince, but you must be more careful—these are texts your great great grandsires would have studied from, and now—’ glancing around, he realised, ‘all the writing parchment is soiled. I will retrieve some more, while Miss Ria shall ensure you’ve both suffered no injuries.’

With a sharp draw back of his chair and a stern glare her way, Maester Yormwell departed, and though Ria knew herself right in all that she argued, she was left with no feeling of victory. Only a mild sting of shame. Even if it were a conversation she would always stand her ground on and would continue to do so, her civility could have been better managed, particularly in front of the young princes.

Checking over Matarys again, she offered him a warm smile and the rest of the lemon cake, assuring, ‘It is parchment and ink, nothing worth twisting yourself over. It was written once and can be done so again—probably due a revision, in fact, if your great great grandsire studied with it.’

Matarys cracked a smile, the boy of eight playing with his quill as he looked to her out of the corner of his eye. It was Valar who ended up responding, ‘You and Maester Yormwell… is all well?’

Ria’s smile was weak as she beckoned him around the table so she may survey him better, answering, ‘My relationship with maesters has always been… strained. Older perceptions of gender and religion have a habit of interfering with the progress of science, as well as prohibiting women such as I from studying as they do, but there is certainly a more civil way to express and address those frustrations. I apologise that you had to witness that.’

She made no mention of the added resentment she held from their casting out of Master Luomen, and if Valarr thought she withheld anything in her answering, he did not question or show it.

Somewhat concerned but satisfied enough, Valarr sat next to her, a new kind of excitement smouldering in his eyes. ‘So… you know of the teachings of scholars all the way in Yi Ti? And Luomen is from there himself?’

‘Master Luomen has travelled and learned much across many lands—from Yi Ti and Great Moraq, past the Cinnamon Straits and Summer Sea to hop the Summer Isles, venturing through the Dothraki Great Grass Sea to cities like Volantis, Qohor, Bravos, and Pentos, jumping between the Step Stones to Tyrosh, Lys and finally Dorne, where he eventually found my mother and I along the Greenblood. I was only a girl of seven when she passed, and while Luomen travelled with me for a short while after, it was only ever Westeros; but I had all his teachings, and that of my mother and the Rhoynar. I carry them all now, like you do with your own histories of Westeros and Valyria.’

The apothecary noticed the enthusiasm of Valarr and the bashfulness of Matarys, the latter who still did not hold her gaze for long in shame from the incident, as she talked, and as she watched the younger swirl the feather of his quill in the cooling wax, an idea warmed her.

Glancing between the two with a conspiratorial grin, she asked, ‘Would you like to know an old Rhoynish tale?’

‘What do you think of the apothecary, Ser Donnel?’ Baelor asked as they walked, slowing his pace to be in line with the Kingsguard.

Ser Donnel faltered, fleeting as it was, from the sudden question. Baelor patiently waited as he gathered his thoughts, resisting the urge to massage the steady ache still stirring about his temple.

‘She is… eccentric, but well-mannered, and very well-spoken. While there is a danger in the knowledge she holds, she is not like some careless green boy swinging a Valyrian steel sword around in a training yard. If she truly was there in the wake of the Redgrass, stitching and healing those wounded, then she has a steadier hand than most of the knights I’ve met in recent memory. Knowledge is one thing, but the application of it—the act of keeping one’s mind calm when blood and offal overwhelm the senses, when organs trail out and bones splinter through flesh while men plead for their mothers and grip you tight—is the true test of whether you are worthy and capable of wielding it. If the calmness she wielded while at the end of two blades back in the Godswood was any indication, I’d wager she has the temperament to endure most crises of the Keep, even if its politics are a battlefield in their own right that she has not set foot on before.’

Baelor hummed, hands clasped behind his back as they walked. ‘Ser Rohan tells that she tended to his two younger brothers at the Redgrass. That she could not have been more than six-and-ten at the time. I believe the exact words he used to describe her were, “A subtle force of nature. As steady and undisturbed as the stillest lake, but swift as a flooded river coursing between the injured”.’

‘Those present won’t soon forget the feats of bravery that were seen that day,’ Ser Donnel remarked pointedly. ‘Both during and after.’

If Baelor had a response to his insinuation, it was soon lost as Maester Yormwell stormed out of the library, the slam of the door nearly even taking Ser Roland and Ser Norwin stationed outside by surprise.

The Prince frowned, slowing to a stop some feet away and asked, ‘Maester Yormwell, is all well?’

The ruffled maester, startled by the sudden appearance of the Hand and Ser Donnel, huffed as he bowed. ‘Your Grace—apologies, I did not see you there.’

‘Ease, good sir,’ Baelor assured. ‘You appear troubled enough. Are Valarr and Matarys well?’

As if remembering his frustrations but attempting to temper them, Yormwell’s expression became strained. ‘The young princes are fine, we’ve merely had a candle spillage. I am on my way to retrieve more parchment from the stores.’

Baelor withheld his frown. There is plenty of parchment stored in the library, he thought, but did not say aloud. Instead, he said, ‘And the apothecary? Is she with them now?’

The Heir could not recall ever seeing Yormwell in such a state of grievance, the maester responding in a clipped tone, ‘Yes, Your Grace. She is…’ he considered his words, ultimately finishing with, ‘she is unlike any maester I have worked alongside. An acquired taste that shall grow with time for both of us, I’m certain.’

With a bow of his head, Baelor recognised that Yormwell was ready to dismiss himself from the matter and so let him. ‘Thank you for the update; as you were, maester.’

Once Yormwell was past him and out of earshot, he exchanged a curious glance with Ser Donnel, who appeared similarly intrigued. An acquired taste? He would not soon forget Grand Maester Osmund recounting her attempt to bite him, but had hoped such a strained relationship would not extend to the Maester Yormwell, who is of a more patient and understanding temperament than the Grand Maester. She has not been short or improper with any other, either. Only the maesters.

While mulling over the implications, Baelor turned to regard Ser Roland and Ser Norwin, the former caught between tired and entertained and he answered the question sitting on the Hand’s tongue. ‘Their voices were never raised particularly loud, but even through the muffling of the door there was… tension, before the supposed candle spill.’

‘An adjustment period for all, I’m certain. I shall see how the boys and apothecary are fairing, then,’ Baelor declared with a nod at the Kingsguard, somewhat restless to enter the library. It was entirely by happenstance that he even found himself outside the library in the first place, as if the simple thoughts of the apothecary as he conversed with Ser Donnel drifted them towards her and the boys.

He always believed he did his best thinking while moving. Walking while unknotting tricky questions and thoughts, as if eventually, he would happen upon an answer in such wanderings. In this particular instance, he arrived at the very subject of his ponderings.

Baelor was quiet as he entered the library, and as he walked amongst its many magnificent, towering shelves, he followed the sound of Ria’s voice—much calmer and lighter than that of Maester Yormwell—but found himself slowing as he neared.

‘Many centuries ago, there was a boy born along the Mother Rhoyne whose name was Ikarus.’

She sat at the long table, his sons on either side. Her fingers brushed through Matarys hair, soothing, while she spun her story. The golden light that spilled through the grand windows behind them bathed the three in a warm glow, and the boys were positively enraptured as she spoke.

‘He was the son of a great water priestess, and though he was raised by her on the Rhoynar ways, there was a heavy secret she kept from him. She often told him and all others that his father had died in the many skirmishes with the Valyrians, when in truth, his father was Valyrian—and, supposedly, a great dragon lord of Old Valyria.

‘He bore none of their features, only that of the Rhoynar, which, for many years, his mother believed to be a blessing. However, what she failed to see was that it was not the Valyrian on the surface she need concern herself with, but the Valyrian within.

‘While he still revered the Mother Rhoyne and her many river children, the lesser-known Father Khepra of the sun fascinated him far more than it did the other Rhoynar. The River Rhoyne and all life below the flowing water is the Mother’s dominion, as well as many of her children, such as the Old Man of the River. However, the sky is Father Khepra’s domain, as well as all life that flies high above.

‘Ikarus felt himself torn and trapped between the two his entire life; the pull of the water and life below the surface, and the draw of the sun and its warmth high in the sky, and though he had swam below with the Mother many a time, he had never flown with the Father above.

‘When he was four-and-ten, he told his mother of this wish. “Just once,” he had said, “and my curiosity will be sated. I only wish to know him once.”

‘For a boy who had never known a father nor the truth of the blood in his own veins, his mother could seldom deny him. As great a water priestess as she was, she was skilled in both magic and science, and over the coming week had gathered all the fallen feathers of river birds alike, fashioning and binding them with beeswax to create two splendid wings.

‘“Beware the height at which you fly,” she warned as she dressed Ikarus. “Too close to the sun, and the heat will cause your wings to melt. Too close to the water, and you will wet and weigh the feathers down. While the Mother would catch you in her embrace, the sea is not so kind, so never stray too far from Her.”

‘But Ikarus, you see, had already spent his life between the two, and was interested in the trappings of that in between no more.

‘Up and up he soared, until the rivers were thin cracks of earth beneath him, and the Sun large and warm in His embrace. But the earth and rivers gave way to the ocean's expanse, and as he flew higher and higher, his mother's warning bore true.

‘The Father's greeting was warm and then not, and as his wings burned and melted, plummeting below, it was not the Mother who embraced him, but the sea. Ikarus, for all his years of experience swimming in the water, could not fight the weight of the wings and salt, and drowned alone, out of the reach of both his parents.

‘If any of the last blood of the Rhoynar remember Father Khepra, it is because of Ikarus’ tale. The Rhoynar do not remember the Valyrians kindly, and most would tell you it is a tale of the madness of their fire blood, others say it is the hubris of their endless ambition that tainted him. But I think people often forget the other half of the mother's warning, where the sea was just as perilous as the sky, and that he should not fly so low to it either.

‘It could be argued that it is a tale of moderation and balance; to have just enough madness and ambition to achieve great things. It could also be argued that it is a warning against forsaking where you come from or those who have supported you, of losing your way until you end up somewhere alone and no means of turning back. It could be a tale of absent fathers, of secretive mothers, of burning love, of the draw of something toxic but exciting or not allowing the need for knowledge or discovery to drive you mad—but a philosopher I am not. What I am, is an apothecary, and the detail of beeswax in this tale has always been a fleeting detail that is somewhat true and contradictory.

‘Beeswax is multi-purpose; antibacterial, antifungal, antiseptic, among many other things. It is also hydrophobic, meaning it is a waterproof sealant. It has a very low melting point, which is why we use it for candles, but when heated and allowed to absorb into materials like canvas and leathers, the wax seeps into the fibres and blocks water from passing through. This would mean that the water would never have weighed Ikarus’ feathers down if he flew too close to it, whether it was river or sea, but it would have melted at even a somewhat near and warm range to the sun.

‘In that context, there was only ever really one danger, and he flew to it anyway. Perhaps an oversight on the tale’s behalf, or perhaps in his last moments he thought it worth it, to have gotten so close to divinity, to knowledge, to his father. In any case, there are far more tragic and treacherous cases of melted beeswax than the spilling of some over books and parchment.’

The apothecary ruffled Matarys’ hair as a small laugh spilled from him, releasing his feather quill now coated in dried wax to push at her hand. Valarr pushed at his brother’s hand in turn with a grin to match, and an old—no, not old; unfamiliar? Entirely new?—feeling swelled in Baelor.

She fits so naturally with them, was the Prince’s initial though. The second came as she laughed fending off the fighting brothers, eyes gleaming; for a daughter of the river, never have I seen the sun favour one so.

The Prince Baelor had found them in the library, and for a moment as Ria awkwardly curtsied—better still each time it came to pass—she thought herself in trouble for disturbing the maester so. Not that he didn’t deserve it, he truly should be more open to debating than getting dismissive and emotional. Passion is fine and well, but dismissive and emotional simply breed petulance, Ria decided, no longer as guilty over her own passionate display.

But the wariness reared its head again at the Hand’s appearance, until Matarys ran into his arms, and the Heir asked them of their day while speaking of nothing that had come to pass. Did he know and it didn’t trouble him? Or had Yormwell not said anything?

Either way, he doted on his sons and asked of her wellbeing; how she was settling, if her quarters were suitable, how she was finding teaching as well as the apothecary stores—she hadn’t seen those yet, the maesters had yet to show her, something the Heir declared he’d soon rectify lest she had her own requests to add to the stock.

‘In any case, I shan’t keep you from your lessons,’ Prince Baelor announced his departure, hugging Matarys and resting a hand on Valarr’s head once more. ‘But I should like to hear more of your settling this evening, Apothecary Ria. A couple hours after dinner, perhaps?’

Ria’s brow twitched, wanting to furrow but refraining from doing so. A late hour for a meeting, but he has little time during the day, she supposed.

‘Of course, Your Grace,’ she nodded, ‘I shall see the princes settled and await your call.’

Something shifted in Prince Baelor at her words, nothing physical, and yet, the air around him—between them—felt different in a way Ria couldn’t describe for a heartbeat. Just a heartbeat. Then, as quickly as it came it passed, and as the Crown Prince nodded to her, Ria’s attention flickered to slight tilt of his head as he did so, the minor furrow that knotted on the left side of his face, all so slight and yet…

The idea stewed with the apothecary the rest of the day, and after she finished her lessons with Valarr and Matarys, seeing them off to dinner as she had her own with Joanna, Gwyn, Merek and the others—all as inquisitive about her new role as they have been each day thus far—she finished her last of her evening duties and bathed as much as she could with a wet cloth before donning her apothecary uniform once more. So close to bed, Ria wondered if it was worth the trouble of taming her hair under the headscarf again for a meeting that would likely be fleeting. He is the Crown Prince, would it be improper if I didn’t? ‘Tis not like I am dressing in my sleeping robe…

Ultimately, she decided he had seen her in worse and more indecent a state than a missing headscarf, and at that point there was no going back. He does not seem to be a man with such delicate sensibilities either.

Following Ser Donnel as they climbed the Tower of the Hand, Ria faltered as they passed by the study door she entered last time. ‘Is His Grace not in his study?’

‘He continues the day’s writings in his own chambers after dinner,’ Ser Donnel explained. ‘A means to eventually remind himself to sleep.’

Quite suddenly, their meeting felt much more personal. Even though Ria was certain he’d likely summoned Yormwell and others to his chambers in the evenings for similar debriefs and matters of discussion, she was not yet accustomed to his presence nor attention, and to tread into his chambers felt as invasive as it would feel if he stepped into her and Luomen’s apothecary. Both places they should not by any means have ever or should ever find the other in.

The serving tray Ria held felt more like a shield when Ser Donnel knocked and announced her, allowing her in. Slipping into the room, she willed a smile through the uncertainty when she found him, dipping into a lopsided curtesy. ‘Your Grace.’

His desk was closer to the window than his bed, with a grand hearth and chaise between it and the latter. The room was warmer in appearance than expected, lived in, and yet all the other furniture felt as if it were designed to centre more around his writing desk and hearth than the bed itself. And what a bed that was…

She avoided looking at it, instead focused on the way the Prince rubbed at his eyes as the door shut behind her, and as he put down his quill, immediately some of the tension drained from his body. But not all.

‘Apologies, apothecary, I did not mean to keep you up later than necessary. Time evaded me,’ Prince Baelor started, sharing with her an apologetic smile before blinking at the tray in her hand. ‘You have brought tea.’

The uncertainty fled her body as soon as his fatigue became apparent, Ria shuffling forward a few steps but still an appropriate distance away. ‘Yes, Your Grace. I do not wish to presume, but—’ you looked as if plagued by a headache earlier ‘—it has been a fraught few days. As your apothecary, I would advise camomile and ginger tea with a touch of honey to ease what I can only imagine is a ceaselessly busy mind.’

Something unwound in his expression at her words, and as Prince Baelor leant forward on his desk, elbows propped up and hands clasped, he beckoned, ‘Then it seems I should best listen to the wisdom of my advisor. Please, you may rest it on my desk as we discuss.’

Approaching, Ria placed the tray between them, moving about as she surveyed how the tea was steeping in its pot and readying his cup.

The Prince’s mismatching eyes flickered about the set-up. ‘You have only brought one cup.’

Ria kept the confusion from her expression as she met his eye. ‘Of course, it is for you, Your Grace.’

‘We are to converse together, are we not?’ Baelor asked gently, before louder, ‘Ser Donnel?’

The Kingsguard peered through the doorway, looking between them. ‘Your Grace?’

‘Would you be so kind to send for another teacup?’

‘Of course, Your Grace.’

As quickly as he appeared, the Kingsguard was gone, and before Ria had a moment to remark on it, the Prince continued, ‘Valarr told me of the spice tea you would share as you conversed, and of all the remarkable effects each spice held. Is this of a similar nature?’

Herbs and spices; words always came easy on subjects of remedies. ‘Simpler in nature than Great Moraq’s chai, but it has it’s benefits,’ Ria informed. ‘Camomile is a relaxant, soothing the nervous system to alleviate any stresses and issues with sleep but also any digestive bloating, spasms or indigestion. Even inhaling the tea soothes respiratory issues. The ginger helps in a few similar ways, particularly with nausea, digestion and some forms of pain relief, and may help with oxidative stress too.’

‘Stress and pain relief, likely meaning it would soothe any prominent headaches, if I’m inferring correctly?’

‘You would be inferring perfectly correctly, Your Grace.’

Baelor hummed, a small smile ghosting his lips. ‘At which point today did I give it away?’

Ria could hardly help herself as a quiet laugh startled out of her, covering her mouth at the sound. With a clear of her throat, she answered, ‘Perhaps after requesting this meeting.’

‘Perhaps?’

‘Most certainly after requesting this meeting.’

He laughed so softly, more breath than laugh, but Ria found the sound quite loud in its joy. ‘It is a blessing that I have never taken to gambling, then. I clearly lack the countenance for it.’

‘Your countenance is far from lacking, Your Grace, neither is the royal coffer,’ Comfortable, too comfortable, ‘How would you like your honey?’

But the Prince continued to smile at her, watching her so acutely as she poured his tea and readied the honey.  ‘Half a teaspoon, if you will please. You failed to mention the effects of honey, before. After today’s tale, if the many properties of beeswax are an indication, I half expect it to cure part of the world’s plagues.’

‘Not quite so grand as that, I’m afraid,’ Ria responded, unable to mute her own grin. ‘It is antimicrobial, antioxidant, and assists in regulating your immune system, however, and quite effective in managing some forms of infections, inflammation, and oxidative stress-related diseases, hence why it pairs well with the ginger and camomile.’

With the impulse to teach well-fed, a heartbeat passed before Ria comprehended the rest of his words. ‘You… heard much of today’s tale?’

‘I heard the entirety of it,’ the Prince admitted, reaching for the teacup. ‘If it is a tale of hubris, then it is true that moderation is certainly key, but if it is a tale of desiring a love so out of reach that he would risk burning and falling for it, just to feel its warmth once, then I can scarcely find myself faulting him for it.’

His fingers brushed hers as she passed him the tea, far more calloused than she expected of a Prince but just as calloused as she’d expect a warrior from the Redgrass. He ran warm, she thought, as his fingers lingered long over hers, larger than hers, strong. Without hesitation.

A knock startled them both, and though the teacup did not drop, it did spill just a bit, burning Prince Baelor’s hand. He did not hiss, barely even jerked, but immediately Ria was gone from his side and retrieving the cool water pitcher by his wine decanter across the room, returning with it and a nearby bowl as her apologies began to outpour.

‘Your Grace, my most sincere apologies, please forgive the clumsiness of my unsteady hand—’

He caught one of her fussing hands with his uninjured one, three of his fingers firm in their grip while the outer two brushed against the back of her hand and wrist, unconsciously soothing in their motion. ‘You have as steady as hand as some of the great warriors I know. It was a minor spill, and just water at that. Were you not assuring Matarys just this day to not allow such spills to trouble him?’

Ria’s brow twitched. ‘I do believe these are slightly different circumstances—’

‘And yet, there are far more tragic and treacherous cases of burning,’ Baelor calmly pointed out. The weight of a Targaryen echoing such words was vastly different than her retelling, and so she could not argue with him on it, and remained silent as he bade Ser Donnel enter.

The Kingsguard minded his own business as he placed the teacup on the prince’s desk, and as Ria squirmed from Prince Baelor’s grip to hold his hand in the bowl and pour the cool water over it, she spared Ser Donnel a fleeting smile.

Nodding at the two of them with a parting ‘Your Grace’, the Hand thanked him for his errand, and by the time Ser Donnel was back out the door, the water pitcher had run out, and Ria was cupping water from the bowl over the prince’s hand in soothing motions.

For a time, Ria felt both the weight of the silence and his stare as she worked, but as she lightly swooped the water over his hand, more than most would deem necessary for a tea burn, the apothecary was so fixed on the wounded area that she did not notice the way the tension drained from his body. It was meditative, hypnotic even. A different kind of intimacy than their brushing fingers upon passing the tea. She felt him as if she were the water continually passing over and around him, cooling and gentle, again and again. It wasn’t until some time had passed that the prince dared break their moment of peace.

‘I do believe our tea is growing cold, Apothecary Ria.’

With one final brush of her thumb up and over his, she relinquished his hand, removing the bowl. ‘Yes, that should be enough anyway, I think.’

As they drank tea and conversed, it was much what she had expected prior; a prince checking in on the new staff of his house in detail. How Matarys and Valarr were fairing, how her relationship with Yormwell was progressing, if anyone was treating her unkindly. Though she was honest, there was an element of diplomacy in speaking about the maesters and Yormwell. Ria would not allow the Hand to interfere in such matters, she was a woman grown, even if he was one-and-ten years her senior. She and Luomen had managed their affairs without the aid of city guards, septons, maesters, or princes before, she didn’t need them now.

Luomen was a matter she raised, as she hadn’t seen her mentor since starting the new position, at which Prince Baelor confirmed that, unless something pressing required her attention, she would have one day off a week to do as she pleased, something the maesters has neglected to mention.

Eventually, the Hand must have been satisfied with her answers, as he thanked her for the tea and bade her a good evening, far wearier and not nearly as tightly wound as when she had arrived. After Ria’s departure, and after he readied himself for bed, it wasn’t until Prince Baelor’s head hit the pillow that he realised his headache entirely gone, as well as any signs of a burn upon his hand.

A/N: I already love writing these idiots too much.

Fun fact about the inspo for this chapter: I kept looking into what inspired George R. R. Martin for the Rhoynish culture or if they had any direct parallels from any existing / ancient cultures, and the most interesting take I found was a couple people discussing both the Greek and Egyptian parallels it has (particularly with the Egyptian reverence around the river Nile and how it was an axis of all life, and the matriarchal influences that parallel the Greek Amazonians / old Rhoynish city states that were similar to Greek city states). This worked very well, as I like the idea of both Baelor and Ria seeing themselves as Ikarus and the other as the sun (they're very dramatic).

Hope you liked the little Maekar cameo!! Definitely more of him to come, love him too much.

A bloody end to a petty familial war fought near on the doorstep to King’s Landing. Maesters were overrun with wounded, and suddenly, many who had turned to them for comfort were turned away or left untreated on the battlefield.

Luomen and Ria had left King’s Landing one day after the Battle of the Redgrass Field with all their stock, and three days later, they’d returned with none but the two-hundred and forty-eight men they had saved with it.

They asked for no pay when they did it, but as word spread and men healed back under their own roofs, the pay came, as well as the steady flow of more patients. The entryway bell sounded often after that, so much so that Ria now believed something flipped in her when she heard it. Healing and home. Her best thinking and her most profound comfort.

Heaving the door open with her hip, the bell chimed as Ria caught Luomen amid treating the wounded palm of a young dockhand. Adjusting the basket of food, she nodded their way and walked over to the tiny kitchen corner of the apothecary, unpacking as she went. Sometime later, after some murmured gratitude and the clink of copper, the thud, thud, thud of the old apothecary’s walking stick circled to her left, Luomen grumbling, ‘The sun is at its peak and yet you are here with food rich and plentiful enough for a small noble family. Decided on a life of thievery after all?’

Ria rolled her eyes but was unable to stifle her smile. ‘Yesterday’s leftovers, so perhaps enough for a minor noble family. The bread is fresh this morning, though. ‘Twas dropped by the new baker boy, so Joanna let me take it with the rest as it is my turn for “scraps”.’

One of Luomen’s wrinkled, scarred and calloused hands reached for the loaf, inspecting it before returning it with a hum. ‘One drop and breath on the ground is enough for fresh, rich bread to be deemed unfit for the noblest house of Westeros.’

‘Joanna, the kitchen staff, the servers—all are tense today. Prince Maekar and his children are visiting Summerhall for an undetermined length of stay, and it’s the Prince Matarys’ eighth nameday, so a banquet is being held in all their honour. Thus, everything must be particularly perfect. Today is supposed to be my day off, but I’ve been granted leave for at least a trice so I may visit—so enjoy your loaf fit for a King and quiet,’ she teased, lightly swaying and bumping him with her shoulder.

Sniffing, Luomen hummed again as he watched Ria unpack the last of the basket. As shrewd as he was now at the age of three-and-seventy as he was at four-and-twenty, though, he gently caught her hand as she tried to sneak a wrapped bundle into his tea reserves.

Wincing at being caught in the act, the young apothecary stayed perfectly still as he unwrapped it to find a lemon cake within.

His dark eyes cut to her. ‘Was this dropped as well?’

Ria weighed the lie on her tongue, but ultimately answered, ‘No, ‘twas a gift.’

‘From?’

She hesitated again and answered much quieter this time. ‘…Prince Valarr.’

Releasing her, there was no reprimand or harshness in Luomen’s countenance, but there was a furrowed brow, twitching as it often did when harkening caution. ‘The boy’s sneaking will earn him a slap on the wrist and you much more if caught.’

‘I know,’ Ria sighed, a twist in her chest. ‘But… I find I cannot deny him. He has no truly honest friend in that snake pit, no confidant, no—’

‘—mother? Parent?’ Luomen murmured, unblinking at her.

Ria didn’t scoff or pale, but rather regarded him with a tired sincerity. ‘Prince Baelor is by all accounts the soul of chivalry, grace and wit, as well as an attentive father. In no way, shape or form am I filling the void of a mother Valarr lost eight years ago when the prince is already that to the boy and more.’

‘And yet, he still seeks companionship in the lowest parts of the castle he will one day inherit,’ Luomen observed thoughtfully. He offered no other words on the matter but a gentle squeeze of Ria’s shoulder as the bell chimed and he turned, hobbling to the next patient that walked through the door.

The old man knew when Ria was uncertain of something, and the years of scepticism about the Targaryens—made worse after the Redgrass—didn’t suddenly disappear due to the charm and earnestness of one boy. Fire blood ran hot, strife with madness, bloodlust, war and a need to conquer. Kings who were not of this nature were rare and marked as so by their titles—Viserys the Peaceful, Daeron the Good—and scarcely did the dragon lords fly low enough to witness the damage they inflicted on those below.

But the dragons are no more, Ria thought, Valarr’s toothy grin at the forefront of her memory. Perhaps that separation from them, like the Rhoynar from the Mother Rhoyne, means that magic and fire has lost the firmness of its grip.

She hoped so, but the Redgrass yet lingered, as did the smell of copper, shit and rotting flesh.

There were servers aplenty that night, enough that Ria was kept to the kitchens on cleanup duty; a most welcome assignment on a night as big as that. Part of her wondered what a truly royal banquet was like, as she had only served minor ones in the half year she had worked there, but the larger part of her did not wish to welcome the scrutiny and danger that came with it.

Gwyn, a serving girl Ria has grown closer with than most since starting in the kitchens, was only a year younger than her and had hair like the earth’s reddest clay with a rounded, youthful face to match. She spoke of the unsavoury hands and eyes of lords during such large banquets, where wine flowed too readily and too many distractions made for easy pickings.

‘They’re tamer at small ones, fewer eyes make it harder for them to get away with such indiscretions. But the big ones? The dancing, music, eyes and wine are plenty, all distracting one another. Those who notice a lord pull a serving girl into their lap either do not seek to make a scene or fancy doing the same.’

And so, after cleaning and turning in for the night, Ria’s waking came with great surprise, particularly when it came with the waking of all other sleeping kitchen staff as they were harshly dragged one by one from their beds to the cold stone floor.

Blearily wiping the sleep from her eyes, Ria had only the time to prop up one knee before the cold metal of the Kingsguard’s gauntlet seized her shoulder and heaved her upright, another voice in the room barking out, ‘Up! All of you! You’re to report to the summons of the Lord Commander for questioning immediately!’

‘On your feet,’ the Kingsguard gripping her snarled and near-threw her across the room, Ria stumbling fully awake while the other staff in the shared bed chambers followed.

She had barely gathered her thoughts after the rude awakening, but one stood out apparently in her mind. Whatever this be, it had to be severe—royally, treasonously severe.

After many winding corridors—ones familiar and not—they all came to arrive at a courtyard where many women and men already stood. Kingsguards, attendants, maids, pages, all the servers of the banquet, Ria realised, and after she was shoved into line, still in nothing but her nightclothes, the apothecary noticed Lord Commander Rodrick Stokeworth of the Kingsguard at the head of it all. She’d only seen him in passing a couple of times—the knight a man cut from the hardest stone of the Crownlands—but each was as daunting as the last, and none as daunting as now.

‘In case any wish to play the fool of ignorance as to why you’re gathered here in the hour of the wolf, allow me to be unquestionably clear,’ he bellowed over the masses, all else falling utterly silent. ‘You are called here tonight due to the circumstances of Prince Matarys’ and Prince Maekar’s banquet, whereupon at least half who attended have been poisoned, including that of the royal family.’

Valarr.

A series of whispers dared stir at the proclamation but were quickly cut short by the Lord Commander. ‘This is a matter of treason under swift investigation, with deep scrutiny cast over all who have handled tonight’s food and drink. To save yourself the even severer consequences of being caught—for you will be caught—we demand all involved or any with the knowledge to step forth now, and you will be judged accordingly. Remain silent, and dare a swift execution.’

The silence that followed choked the breath from the courtyard, the circling and stationed Kingsguards precisely what Ria expected lions or wolves to look like while circling their prey. However, the moment poison was mentioned, two parts of Ria reared their heads—one part concerned for Valarr Targaryen, and the other intrigued by the turn of events.

The poisoning of one goblet is difficult enough, but half a banquet? Maybe more? She bit the corner of her mouth as she deliberated, drawing her lip in. Without many facts to start on other than a rough estimate of the number, there was little for Ria to surmise. Instinctually, she wanted to rule out the possibility of wine poisoning. Even if a whole cask was poisoned, not everyone at the banquet would have indulged, and the numbers of those poisoned would likely be fewer, but that was entirely dependent on who was poisoned.

If any of the children attending were poisoned, such as Prince Matarys, that would rule out wine, she thought. But what of the symptoms? What were they? Vomiting, nausea, death?

Wracking her memory of any suspicious behaviour around the Keep these passing days, the apothecary came up rather short. Stress was aplenty, but none in the kitchen saw to ready, cook or attend any food or drink by themselves, none added spices or vegetables out of the ordinary from what I saw—unless, perhaps, an odd mushroom found itself in the mix? Or a vegetable was ill-prepared or not ripe yet?

‘Very well,’ Commander Rodrick Stokeworth roared, nodding at his Kingsguard. ‘Keep your silence, but know this—the Red Keep is sealed, none to enter or leave until this is resolved, and the kitchens and your quarters are being ransacked as we speak. You will be questioned, one-by-one, over the coming day, so know that whatever stone you scurry and hide under will be unturned, and your execution will bear the full wrath of House Targaryen.’

With that, they were all ushered back from whence they came, and as the steady stream of interrogations began, not one staff or Kingsguard found sleep.

But neither did they find the culprit.

Ria remained rather silent and pensive as the other kitchen hands gossiped, the Kingsguards stationed outside their bedchamber having left their quarters in quite the state of disarray. The staff had started murmuring as a means to crack who or what could be responsible but had quickly devolved into other castle suspicions as the hours dragged on.

‘At least we’re not in the dungeons—mighty surprising, that.’

‘Aye, overheard after my interrogation that it’s due to the Hand, on account of not wantin’ to punish all of us for the act of a few.’

‘You heard ‘im say that in the half hour you were out ‘n about?’

‘Didn’t say I heard ‘im say that! Just that it was said.’

‘Waste of time this, everyone knows it’s gotta be one of the servers. If it ‘twas the kitchen, we would’ve had the whole hall lyin’ still.’

‘Hush! Enough of that, wrong time for such words to be spoken so carelessly aloud.’

There had been no sign of Joanna since the beginning of the interrogations, but that was to be expected. She was likely relegating all information on the kitchen staff to the Kingsguards one-by-one. Unless she knew something… or had reported Ria for her own suspicious behaviour prior.

The incident with the apples was over three moons ago now, and as far as Ria knew, she had never seen nor suspected her since. But she knew of Ria’s former position as an apothecary, which, in this instance, may cast a longer shadow of suspicion over her.

If that were the case, though, the young Dornish woman thought she would have been interrogated hours ago, instead of being left to one of the last few kitchen staff.

Being one of the last few had its perks, however, as Ria was able to listen as they returned, gathering the crumbs of information that came with them as they chatted with one another.

‘Sounds like more people are poisoned than they thought, but an awful lot of ‘em are drunk too—‘tis making it hard for ‘em to tell.’

‘Prince Matarys is sick, poor thing. Boy’s only eight, and on his nameday, too.’

‘As is Prince Maekar from all accounts, though he’s better than most.’

‘Apparently, Lord Luther Massey had full fits! Convulsin’ and everythin’.’

‘Fits? Lord Rosby hasn’t had any fits, Kingsguard said he was just about exploding from either end but no mention of fits.’

Amidst her deliberation and the kitchen staff’s gossiping, the quiet shuffle of stone on stone was so low that it went unheard by the others, but not by the contemplating Dornish woman.

Startled, nothing could have prepared Ria for the large stone that rose out from the floor across the room by another’s cot, nor for the head of Valarr Targaryen to pop out after it.

Eyes wide, Ria remained perfectly still while darting her attention between the sneaking prince and the conversing staff huddled around one of the front cots of the room, until Valarr’s searching gaze found her. Even in the lowlight and distance, she could spy the immediate relief in him, but his grin was fleeting, and as he gestured for her to follow him into the floor, Ria gave the most minute shake of her head.

‘No,’ she mouthed, eyes still darting to the larger group. ‘Go. Back.’

His shoulders slumped with what was likely a sigh, but his gesturing became more urgent. Grinding her jaw, Ria stood as slowly and casually as she could, and when none of the group paid her any mind, she lightly shuffled towards the prince—slow at first, before turning into a speedy hop.

‘Are you well?’ were the first words out of her mouth, half-sat on the cot with the staff in her peripheral and half-crouched so she could check his forehead for fever. Pupils aren’t unusually dilated; that’s a hopeful sign.

‘I’m fine,’ he whispered back, still only his head out of the ground. ‘Not sick, but we need to talk—not here, though. Come.’

Blinking, she thought she heard him wrong at first, but when he crouched back down from whence he came, Ria realised him truly mad. Targaryen madness, it must be. The fire blood has cooked his brain once and for all.

‘Valarr, I—’ She was truly stumped for words. ‘I do not think you fully comprehend the weight of the situation we as the staff are all in—’

‘I do, but I know it is not you,’ he murmured. ‘Just as I know you are clever enough to solve it, but not in here. Hurry, before they notice.’

‘My absence will be noti—’

‘Your absence will be forgiven when you solve what has poisoned my brother, especially while the Maesters scratch their heads over it, now come.’

He disappeared entirely into the dark, and Ria held her breath. She knew she shouldn’t, this wasn’t a slight offence being investigated, she could very well be executed if they saw her fit enough to be responsible, regardless of any evidence leading back to her. But…

Gods, she wanted to know, she really wanted to know, and already felt the solution on the tip of her tongue… if she just simply knew more—

The apothecary huffed. If madness be a light cast by fire, then by the gods she would reflect it back twofold.

Ria waited until she felt the group was truly engrossed in their conversation before slinking down through the tight fit into the dark, Valarr slowly shuffling the stone over their heads afterwards.

‘Good! Let us go,’ Valarr still whispered, passing her a cloak and then seizing her hand. He picked up the torch he had placed further down and away, leading her through the hidden tunnel.

While Ria knew of the network of tunnels that ran through the Keep, as many servants often used them as a means to travel without disturbing the nobility, Gwyn and others had spoken further of even more hidden tunnels, used by the likes of the Bloodraven’s birds and other covert ilk. Though she was initially surprised by the fact that Valarr knew them too, and their layout, the more she pondered, the more it made sense how he had left his chambers to visit her so often without discovery.

The air was stiff, cold and damp, only lit by Valarr’s torch, but eventually, a freshness breezed through, until the early morning dim cast a slight shade of purple and blue on a corner up ahead. Stifling his torch, the prince pulled the hood of his cloak further atop his head, Ria following suit. He scouted the upcoming corner before them, and when safe, gestured for her to follow.

In the next step of the ongoing series of unexpected occurrences that night, Ria found the exit had led them to the Godswood, where the gentle stillness of night’s last breath still held over the gardens. Elms, alders, chestnuts, black cottonwoods—all trees, tall and old, were draped by the likes of smokeberry vines and dragon’s breath, but wildflowers grew, too. Drops of yellow amongst the green, dandelions, and the murmur of crickets still awake but dwindling as they turned in for the day.

Valarr was clever to come here. Few in the city still kept to the Old Gods, and some of the staff even whispered about the Godswood being haunted. A prince discovered missing from bed would undoubtedly call for a wide search, but here is still the last place the Kingsguard would look.

The deeper they went, both remaining silent along the way, the more the sky began to wake on the horizon, gold aflame around the edges of scattered and thin, dark clouds. The bruised purple-blue still reigned, but it wouldn’t for long. They had to be far now.

‘Valarr,’ Ria urged, pulling against his grip with a wary eye on the horizon. ‘We are deep enough—start from the beginning, so we may solve this before the sun and Kingsguard find us.’

Though he appeared hesitant, the prince did stall, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he exhaled and with it, a puff of white breathed past his lips. Like a dragon. ‘It seemed as normal a night as any,’ he said, brows furrowed. ‘I was occupied catching up with my cousin Daeron for most of the evening, though it was less conversing back and forth and more me talking at him, but there were no disputes across the hall that I could see, nothing to indicate any resentments, no unknown servers–I think.  As the night went on, however, many lords and ladies appeared quite drunk, and those that didn’t began to grow ill. It was maybe four hours in when uncle Maekar spoke of his headache and dizziness, and we thought it travel sickness from the ride over at first, until uncle Rhaegel began to heave out his dinner. Others in the hall did the same, while some ran to the privy. Matarys spoke of a great pain in his lower stomach, stabbing-like, while my cousin Aerion seemed to share the same headache and dizziness as his father and my grandmother. They all seem such different symptoms, I don’t know what to make of it, or of those who experienced none but were instead drunk. Did the alcohol stifle the poisoning? I thought it another form of poisoning in itself?’

Ria drew her lip into the corner of her mouth, her thinking scowl set between her brows. ‘They may not be isolated occurrences—tell me, you said you are well, no signs of illness. What exactly did you eat and drink from lunch through dinner?’

‘Water, jasmine tea, and half a cup of father’s wine to drink,’ Valarr answered. ‘I skipped lunch while training with my master-at-arms, but did have an orange and apple before dinner. At dinner, I ate slow-roasted pork, lamb stew, honey-roasted carrots, baked and loaded potatoes and tomatoes, and a little of the pan-fried trout.’

‘And what of your family? The ones who are ill? Do you recall what Prince Maekar, Matarys, Aerion, Rhaegel, or even Queen Myriah ate?’

‘Matarys more than the others, as he is a rather selective eater,’ Valarr recounted. ‘He often sticks to plain meats, like the roasted pork, and bread and cheeses. He drank water and cider, but not the alcoholic kind.’

It was a slow and steady creep at first, the thought, the realisation, but as Valarr retold what he knew and it stirred with the whisperings of what she had already heard, the potential solution began to dawn on Ria.

In an unfortunate turn of events, the solution was only one of three things that found her in that moment.

The second was the sun in all its golden glory, dappled along her olive skin and hair like many glistening gems through the foliage of the trees as it rose. Not yet warm, but bright. The third were the Kingsguard, quieter of foot than she expected men in armour to be, though not quiet enough to catch them by surprise. She should not have stopped Valarr in a small clearing as she had.

With that third greeting, however, came yet another unexpected twist in the ongoing mysteries of the evening; the largest of fires, the brightest of lights, the longest of shadows—

Prince Baelor Targaryen.

It seems, in the banquet’s failing, my own son seeks to give me a headache. The very real thought that Valarr’s absence could be due to a robber, sharp enough to poison most of the Keep and steal him into the night, did occur to Baelor. However, upon the shameful visit from his Kingsguard with the news, the Hand sought to investigate his son's room for himself while the remaining Kingsguard, already stretched thin by the poisoning investigations, scattered in search.

Valarr's chambers spoke of another story. Utterly intact, no signs of a struggle, pillows propped up under the sheets of his bed in his stead, and two missing cloaks.

Two.

That admittedly confused the Prince. Perhaps he was held at knife point? Still, the possibility didn't sit right with him. A robber would have worn his own cloak in, lest he traded it for a royal one for secrecy? Another would be here if that the case, however.

Surveying around, these chambers used to be his own before moving to the Tower of the Hand, and Baelor himself was once a curious child. Adventurous. Walking away from his son's bed, he crossed over to where a pillar met the stone wall, just shy of where the tapestry started. With one hand, he pushed the wall in, and with a click and the grating drag of stone on stone, the wall pushed in and gave way.

Within, his eye immediately caught the stack of unlit torches, cloth, and flask of oil. A cache.

Baelor’s lips thinned, his jaw set. Of all nights.

Perhaps concerned about his brother, Baelor with his Kingsguard checked Matarys’ chambers first. The maester still attended his youngest, but no sign of his eldest, nor in any other family chamber after that.

Maesters scurried with updates of the rest of his family and other nobility as they searched—all his own family slept now aside from Matarys, though the sleep was disturbed. None in the throes of death, but neither had the maesters determined the poison responsible. What if it acts fact and then slow? What if on the morrow, their limbs were to paralyse, their sight to vanish?

Knowing some of his family, such as the King and Valarr, proved to be entirely unaffected at least brought some comfort; until the latter went missing.

Though they hadn't searched long, the Kingsguard’s reach was vast and swift, and as more corners of the Keep kept turning up empty, Baelor felt his restraint slipping. He hadn't slept that night, and though he sought to keep it from his temperament, it was difficult to do so in matters of his family. His son.

With Matarys unwell, and Valarr missing, and Jena gone—

Baelor stopped. The Godswood.

Though his eldest had frequented it less these days, it had long been a haven for his distress. Baelor remembered finding the red-eyed boy of eight after Jena’s passing there for the first time, curled up by the heart oak.

‘I did not expect to find you here of all places,’ Baelor had admitted after much searching.

Valarr sniffled. ‘That was the point. No one looks here, but I strangely don’t feel alone.’

‘Over there, Your Grace,’ one of the Kingsguard, Ser Roland Crakehall, pointed out. ‘There are voices.’

Baelor realised him true, the sound of Valarr’s voice both a balm and graze of frustration as they approached.

‘—often sticks to plain meats, like the roasted pork, and bread and cheeses. He drank water and cider, but not the alcoholic kind.’

The morning sun near-blinded him as they broke out into the clearing, but with a hand to his eyes Baelor shunned it and yet, he was greeted by the first and fierce affirming sight of what he could only call sunlight incarnate.

His son stood beside a woman clothed in thin, worn nightclothes and Valarr’s cloak, but the gold of the sunrise draped over her and dressed her as royalty, catching on the sapphires of her eyes as it would on the summer waters of Sunspear. Her colouring was undeniably Dornish, as were the dark ringlets of her hair, but those eyes were not.

Young, but still older than Valarr by some years, the Hand immediately began to suspect of their relationship. Valarr stood close, but not like that of a paramour, and his words—he spoke of food, perhaps the night’s feast and poisoning. Why?

The scrape of swords drawn from sheathes drew everyone bar the Kingsguard—whose attention had never waned—back to earth, where Valarr, utterly whole and unharmed, startled and jumped between the woman and the Kingsguard’s blades.

‘Step away from the Prince at once—’

‘No! Hold, Ser Roland and Ser Donnel, she has done no wrong—’

‘My Prince, there is a poisoner who wishes your family harm on the loose, and this woman is unknown, you must step away at—’

‘She is not unknown to me, nor responsible for—’

‘Enough,’ Baelor commanded, firm without raising his voice, and the very air stilled.

Her hair did not. Neither did her eyes.

They found him directly for the first time, and Baelor felt swallowed and lit anew, from fingertip to toe. They haunted him, not because they were blue like Jena’s—that is where their similarity ended—but rather because there was an uncanniness in them that something in his own blood reacted to, similar yet different to that found in the violet eyes of his Valyrian family.

Something old. Something powerful. Something magic.

It should have unnerved him, and it did, yet… to a dragon lord family that had long lost its dragons—its tether to power and magic—

‘These are suspicious times, my lady, and a suspicious hour; what business have you with a Targaryen Prince in the Godswood?’

Prince Baelor Targaryen was both his son’s father and strikingly not.

Their colouring of both hair and skin—though Prince Baelor was perhaps an edge darker—were the same, their mismatching eyes the same, and yet, their power was not.

Ria had heard many stories from the servers and kitchen hands of his chivalrous soul and kind but fair temperament, but Ria had seen very different in the wake of the Redgrass. The Hammer and the Anvil. The Raven’s Teeth archers. After days of treating the wounded while surrounded by the dead, there were three men she’d always swore she’d never cross if, by sheer bad luck, she ever did meet them.

Now one of their son’s stood between them.

There was precision in his movements, from his still posture to where he looked and when and how he blinked. The power of two old warring bloodlines, of Valyria and the Rhoynar, utterly under his exact control that it threatened to send a shudder through her, were she a lesser woman. It was no wonder that he commanded respect before a word even left his lips.

And he had asked her a question, which she has decidedly still not answered.

The apothecary skirted Valarr without touching him, removing him from between them, between her and the swords. ‘I’m no lady, Your Grace, and I seek business with a Targaryen Prince because I know what ills those from the banquet this night past.’

No one dared speak when Baelor Targaryen titled his head, eyes fixed on her. The answer hung in the air, and Ria began to overthink her posture, her words, her hair, her entirely unacceptable nightdress, the fact she had yet to curtesy.

Awkwardly, after the silence had hung for a beat too long, she dipped into the first curtesy she had ever done, and it showed. Baelor’s head moved a fraction back into the position it was, some of the sternness replaced by what she hoped was intrigue or a willingness to listen.

‘How come you by this information?’ He asked, and for the first time since the Hand spoke, Ria felt Valarr stir behind her.

‘She—’

Prince Baelor raised a finger, and his son silenced himself. Never once did he break eye contact with her.

‘Allow her to speak, my son.’

There was no air to waste for unneeded words—or circumvented truths.

‘I was an apothecary before I worked in the kitchens,’ she started, grounding herself to him as she continued, ‘I’ve spent the better part of the evening listening to the symptoms of those ailed, who was ailed, who wasn’t, what was served, and I know precisely how all food and drink were prepared prior. This may paint a damning portrait of myself, however, I strongly believe this is not the case of a wilful poisoner, but rather unfortunate circumstance.’

‘And what would you claim these circumstances to be?’

‘An infected harvest.’

If Ria had been paying attention to anyone else but the Hand of the King, she would have noticed the immediate dismissal in the eyes of the Kingsguard, the shake of their heads. But Prince Baelor demanded she bade him her attention, and she did not dare test doing otherwise.

‘Elaborate, if you please,’ he asked.

He spoke so softly, she thought.

‘Darnel is a ryegrass which is near-imperceptible in appearance to wheat, Your Grace, and entirely susceptible to ergot fungus,’ Ria explained. ‘If the ergot fungus infects the darnel, and the darnel is ground into flour with the rest of the wheat, it can cause a vast number of symptoms when baked and eaten—drunken effects of giddiness and confused perception, trembling limbs, skin lesions, vertigo, headaches, nausea, vomiting, abdominal pain, and loss of strength, followed by potential blindness or severe illness. In severer cases, it can cause the sensation of burning limbs, hallucinations, convulsions, paralysis and dementia. It is not deadly and will leave everyone’s systems over the coming day or days—so long as they do not eat any more contaminated bread.’

His eyes jumped between hers, looking for something. ‘You would hinge the poisoning of more than half the court on bread?’

‘Your youngest, Prince Matarys, is selective of his foods,’ Ria boldly stated, causing the Kingsguard to stir. ‘What did he eat or drink that was shared with most of the court?’

‘Hm,’ the Hand contemplated, though she suspected not about the food, bur rather her. Her honesty, her knowledge—the knowledge of a low-born woman who couldn’t possibly know such things—she started wryly thinking, until the Prince spoke again.

‘Do you have a means to prove this?’

Ria blinked, caught by the earnest if still mildly suspicious response.

Prove it? She just spoke of their identical physicality, let alone once the darnel had been ground into flour. It would look and feel the same. There’s only one way to irrefutably prove it.

‘I’ll eat some,’ she offered, as casually spoken as a morning discussion over tea. ‘Observe the symptoms unfold.’

That was clearly not the suggestion any other party present expected as a range of reactions rippled, Valarr the first to say, ‘You cannot, not if you could experience some of those severe cases—’

‘It is a most unconventional means to prove it, my lady,’ the Heir agreed with his son, the first of something almost related to gentleness about his wary features. ‘You would suggest no other?’

The apothecary shrugged. ‘As I said, there is nothing visually or textually distinguishing between wheat and darnel once ground together in flour, and if we were to feed it to an animal such as a rat, we know not how different the side effects may be. Cows, for example, are known to potentially stop producing milk rather than show human symptoms. It is not as if it is deadly, I will be well come the morrow or the day after.’

She knew not the expression on Valarr’s face in her peripheral, but she knew Prince Baelor’s. Though there was that vague gentleness there, there was also the conviction of a man who would have an answer to his family’s ailment, and knew the expectations of the court—indignant and like to cry treason from the moment they rolled out of their beds—that weighed on him. He is the Hand and Heir, he cannot afford to be gentle about this, and she knows that he knows that.

‘By your lead, then, apothecary,’ he instructed, stepping aside to allow her past.

He called me apothecary, was the first thought Ria had at the order. The second was; this is going to be decidedly awful, isn’t it?

The world around Ria spun as she hiccupped, and with little time to warn the party, threw up all over the Ser Roland Crakehall’s white boots and greaves.

‘By the gods!’ he cried, shaking his foot in disgust. ‘Tis only the beginning of the day—’

Ria hiccupped again with a giggle, confused as to when there were suddenly two of them. ‘Apologies, apologies—I did not mean to soil your brother’s boots—’

Ser Donnel stifled a laugh as Ser Roland continued shaking his leg, the Prince Valarr quietly turning to his father.

‘Does this not prove it?’ He harshly whispered, loud enough for Ria to hear. ‘See now? She has not even had a drop of water since thrown from bed to blame on her drunkenness, and look, she is trembling.’

‘Fetch a maester,’ Baelor instructed one of the other Kingsguard, Ser Norwin, only to be waved off by Ria.

‘With all due respect, Your Grace, I said I would—’ she righted herself from the sudden sway that nearly sent her into Ser Donnel’s hip from where she sat on the kitchen stool. ‘I said I would suffer the symptoms as proof. Behold! Proof.’

It took all her willpower to stifle the giddy need to giggle at the absurdity of it. I’m sitting in the kitchens, surrounded by knights and Targaryens as they watch my descent into madness. I did say I would reflect it back twofold!

‘You have done your duty and more, apothecary,’ Baelor pressed, watching her grow pale once more as the signs of the next stomach upheaval started showing. ‘Consider your proof validated. Ser Norwin, a maester, if you will.’

Ser Norwin marched off at the same time Ser Donnel passed Ria a pale that she immediately vomited into.

Valarr and Prince Baelor continued their hushed conversation, this time successfully quiet enough for Ria not to hear, though there was tension in Valarr’s shoulders. Instead, she focused on the loose hair being held from her face in Ser Donnel’s grip as she heaved again, coughing, ‘Thank you, you are thoughtful.’

‘And you are mad,’ he replied, her face too far in the pale to gauge his expression. ‘Though the kind of madness that delivers results. Undecided whether that’s good or not.’

‘Doesn’t feel good.’

‘I’m certain it doesn’t.’

When she placed a hand on the wrist holding her hair up, she realised that Valarr was right, she was in fact trembling.

Swaying to a stand, See Donnel immediately attempted to ease her back down. ‘I would not—’

‘After the Prince’s last illness, I—’ hiccup ‘—made a new batch of a charcoal remedy, helps bind the toxins and limits how much of it enters the bloodstream. Genius I am! I simply need to—’

‘You wish not to wait for the maester?’ Ser Donnel inquired, to which she responded with a scoff.

‘I would sooner trust a pirate with my coin purse.’

Ria truly believed that he almost laughed. ‘Then tell us where we may find it, and Ser Roland will see to it.’

Ser Roland appeared as if he very much did not want to ‘see to it’ but refrained from commenting otherwise.

As they attended to her directions, however, Ria realised that Valarr had since been dismissed, and now the Hand had turned to her once again.

‘While there may be protests from the court of such claims coming from a kitchen hand, I have seen the evidence put forth by an articulate, well-educated apothecary with mine own eyes,’ the Prince stated, and for the first time, he had a genuine gentleness about him unplagued by reservations. She could see why the court and servers found him charming. ‘Please know I mean no disrespect in asking our maesters to prove this matter before the court, because I know the truth. However, we will speak more of this on the morrow, when you are whole and hale. Please see that she rests after the maester, Ser Donnel.’

‘Of course, Your Grace,’ Ser Donnel swore, both Kingsguard bowing as he turned to leave.

The words left her unbidden and entirely without permission. ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’

Prince Baelor hesitated, head tilted. ‘Whatever for?’

It seemed a low bar to thank him for, bare minimum honestly, but all circumstances considered…

‘Few would believe a low-born, let alone a woman,’ Ria stated plainly. There was much more on her tongue, she could feel it, but withheld for it was neither time nor place.

He smiled, slight as it was, but Ria felt warm at the sight of it. ‘To only accept wisdom from limited places is to ultimately limit oneself in turn. To assume others, whether they be low-born, woman or otherwise, walk through life and learn nothing of value, makes either a blind or foolish man, not a wise one.’

Ria blinked, seeing double of the man as his visage blurred, but not his words. Words she did not expect of a man born into such power and wealth.

If there was a response on her tongue for such a sentiment, of which Ria was certain there was, it was swiftly lost at the Prince’s departure—

And amongst the vomit that splattered along Ser Roland’s boots once more.

Ria longed to itch at the bandages wrapped around her left forearm, but as she surveyed herself in the cracked mirror of the kitchen hand sleeping chambers, she resigned herself to the fact this was as good as she was going to get.

At least I shan’t be talking to him with bile around my mouth like last time.

The charcoal poultice didn’t immediately cure her, but made swifter work of the poisoning than the others. The key was administering it before the toxins were in the blood stream too long, which for her, comparatively to the rest of the court, hadn’t nearly been for as long.

It nonetheless still aided in a quicker recovery for the court than it would’ve otherwise, most back on their legs or on the way after another day. The maesters had blatantly refused her ‘witch craft’ at first, only following through with mass producing it when Ser Donnel cracked the metaphorical whip. Ria was liking him more and more.

All the kitchen staff were wide-eyed when apologized to by the Kingsguard Commander, a follow-up Ria admittedly also didn’t expect. When they were all told to return to work and dispose of all the flour in the kitchens, things almost seemed entirely returned to normal, if not for the many badgering questions she was harassed with the day after her rest.

‘I heard you figured out! Flour of all things, where d’ya learn that?’

‘Is it true you met the Hand?’

‘Is it true you were found in the Godswood with the Prince?’

‘Did ya really poison yourself? Is that why ya look unwell?’

‘I reckon you should be resting more, miss.’

‘Away with you! All of you! We all have work to do,’ Joanna swatted them off with her ladle, fierce as a wolverine. She turned back to Ria as they scurried, voice gentler and lower, ‘You well, River Row?’

Aside from the occasional bout of vertigo…

‘Fine enough to work, Miss Joanna,’ Ria answered, and though the kitchen head didn’t seem entirely convinced, she let it go.

And then she remembered the Heir’s promise.

‘Apothecary, you’ve been summoned to the Tower of the Hand by order of Prince Baelor Targaryen.’

It had come a day later than anticipated, but when Ser Roland Crakehall announced himself in the kitchens, just about every set of eyes fell to him, all work entirely halted.

And there she was again, ragged kitchen clothes, unruly hair thrown up, but at least no bile around her mouth.

The Kingsguard stationed himself next to Ser Donnel outside of the Hand’s chamber doors, but when he let her in with her announcement, he did not join her.

‘The apothecary, Your Grace.’

The door was heavy when it shut behind her, and the Hand’s chambers were by far the richest room she had ever set foot in.

Baelor Targaryen looked up from where he was writing at his desk, the furrow of his brow easing slightly when he sighted her and then returning twofold.

‘I must apologise for my lack of manners, apothecary, it seems I never asked for your name.’

I’m certain you know it by now, she thought, recalling the keen but subtle attention of the young kitchen runners and pages the past day. Likely the Bloodraven’s birds. There’s little that goes on in the castle without his knowledge.

‘Ria, Your Grace,’ she nonetheless responded, dipping into another awkward curtesy. Slightly better than the last. ‘And it is of no offense. You have had much on your plate these past days.’

‘A shallow excuse for such rudeness,’ he admitted. ‘But I thank you for your grace, nonetheless. How are you fairing after your poisoning? Maester Osmund accounts that you attempted to bite him upon his visit yesterday.’

Ria’s sniffed. ‘I requested he keep his hands to himself, for I was well enough and knew how to attend to myself. He did not heed the warning.’

Amusement ghosted Prince Baelor’s features. ‘The Grand Maester simply sought to ensure you well on my orders.’

‘And I appreciated the gesture, Your Grace, but I have managed thus far in life without maesters.’ Nor was it maesters that solved your poisoning problem.

‘A valid point.’

The Hand leaned further back into his chair, gesturing for her to take a seat across from him. ‘But I digress, please, take a seat. I wish to discuss with you your potential employment with us.’

Ria frowned. ‘Am I not already employed with you, Your Grace?’

‘Not as a kitchen hand.’

Hesitating, the apothecary lowered herself into the chair facing his desk, but did not ease.

Continuing, the Hand said, ‘My son had admitted to the last three moons’ worth of sneaking about the Keep to visit you in the kitchens in the hour of the wolf. A rather careless gesture, as it leaves you in the precarious situation of either refusing a Prince of the realm or being caught with one.’

‘With all due respect, Your Grace, he is a good boy,’ Ria immediately felt the need to defend, even in the face of his sympathy. ‘It is a precarious situation for myself, yes, but nothing untoward ever occurred. He only ever wanted someone to discuss his day with, or learn about herbs and cooking and the effects and benefits of certain foods. We—’ she hesitated, but it was already half-out. ‘—we had tea and talked. That was the end of it.’

‘A story that aligns with his telling, but with the potential to not be believed if you were ever discovered,’ he warned. ‘Valarr is on the cusp of manhood and must understand how his actions affect those around him, particularly those not of his position or standing. He is lucky in this instance you were both not discovered. However, in the recent wake of your expertise and great service to this family and court, I seek not to discourage or reprimand you, bur rather employ you as our royal apothecary.’

Ria blinked, and blinked again. She had surely misheard him.

When she did not initially respond, Baelor continued, ‘You are clearly well-educated despite not being of noble birth. Our informants tell us you used to work at an apothecary in River Row, and that you and your mentor were an irreplaceable aid in the wake of the Redgrass. Is it from your mentor that you have learned all you know?’

Wetting her mouth to rid it of its dryness, Ria answered, ‘Yes. He is well-travelled, and well-educated. It is from both him and the writings of my mother that I learned to read, write and all I know of herbs and medicine.’

‘From where does your mother hail?’

‘She hailed from Dorne, Your Grace.’ She wavered. ‘From the Greenblood. She was one of the Orphans.’

Baelor raised a brow, leaning forward. ‘My own mother has often told us of the wisdom of the Orphans, carrying and preserving as much of the culture of the Rhoynar as is left.’ A realisation alit in him. ‘My condolences for your loss, and that of the Orphans.’

‘Thank you, Your Grace.’

It was no longer a tender wound, but like the bandages on her arm, she felt it itch.

‘Like her, and your mentor, you seem more than capable of rising to your new position, should you so want it,’ the Prince pressed on. ‘There will be protests, I’m certain, which is why you will be working alongside our maesters to ease any concerns of the court, but know you will have my support for all you have done thus far for my family, and for supporting my son for some time before that.’

It was an absurd proposition. A woman, let alone a low-born with no training at the Citadel of Old Town—an entirely unknown person snaking her way into the royal family’s service—Ria could hear the gossip and ridicule now.

But she could hear the drums louder; the drums that beat in hunger and more—something more—an opportunity for knowledge, for poisons, for herbs, for challenges she had never faced before—

‘It would be my honour to serve your family in such a capacity, Your Grace, one I graciously accept.'

A/N: As a heads up, I lead a very busy life, so updates are unfortunately going to be far and few between, but with HOTD dropping at the moment I've had such an itch to get this premise on to paper since AKOTSK dropped.

As the tags suggest, it'll be with a slightly lighter and more whimsy approach that to be expected in the world of Westeros, but honestly I think we all need a bit of whimsy in our lives.

Apologies for any spelling errors, I have no beta reader and am honestly just going with the flow with this. I've got particular themes and plot points in mind but aside from that, we're really just freeballing it, so enjoy!

Like the vast majority of a veins’ length in the body, Ria was not close to the heart, even if her duties eventually passed back to them. Woefully underutilised as a kitchen hand, but with no grounds to argue on when she was whisked away into the Keep’s service, not as a low-born of River Row, the former apothecary didn’t find her new life too awful.

Joanna ran the kitchen more fiercely than the Gold Cloak Commander did the City Watch, but she was fair, and it was easy to see that her stringency came from a place of deep care. Despite only having ten years on Ria, her countenance wore ten years more than that, a result that was likely a combined effort of both her exceeding shrewdness and the demands of her role. There was much about food that Ria had learned from tradesmen and sailors passing through River Row, but now actively seeing and working with the most opulent array and quality of food, she found there was much more to learn, and Joanna never hesitated to make the time to teach her.

In addition to the learning curve, the pay was sufficient, and it allowed her to support the old man back in River Row. So long as he was using it on more than just supplies. And yet, she doubted it had improved his eating habits.

Working in the kitchen meant Ria was fortunate enough to avoid the worst of the nobility, unless the servers were short a hand at a banquet. The two Riverlands and Stormlands envoys a moon back hadn’t spared her from such a fate, and she debated at the time which was more smothering; the ladies’ perfumed and thin smiles, or the lords’ hungry eyes.

A moot debate, Ria had ultimately decided on. There was no toxin so terrifying as a woman’s smile. A rule that held true from the halls of the most ornate castle in Westeros all the way through to most squalid chambers in the Street of Silk.

The lords of Westeros may have held the public aspects of power across the seven kingdoms, but it was the ladies who heard and watched all. It was the ladies that maids and kitchen hands whispered about, their movements, their rumours, who they spoke to, who they didn’t. For a land that often made a point of reducing their women to roles stripped of power and import, they certainly held a lot of interest in everything they said and did. Or perhaps it is only we who notice more because we ourselves go unnoticed.

It was the hour of the wolf, when most either slept or were half-way there in their cups, that Ria was first noticed.

Fruit was scarce in River Row, even if the trade coming through the Mud Gate to Fishmonger’s Square was abundant. Trade that was seldom for those who lived there. If Ria was lucky enough to lay her hands on fruit, it was often due to the mistresses of The Garden House, who traded her services in curing various rashes and sexually transmitted diseases and ridding unwanted pregnancies for luxuries the apothecary would never have otherwise been able to afford.

However, now working in The Red Keep, the woman of two-and-twenty finally saw where all the most luxurious of fruits landed. Though they were obviously not intended for someone of her station—a reminder she often received via the stinging swat of Joanna’s ladle—there were parts of them not intended for the royals, either. Apple seeds, and plum, apricot, cherry and peach kernels, all of which were so carelessly tossed aside, and yet, contain amygdalin. When chewed, crushed and digested, they release the toxin cyanide.

Silently grinning as she sorted through the basket of discarded seeds—likely to otherwise be tossed entirely or sold or traded off and planted anew somewhere—Ria was one apple seed away from gleefully cackling when she heard it.

The tumble of a basket, and the many thuds of rolling fruit.

Hesitating, the apothecary thought herself caught, until she heard a muffled cry and more gentle thuds.

Pocketing her pouch of seeds, Ria crept around the corner that led to the food stores of the kitchen and saw the most unlikely scene.

Prince Valarr Targaryen, third in line to the Iron Throne, holding an empty basket above his head in the middle of a sea of apples.

The boy of four-and-ten had not yet noticed her, occupied as he was trying to hold a second basket upright with one hand so it may not fall on his head. Only when the patter of slippers on cobblestone not far behind Ria began to grow near, did his attention snap to her.

Eyes wide, she was struck by their differing colours, heterochromia, but even more by the alarm in them. Prince or not, he was a kid, and no kid was immune to the panic of being caught somewhere they shouldn’t be, doing something they shouldn’t do. As the nearing footfall grew even louder, Ria acted on instinct rather than sense.

‘Behind the flour sacks,’ she whispered, surging forward and tossing his empty basket to the floor with one hand while replacing his support of the second toppling apple basket with the other. ‘Stay silent, cover your nose and mouth.’

Jolting, the young prince followed the direction she shooed him towards, crouching down in time for her to right the toppling basket and scrounge up an empty sack to throw atop his head, just as a bleary-but-hawk-eyed Joanna rounded the stores corner.

Taking in the sight before her, the older woman’s dark stare was hard when it found her. ‘What d’ya think you’re doing, girl?’

Ria, admittedly, hadn’t thought that far ahead.

When the young apothecary blinked at her for too long, her expression fixed into her typical thinking scowl, Joanna stormed forward and seized her wrist, the one she always kept bandaged, and hissed, ‘If you’ve been stealing—’

‘Course not, Miss Joanna,’ Ria swallowed, unflinching despite the grip. She dearly hoped the pouch of seeds were hidden well in her nightclothes. ‘I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get ahead of tomorrow and count the stores. Some of the apples look like they’re getting along, may be worth either baking them or handing them off to the stables.’

Ria spent an eternity under her hard stare, but when neither blinked, or perhaps when Joanna found what she was looking for, did the older woman ease her grip and draw her closer. ‘If anyone else found you, you’d lose your hands—you understand, River Row? Apothecary or kitchen hand, you wouldn’t survive long without ‘em, you hear?’

Nodding, Ria responded, ‘I do—sorry, Miss Joanna.’

Ria has never seen a bull, but she imagines they look rather like the Kitchen Head; a wall of muscle with flaring nostrils and dark, daring eyes. Releasing the apothecary, Joanna didn’t soften but she did step back, her gaze flicking downwards and then returning to her.

‘I want every apple washed and sorted into old and fresh, and you’ll be taking half the old down to the stables ‘fore first light, understood?’

Nodding again with a ‘Yes, Miss Joanna’, Ria received one more withering glare before Joanna turned and left her amongst the apples. But not alone.

Waiting for a time to ensure it was truly just the two of them, eventually Ria made her way over to Prince Valarr’s hiding place and removed the empty sack from his head, watching the remnants of flour cling to his dark hair. Brushing it from his head, she soon realised that not all the white was flour, but he had, in fact, a striking streak of silver-gold hair amongst the brown. A flint of Valyria in him, of the old magics that warred with her mother’s.

Valarr didn’t startle or retreat from her attentive hand, not even when he rose and stood at his full height below her chin. She wagered he had some growing left in him, but even then, Ria was taller than most.

‘I know you fancy yourselves dragon lords, but that’s one dragon I wouldn’t test,’ Ria whispered teasingly. ‘I’ve seen her threaten to eat maids’ ears for less.’

A breath, caught between amused and relieved, stuttered from the prince. ‘She sounds like a force that belongs more in the training yard than the kitchens.’

Ria’s blue eyes laughed brightly, her smile conspiratorial. ‘If you’d seen her with a butcher knife, let alone a sword, you’d know that even your finest Kingsguards would swiftly lose both belt, pants and hair before the battle itself.’

Valarr laughed louder, more boldly, that time, enough so that he had to temper it under Ria’s gentle hush. Satisfied with the state of his hair, the apothecary stepped back, one brow arched in question. ‘Now, I can only assume a wandering prince found his way to the dredges of the kitchens for one reason and one reason only—’

Reaching down, she gathered a red apple and cleaned it against her probably highly indecent and bedraggled nightclothes before holding it out to the prince.

Sheepishness crept into the lightening features of the boy, and though he was at an age where Ria had seen many boys of Flea Bottom start to grow the kind of curious or twisted or both that men often did, Valarr’s mismatching eyes spoke of none of that. Only a humbleness that was not befitting of a prince, let alone what she had expected from the blood of the dragon. From fire blood.

And as he reluctantly accepted the apple with no demands of it to be properly washed, that proved it even more so. The prince admitted, ‘I…was hungry and did not wish to stir the maids, but… I also intend to ride in the morning…and… well…’

Understanding dawned on the apothecary, who readily swooped for another apple to clean before handing it over again. ‘Ensure you remove the seeds before feeding it to—what’s your horse’s name?’

Valarr glanced between her and the second apple as he accepted it. ‘Ash.’

‘Ensure you remove the seeds before feeding it to Ash,’ Ria finished, trying for something akin to stern but ultimately unable to stop herself from smiling at the prince’s attempt at a grand heist. ‘You’d need to be feed them a few apples a day for it to be a concern, but better safe than sorry.’

The teen nodded and considered her for a time. ‘Of course, thank you—for both these and for jumping in so swiftly. I was too concerned about myself than I did not think of the consequences of you getting caught—how much greater they would be—until I heard her speak of losing your—’

Covering his hands with her own, Ria smiled reassuringly. ‘Worry not. It’s passed. Just be more careful next time. Not everyone who stirs in the hour of the wolf is well-intentioned.’

‘Of course,’ Valarr agreed, but when his mismatching eyes flickered down to where she touched him, his brow furrowed. ‘Your arm, are you well?’

Blinking, Ria realised he meant the bandages around her left forearm. ‘Oh, yes! Worry not about that either, not everyone appreciates scarring. Just hurry along back to your chambers before your Kingsguard realise you’ve slipped out from under their watch.’

‘Allow me to at least help with—’

There it was, that humbleness. Some would mistake it for weakness, but there was confidence there, a bold kindness. Either his nurses, mother, or father raised him well. Certainly wouldn’t be those backwards-thinking maesters.

Giving his hands a squeeze before releasing them, the apothecary shook her head. ‘Sleep won’t find me at this hour, and you do really need to return before they find you missing, my prince.’

Valarr Targaryen seemed as if he would argue, but with enough time, stubbornness gave way to understanding. With a final parting ‘thank you’, the prince left Ria to her sea of apples, only looking back once.

After his leaving, it dawned on her that she had been far too familiar with him. Cleaning his hair, holding his hands, speaking as if they were friends rather than a lowly kitchenhand and prince. Perhaps it was the lack of Valyria in his features when she had expected more, and the larger familiarity she found instead. He was paler than her, but far warmer of skin than she had always heard the Valyrians were, and his hair—aside from the streak of white—was as dark as the deepest parts of the earth, just like hers. One eye the colour of garden waters, the other like honeyed ale.

Ria hadn’t taken on the dark eyes of her mother. It was the one trait of the Rhoynar that lost to her father’s genes. In a way, though, the startling blue of her eyes made her feel closer to her mother’s ancestry, even if she herself never put too much stock in the tales of the magic of water priests and priestesses.

And yet, as Ria washed and sorted apples while the hour of the nightingale neared, reminiscing on the mother she remembered more from the words of her mentor than her own memory, she realised that in the four-and-ten years since leaving Dorne and The Greenblood, that the closest she had come to the blood of her blood was a Targaryen Prince. Fire blood.

Perhaps not so impossible to touch after all, the apothecary thought.

Ria remembered the second time she saw a Targaryen. And the third, and the fourth, and the fifth. It blurred a bit after the sixth.

While there were many fruits, vegetables, spices, herbs and assortments of food she hadn’t commonly worked with before coming to The Red Keep, she still held the knowledge of them in her head, had seen the sketchings and pressed samples of them in Luomen’s many travel journals or from merchants passing through the Mud Gate. It was enough to encourage Joanna and Merek, the tallest, gangliest boy of two-and-ten she had ever seen, to add them to Merek’s market ventures some mornings. Sometimes, if Ria behaved well enough and finished her morning duties before the sun rose, she was even fortunate enough to join him and see the familiar streets of Fishmonger’s Square and River Row again.

To do so, however, often meant sleeping odd hours, and even more often meant she prepared her morning duties in the dead of night, in the now familiar hour of the wolf; an hour, it seemed, that was also growing familiar with one other.

The second time she saw Valarr Targaryen was when she was kneading and proving all the dough for the fresh loaves and rolls to be baked first thing the coming morning. Though she didn’t as apparently have all the muscles Joanna did and certainly hadn’t worked in the Keep long enough to put more weight on from her humbler days in River Row, the apothecary wasn’t as slight a wisp as many other women of her station, and it showed when it came time to knead enough dough to feed a castle for the morning.

An hour into kneading and proving, the shorter parts of her unruly dark ringlets afloat around her face, Ria was thinking about the cinnamon and cardamom shipment from Great Moraq that was due to be at the markets that morning when she was startled by someone clearing their throat.

Looking up, the unlikely sight of Valarr Targaryen greeted her with less panic than he did half a moon ago. There was still the bashfulness of a youth knowing they were somewhere they shouldn’t be, but it wasn’t alarmed or apologetic, instead rather boyish and uncertain.

‘It occurred to me,’ Valarr started, whispering across the kitchen, ‘that I never got your name.’

Ria had been told many times that her resting and thinking faces were not particularly welcoming, a fact she realised may have affected the young prince when the silence stretched for a beat too long and he began to appear even more unsure of himself.

‘Ria, my prince,’ she answered, easing back into kneading the dough. One eye on him, the other on her work.

‘Just Ria?’ He asked.

She nodded, huffing her hair from her vision. ‘Just Ria, my prince. Two names are reserved for people of import or noble birth.’

The prince’s brow knotted, but he didn’t deny her words—at least, the words she nearly expected him to deny. ‘You needn’t call me my prince down here; there’s no one else around.’

Halting in her kneading again, the apothecary truly looked at the boy. He had closed the distance as they conversed, now stood on the opposite side of the large kitchen table. Even though his nightclothes were simple, they were expertly stitched and of some of the softest silks she was sure she’d ever see. Not in a cloak, as if he intended to abscond from the castle, she deduced. Fresh from bed, his only destination to be here.

Ria would ask why, but she also felt as if that question would break the peace settling over their exchange, or that of the unspoken rules that came with it. If all he wants is to talk, she could abide him that. If he wanted something more, he would tell her in time.

‘Well, Valarr, tell me—did Ash enjoy their apple?’

The prince smiled, leaning against the table. ‘She did, thank you. I removed the seeds, too—and told the stable hands to ensure they did the same for the other horses.’

‘Well done,’ Ria praised, moving the dough into a bowl to wrap and prove in the oven. ‘I’d offer to retrieve you a couple more, but I fear they’d either stick to my hands or be dusted in flour. Please help yourself, though. I’ve put them down lower to avoid any more tumbles.’

‘Perhaps upon my leave,’ Valarr accepted, glancing at the many trays and balls of dough as the apothecary moved on to the next. ‘This is a lot of bread; do we truly go through this much in a day?’

‘In a morning,’ Ria corrected. ‘Sometimes it extends to the afternoon, though we’re still advised to bake anew by then and again by dinner.’

‘And you do this by yourself?’ He asked, stunned.

The young woman shrugged. ‘I could enlist aid from another, but most of the kitchen hands wake closer to sun rise, and I must be done my morning duties by then if I wish to visit the markets.’

‘These markets are special, I take it?’

Muscles mildly trembling, Ria nodded. ‘The best of every herb, spice, fish, meat, fruit, vegetable and more is only there when the stalls first open. Many of them hold the highest quality items for your house regardless, of course, but I’ve been trying to encourage Joanna to be more daring with flavours as of late. Speciality spices and delicacies from far off realms, and sometimes they have enough in stock to offer sample tastings. Admittedly an experience I indulge in that comes with the station, but it truly is for the benefit of your family and all nobility under this roof—the encouragement is a work in progress, but it’s steady.’

Looking around again, determination alit in the prince’s mismatching eyes. ‘How can I help, then?’

Ria stopped, staring at him. ‘My pr—Valarr, this is absolutely unbefitting of—’

‘This is ultimately for all nobility under this roof, you said as much, yes?’ The teen pressed, leaning forward. ‘Then as the crown prince it is my sworn duty to ensure we offer our guests the best service and food we possibly can, is it not? I am a quick learner, too, my maesters and training masters say so. I swear I won’t be burden, not once I know my instructions. Please.’

The question stretched on as Ria turned the answer over her tongue. Though highly inappropriate, who was she to deny a prince? And if he were a fast learner, then it could mean her duties finished even quicker.

Moreover than all of that, though, was the stark certainty that he wanted this for some reason or another, wanted her company or to be here. So, she didn’t deny him that.

And he handled the heat of the ovens far better than she did.

‘Is that one of those special spices you spoke of?’ Valarr asked, peering over her shoulder as she stock checked the new spices with the old, holding the green cardamom pods in her hands. ‘It looks curious, like a seed or bug.’

Smiling over her shoulder at the boy, she answered, ‘Yes, it’s green cardamom from all the way across the Summer Sea in Great Moraq. They’re unassuming, but they pack great flavour and are very soothing. Even better than that, is their antioxidant, anti-inflammatory, and antimicrobial properties, aiding with digestion and warming one enough to alleviate colds and congestions. Not outright cure them, mind you, but certainly help with the symptoms.’

Eyeing the dark circles under his eyes, Ria pondered before turning to him more. ‘Which would you prefer—tea, or wine?’

The prince didn’t take long before answering, ‘Tea.’

Retrieving more of the new spices from the stores—cinnamon, black peppercorns, cloves, ginger, and honey—the apothecary admitted, ‘I’ve been wanting to try a recipe I saw in my mentor’s notes—would you like to be the first to test it?’

The prince has requested the tea each time he visited now, holding the warming cup in one hand while he passed Ria lentils with the other. ‘Where did you come to learn all there is about foods and spices such as these? You mentioned a mentor, but my maesters do not teach such things.’

‘Of course—they would be more focused on your histories, politics, geographies, and philosophies,’ Ria confirmed, soaking the lentils as he passed them to her. ‘My mentor was a maester once, but he found them rather… limiting. An acting maester would never have taught me like he did, they don’t think women suited, but everyone should know about herbs, spices, plants and poisons. They’re simple, in a way, and can offer many hidden benefits when prepared correctly, but many of them—when mistaken for another or not properly prepared in parts—can easily make one gravely ill, permanently enfeebled, or even bring death. There are many parts to plants, and the difference between root, leaf, flower and berry can be vast.’

Looking down at his cup, Valarr asked, ‘And what of this tea? What benefits does it secretly provide? Other than a calm mind.’

Ria beamed. ‘The cardamom you know, but the cinnamon is also an antioxidant, anti-inflammatory, and antimicrobial, aiding with heart health, too. My mentor, Luomen, only had hypothesises on black peppercorns, but he supposed that they aid the absorption of many of the minerals, vitamins and beneficial parts of your meal, and the piperine in it activates those little receptors on your tongue, in turn waking the acids of your stomach so you may digest easier. The ginger and cloves are also good for that, as well as many of the other properties we’ve already touched on, but ginger is particularly good for nausea, so ladies may take to having ginger tea when pregnant, and cloves help with your blood sugars and tooth aches, even if their oil is more effective in that regard.’

Struck utterly silent, it took a while for Valarr to come up with a response. ‘Next time I am ill, I am coming straight to you—damn what Maester Osmund says.’

Eyes wide, Ria turned to the prince entirely. ‘That would be unwise. If your maesters and family heard of you coming to a kitchen hand, let alone a woman, for medicinal advice—’

‘But you are clearly more learned than they are despite their years of study and noble upbringing—’

‘It matters not, not to them, not to the King or your father, the Hand and Heir,’ Ria stressed.

Unsatisfied, Valarr glared, and while it was not entirely at her, it was at the reality of it. ‘My grandmother is Dornish, like you, she would understand.’

‘Your grandmother, the Queen consort, is of noble birth and a ruler of the realm, but even she cannot unthread the centuries of beliefs and thinking that is tightly woven through the other kingdoms of Westeros,’ the apothecary gently told him, a sad smile upon her lips. ‘It was one thing for me to be an apothecary of River Row; people who are desperate or have less learn not to argue much, but those who have more—more choice, more advisors, more knowledge—and are comfortable, have the luxury to valuate and deny aid and knowledge if they do not like where it comes from.’

Frowning, the prince murmured, ‘That seems silly… and limiting.’

‘It is,’ she quietly agreed, returning to the lentils.

Valarr had been sniffling since he walked through the kitchen archway.

Washing her hands, Ria approached him and brushed the hair from his forehead, placing the back of her hand against it. ‘You have a fever.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You should be in bed,’ the young woman stressed.

He shrugged but didn’t move from her touch. ‘My bed and chambers were too hot, and it is always cooler down here with the stone.’

Despite all earlier claims and cautions, Ria moved steadily as she evaluated the kitchen stores, finding them lacking in true medicinal herbs other than the most basic of teas. Even the new spices were not enough.

‘What I need is not here,’ she declared, instead warming the spiced tea she had already prepared before his arrival. ‘I’m going to leave you with the tea for now and be back with what I need shortly.’

Sniffling, Valar said, ‘Our Grand Maester’s stores will have everything you need—’

‘And I would undoubtedly lose my hands on the spot if caught,’ Ria reminded, hopping around as she drew on her boots and then cloak. ‘River Row is not particularly close, but I’ll hasten. Keep an eye on the steeping tea, there should be enough for at least two cups. I’ll be back before they’re done.’

Wiping his nose, the prince watched the apothecary scurry with a level-headedness that soothed him before he even had a drop of whatever remedy she sought to concoct. Though he felt slightly guilty for putting her in such a situation, he meant what he said half a moon ago. It was perhaps hasty of him after only knowing her for nearly three moons, but he trusted her expertise more than the maesters that sought to cling to his family and the other nobility for power, closely guarding their knowledge so they may be relevant and useful. Whereas she, a kitchen hand and apothecary, did not implore he put a good word of her deeds to his lord father, and did not try to curry favour or more attention and good graces. She, who instead did not acknowledge such attention, and shared her knowledge freely.

‘It is one thing to give a man a fish, Valarr,’ his father once said. ‘It is another thing to teach him how to fish, for that means handing him the power and control over how he may eat for the rest of his life. A good king does not seek to hoard such power over others, but rather shares it, especially when we hold enough fish to feed the seven kingdoms seven times over.’

He would like her, the prince knew, sniffling as he watched Ria depart in a flurry of long, unruly curls.

Even if her eyes reminded him of mother.

Baelor Targaryen watched his eldest son with no small amount of suspicion. It was only the night prior that he was running a fever twice as hot as deemed safe, with coughs and sneezes and sniffles spluttering every couple of minutes. Grand Maester Osmund had cautioned that the particular cold Valarr was beset by would run its course in a few days, and though they could aid in easing it’s symptoms, the prince unfortunately would just have to ride it out.

‘We can alleviate the congestion, soreness of throat, and extreme heat of the fever as much we can, Your Grace,’ the older man advised, his chains clinking from his shuffling. ‘But such flus unfortunately simply need run their course. It is nothing dire, and he shall be well again in the coming days.’

More like the coming day, Baelor thought.

Though he appeared robbed of sleep, the Hand of the King could count on one hand how many times Valarr had sniffled over breakfast that morning and have fingers to spare. The fact he joined him and Matarys was already a feat Baelor considered well-accomplished, and yet he moved with a renewed—if slightly fatigued—vigour. Moreover, he was reaching for certain foods he did not commonly eat while ignoring those he did.

Oranges, black currants, spinach with his eggs, almonds, walnuts—he even denied the serving maid from peeling the ginger he requested, instead peeling and grating it himself to steep in the hot water that was brought to him.

‘You seem well, Valarr,’ Baelor noted, smiling when his son turned his way. ‘It seems your sickness was more fleeting than the maesters estimated.’

‘Hm? Oh, yes, perhaps it was the fresh air,’ the teen dismissed, inspecting his apple. ‘I didn’t sleep well, so I spent much of my night out on the balcony. Made all the difference with my fever.’

‘Hmm,’ Baelor hummed, watching him as he picked apart the apple. ‘I’m glad to hear it, the maesters were too humble about their capabilities it seems—is there something the matter with your apple, son?’

‘No, not at all.’ Valarr shook his head, popping a slice in his mouth and chewing before he continued, ‘Just ensuring there were no seeds in them—they’re bad for you, did you know? Small traces of cyanide, can be terrible in large amounts.’ Even more puzzled than before, Baelor allowed his confusion to settle for later consideration. What mattered was Valarr was healthy once more, even if it meant that health brought with it a strange fascination with apple seeds.

A/N: This is my absolute very first fic post to tumblr!! Big milestone for me 🎉