art longa, vita brevis

Chapter Three - Youth and Innocence

“Do you really mean to ride out now?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at the weather and willing it to cease. Men and horses both had died under far safer conditions. 

“My sons are out there,” Maekar replied. His voice carried more emotion than intended. The waver in it squeezed her heart.

“They’re hiding in an inn, Maekar.”

“You don’t know that,” he continued, facing her fully for the first time. She could see why he had avoided her gaze. Every fear was on display for her, every possibility, every horror, every terrible outcome that might befall two missing princes. “Daeron could have fallen drunk off his horse. Even if he just fell off a fucking table, that would leave Aegon alone. He is nine, Rhaenys, and he-”

“Is too much trouble for a boy his size, I believe were your words,” she said with a soft smile.

Linda: What the hell is everyone looking at me for? Louise: [coughs] Because you have road rage.

Chapter Seven - A Debt Owed

There was a dull ringing in Baelor’s ears. It reminded him of Redgrass, when a shield bearing that cursed black dragon slammed into his helm and the world was set dangerously askew. Direction had no meaning, and every scrap of knowledge and refinement fled, giving way to something primitive, an instinct to survive no matter the cost. He was not a prince then, or even a man, simply flesh and bone filled with volatile purpose.

It was strange to experience it again in the calm of the library, but it would not occur to Baelor until long after he had left. 

“What’s happened to her?” he asked quietly.

Chapter Two - Breakspear

However lively Ashford had been that afternoon, it was thrice so come the vanishing of the light. She’d spied the sea of tents as they’d approached from the north, a patchwork of color and fabric that might be seen for leagues on a clear day, and the hum that came from them certainly heard. But at dusk, the hum had become a buzz, and now a small roar as those in attendance braced for the opening performance. Rhaenys thought she could feel it through the wood and stone of the keep, a sensation that made her fingers tremble. 

She’d scarce attended one so lively, tense or performative, yes, but in Ashford there was an undercurrent of excitement. Winter had ended. Spring had swollen the rivers and melted the snows. The first crops had been planted with the promise of prosperity ahead. This was a celebration of many things to many people, and an opportunity for others.

The hedge knight would certainly be in for an eyeful. She hoped he had the stomach for it. He looked as green as the fields surrounding them, and twice as innocent.

Chapter Six - The Burden of a Name

Curiosity getting the better of him, Baelor began to sift through the parchment. There was nothing significant to the pages, a few copied sentences and the practicing of handwriting. He could see her particular style beginning to take shape, neat, small letters that strove for perfection. She had come far for someone who'd not known any letters at all when he'd first come across her. He admired the effort.

One particularly chaotic page stood out to him, nearly black with ink as variations of one word had been written over and over. Some were scratched out with fury, while others were underlined multiple times, until at last one sat circled amongst the lot.

Maeve.

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Chapter One - The Realm's Annoyance

"What have you been up to?" Baelor asked quietly beside her, his fingers combing through her hair and extracting a single piece of straw. He spun the unintended ornament between his thumb and forefinger. "The morning is scarcely out and you've already made quite the presentation of yourself."

"Perhaps you ought to make a pass by the Baratheon pavilion before you worry after my appearance," Rhaenys replied softly, plucking the straw out of his hand and tossing it into the hearth behind them. She knew he meant little by it. Baelor did not care for unfocused silence, so he was reaching for the closest subject as they awaited Lord Ashford's return. "I prefer to saddle Vhagar myself. Straw happens, Baelor. As does wind, not that you would know."

She took a slow swipe at his head, the tips of her fingers grazing his closely kept hair. The curls of his youth had long been shorn, and she imagined if they weren't, he'd have pulled them all out of his scalp over the realm's nonsense.

The Heart of Rebellion A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms Fanfiction

The trouble started when his father ascended the Iron Throne. Baelor Targaryen knew it truly began well before then, but the isolation of Dragonstone brought a level of ignorance he'd falsely called safety. But in the capital, where the pulse of Westerosi politics beats strong, there is no denying how out of depth the crown prince is. Here, he can no longer ignore his Martell appearance and the heritage that makes him suspect to the lords and ladies he is meant to rule over one day. It's made all the more difficult by the clear respect they treat his bastard uncle, Daemon, and his twin sister, Aemma, children of Targaryens both, with the silver-gold hair and violet eyes their house was meant to carry.

Aemma Waters has not led a quiet life. Ever since she was a child, she and her brother had only been cogs in the machinations of others, whether it was their father Aegon's attempts to bring his firstborn son back into line with threats to his inheritance, or their mother Daena's attempts to regain influence as a Targaryen princess after being freed from the Maidenvault. For Daemon, the lip service and showering of gifts proved too tempting to escape. But Aemma was not the coveted son, allowing her to see the words for what they truly were, and she did her best to keep her twin out of trouble. When their father legitimized them on his deathbed, however, she knew it was only a matter of time.

Chapter Five - The Dreams of Dreamers

When Maeve looked up, Prince Baelor was already striding into her view. The sunlight cascading through the windows caught on the intricate stitching in his black doublet, tiny details that might have been lost otherwise, designs that had no reasoning other than to make the plain less so. Gleaming against his left breast was the Hand’s pin, a little thing they said carried the weight of the crown, and she felt it now, as if it had grown a mind of its own and passed a judgment upon her. But in the mismatched eyes of the prince, she found little. It was a neutral gaze laid upon her, emotions carefully tucked away where none might find them, if they even existed at all.

She should have stood then, Maeve knew. Bow her head and beg his forgiveness and ask that he not send her away, pray that the small mercies he had shown her would mean she might be spared now. But her tongue was thick, her mouth gone dry, and she found herself struck, unmoving, unheeding of the propriety that sought to drive her from the ground. For her part, she simply watched the prince as he watched her. 

Then, Prince Baelor offered his hand.