🌸 Rose blue 🌸

However you knew it was necessary, and you would bear it for Jaehaera’s safety, and your own as well. As long as the union was not consummated, the marriage could easily be annulled, and you would be back in the clutches of men who considered you a pawn in their own games of ambition. Among them, surely laid the man that had murdered your brother, and that thought was unbearable. 

While you still feared he would prove to be different in private, Cregan Stark had seemingly acted without personal gain beyond acquiring a mother and a sister for his child, and you admired it.

As you were brought to him, the heavy doors closing behind you, he seemed dismayed, his brow pinched into a frown you had more often seen him with than without. “It will not be necessary, you may return to your chambers,” he offered, but you refused.

“They will know if you don’t, the walls have eyes and ears,” you replied, suddenly worried. The men who had petitioned for your niece to be married to Aegon were still waiting for an opportunity, and you would rather surrender your dignity for a minute than suffer their plans. While you had never lain with a man, you knew enough of the act from your mother and sister to fear the pain and the indignity of it.

Cregan sighed. “No matter your allegiances, you are a product of royal blood, I will not take you without your consent,” he said bluntly.

“You must stake your claim,” you replied then, with the same fire you had displayed when making your offer, pleading for your niece’s safety. “There are vipers in this castle and they would use me for their own ends. As long as we are not properly married, our union is invalid. We will not be safe.”

He visibly hesitated then, dropping his chin for a second, then nodded. “Very well,” he said, yet he remained where he stood on the carpet in the middle of the room, and allowed you to come to him.

Even though you would not come to his bed by choice, you were his wife of your own volition, and for the first time in months, if not in years, you felt as though you were the mistress of your own fate. He did not move as you stepped up to him, instead waited patiently for your touch, and your heart ached when you realized he was giving you agency. 

For a moment you did little else but look into his eyes, and he gazed back, honest and intent as he had always been, and you almost wanted to tell him you were glad that it was him out of all the men you had ever met, but you could not. You suspected it would be long, perhaps years, before you could bare your mind to him, but in the meantime you conveyed your thoughts the only way you could.

Hands coming up on his chest for balance, you pressed a grateful kiss to his lips, hoping you could express your relief without words, tears pearling at the corner of your eyes as he pressed back. He made a small noise of want against you, gently prying your lips open, deepening the kiss, and you let yourself be guided once more.

Cregan felt you melt into him, leaning back into his hands when he wrapped his arms around your waist, your own hands tightening at the front of his linen undershirt. His blood roared to life with dizzying force, his skin calling for the touch of a woman, but he forced himself to swallow down his hunger. He loathed the moment you pulled away, every instinct in him yearning for your touch, but tonight was not to be indulged. Its purpose was not his selfish pleasure but your safety.

“I will try to make it quick,” he murmured, guiding you with a firm but gentle hand at your lower back.

As careful as a man of his size could be, he tipped you atop the sheets. You looked aside as he nestled himself between your parted thighs, but he did not let you—instead he guided your face towards him again. “Eyes on me,” he said gently, with the same careful strength he had always addressed you, and despite it all, your instinct was to trust him.

No matter the circumstances, he would not have his wife fear him or his touch, and so for a while he did nothing but smooth his hands up and down your thighs. The weight of his body atop yours was not as uncomfortable as you had feared, and you found yourself leaning into his touch, your hands clinging to his back, your knees bracketing his waist. There were no tears in your eyes, even though you were trembling with apprehension.

To Cregan’s dismay, but also his relief, his breathing deepened and desire simmered in his core, his length swelling as he guided it to your core. It had been far too long since he had felt the touch of a woman, and he regretted that it had to occur under those circumstances. “Breathe, princess,” he murmured, his dark eyes on yours, and pushed inside slowly.

Despite his best efforts, you cried out as a sharp pinch was followed by a burning stretch. Cregan knew then that you had not lied—you indeed were a maid. You clung to him as he took you in careful thrusts, the firm kisses he pressed to your mouth carrying words he did not say, words of apology and the promise that it would indeed be over soon. 

“Am I hurting you?” he asked in a rough whisper.

Despite the stretch of his body into yours and the weight of his hips holding yours down, you could not honestly say he was—pain was loss and fear and grief, but this was something completely else, honest and raw. 

“No,” you replied, welcoming the way he curled into you, burying his face into the softness of your neck.

For a while the world outside of this room faded ; gone were the red walls, the prying eyes and their schemes, instead all that existed were Cregan’s harsh breaths in your ear and the smell of his sweat, lulling you into a dream-like state. Gradually, the pain settled and a strange, breathless feeling took hold of you, a gentle heat that bloomed at the base of your spine and made you cling to him harder, however it was over before you could name it. 

Cregan stilled in the cradle of your body and you were glad to hold him as he shook, an unfamiliar pride burning behind your breastbone. “It is done,” he murmured against your cheek, almost tender. “We are now husband and wife.”

The voyage north was long and uncomfortable, the wind growing significantly colder and sharper once you had crossed the Twins. Leaving the Red Keep behind was done without any regret, with the bitter knowledge that the castle that had been your cradle and the grave of so many of the people you had loved would likely never see you again. It had become a graveyard you were now walking away from, the halls and walls haunted by words that echoed and whispers you heard in the night ; the absolute certainty that your blood itself was a danger to your person.

In the North you would be a stranger, an outsider, and it was a comfort rather. Northerners would not hold your parentage against you, merely judge your actions, Cregan had assured you, and even though you feared they would be harsh, you at least knew they would be just.

Thus you endured the weeks of travelling, discomfort that edged on pain as the road grew colder and time took its toll on your nerves. Arriving at Winterfell after near a month on the road ought to have been a relief, and yet you felt oddly numb upon crossing its gates. Cregan had sent word ahead that he was not only bringing victory but also a new Lady of Winterfell. His sister and Warden in his absence had replied dutifully, and acted as such.

Sara Stark was a woman of strong disposition and dark hair, much as her brother. “Lady Stark,” she greeted as was appropriate when you stepped out of the carriage and into the courtyard, carrying your niece at your hip. 

It took you a long moment to realize she was addressing you, and you were tempted to reject such a name, even though you knew it was now yours. For some reason you could not bring yourself to acknowledge the title, caught between the one you had just left behind, and this new name you had not earned. It was a stranger’s cloak wrapped around your shoulders, an unfamiliar bed you now had to rest in, the crown and scepter of a kingdom you had never set foot in.

Cregan, who had dismounted his horse and knelt in the frost, rose and turned, carrying a boy with raven black hair in his arms—the child carried the same stern brow as his father, but the slope of his nose and the dimple in his chin spoke of another, no doubt his mother. 

“This is my son, Rickon,” Cregan said, and you thought, staring into a stranger’s eyes, that you had never considered the name you would now bear was that of a woman long dead, a woman loved by all that had gathered into this courtyard to welcome their lord back. 

In that instant you felt as a bird lost in the snow, an owl far away from her berth, fully knowing her nest had burned and it could never welcome her back. “This is Jaehaera,” you said to the boy.

Cregan and you were now standing a few feet apart, each holding your child, each in this position because their mother had perished. You looked at each other, and for the first time an understanding seemed to pass between the two of you, a silent promise, an agreement that whatever might come, the essence of your common duties would be these two babes.

Cregan turned to his sister then, addressing her with the sort of gentleness you had only gotten glimpses of. “Sara, would you show the princess to her chambers and to the nursery? I am sure the travel has exhausted them both.”

The rooms were smaller than the ones you were used to, the ceilings lower, but strangely enough, they did not make you feel enclosed. They bore centuries of history carved into the stones, rendered smooth by the passage of time and people, and upon entering your chambers, you felt as though whole lives had been lived within these walls.

Days went by as you settled into the castle, and while Cregan wanted to respect your grief, it dismayed him to see you still dressed in black. It felt as though he had brought back a ghost to haunt grounds, and some people of the castle were not grateful to see an outsider among them. A severe glance from him and a clear instruction to treat the princesses with the utmost respect had been enough to silence their protests.

As the first week came to a close, Cregan took an evening to sit in the Great Hall with Cley, side by side with him in front of the hearth. Their knees knocking into each other, brothers as always, brought comfort to Cregan. He had always known he was not made to live alone, but to be in a pack, amongst friends and kin alike, and now there would be two dragons among them, no matter how eclectic it seemed.

Cley sighed, setting his cup of ale down. “Speak your mind,” Cregan grunted, and he seemed glad of the permission. 

“I supported you because you are my brother and I love you,” he started by saying, and while such a reminder was unnecessary, Cregan appreciated it. “But are you certain the choice you’ve made was wise?”

Cregan did not need to ask what choice he was referring to. “Yes, I am certain,” he replied, the words coming naturally to him. “I could not leave them to these vipers, to be sacrificed in the name of peace. A victory is not one if it is achieved upon the suffering of women and babes.”

“A dragon in the North is quite an unusual affair, is all,” Cley argued, leaning back into his chair and kicking up his feet on the edge of the hearth. “Even less so as the Lady of Winterfell.”

“She will find her place,” Cregan said, and he was not sure where this instinct came from. Was it experience or instinct? Was there something inside of her that called to him, something that could not be perceived by others? Or was it the other way around, something inside of him that called to her?

“I am not quite certain,” he replied gravely. “She seems caught in her own grief and—”

Cley was interrupted then, not by the sharp look Cregan gave him, but by the sudden arrival of a kitchen maid, carrying a bucket under her arm and looking rather perturbed. “Pardon me, m’lord,” she said with a quick curtsy, a worried frown upon her brow. “Lady Stark is outside.”

“Outside?” Cregan asked, taken aback.

“In her sleeping gown,” the woman added.

Without further ado, Cregan rushed the way she had come, down the corridor and out in the courtyard, where a thin night snow was falling, the sort that preceded heavy morning falls. The air was crisp, nearly painful to him without his leathers and furs who had been forgotten over the back of his chair, and there you stood with your feet bare and nothing on your skin more than a linen nightgown. 

“Princess?” he asked, but no answer came. The ground was frozen, the soles of your feet leaving smudges in the frost, but you didn’t seem to feel any of it. “Let me bring you inside.”

When he came to you, ready to lead you back to warmth, he was struck by how your eyes were open, however without any shine to them, nearly glossed over. He called your name then, the first time he had ever said it aloud, but you looked right through him. 

He then turned to Cley who had followed him. “Get the Maester! Bring a coat!” he shouted, and the young man bolted. 

“My niece,” you whispered, voice so low it was almost lost to the wind.

“She is abed,” Cregan said, momentarily relieved that you had regained consciousness, but your attitude brought his worries back in an instant.

“I need to find my niece,” you said again, turning and walking towards the Godswoods as though you had not heard his answer. In the dark, your graceful face illuminated by a nearby sconce, you seemed like a ghost, a dragon with clipped wings, trudging across the snow to find its kin.

“Lord Stark?” the Maester called, hurrying down with an oil lamp in hand. Cley followed closely, carrying a pelt. 

“It is as though she cannot hear me,” Cregan explained as the old man stepped in front of you, taking in the odd look in your eyes. 

“She is in slumber, still,” he said after a moment of observation. “It appears she suffers from sleepwalking. Do not wake her, it would only disrupt her mind further.”

Cregan carefully draped the coat over your shoulders—you had started to shiver, and he feared your feet were being bitten by the frost. “Jaehaera,” you moaned, your eyes filled with tears, and Cregan caved.

Dismissing the Maester’s recommendation, he cradled your face into his hands, his hands much warmer than your skin, but it did not seem to wake you. “She is safe,” he assured you. “Come out of this cold, I beseech you.”

“My darling girl,” you whined, and Cregan stood his ground, gently nudging you back inside, until you relented, still muttering about Jaehaera. Both men escorted you back to your chambers while Cley went to the kitchen for hot bricks to put in your bed, the same frown of worry upon their brows.

“She will likely have lost all memory of this event,” the Maester warned as he took his leave once you had been tucked back under your sheets and furs.

All through the darkness he sat at the foot of the bed, watching you sleep, although fitfully. More words were spoken from time to time, some he could not understand and believed to be High Valyrian, and he thought he would ask the Maester for a tea to calm your dreams in the future. Hour after hour until dawn creeped over the edge of the window, Cregan sat and waited, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest.

As he had promised, Cregan made sure little Jaehaera was treated as any ward under his responsibility ought to be. He had been raised and trained alongside several boys his father had taken in, Cley among them, and it was the pride of his kin to uphold strong family ties and values. While Jaehaera did not have any blood from the North, she was still as any child was, carrying a natural innocence that Cregan longed to protect. 

War had taken from this girl more than it had taken from most, and it was now his duty to ensure she was shielded from any more horrors. He was bound in marriage to you, her aunt, by the laws of men and Gods alike, and while the little girl might never come to attach herself to him, he would not deprive a child of fatherly guidance if he was able to give it.

“She is the child of your enemy, and yet you’ve instructed all to treat her as your own,” Sara said one gray afternoon as he was watching the children in the yard.

“Her father was my enemy, and the cause of much suffering in the kingdom, that is true,” he admitted, crossing his arms over his chest. “But she is an innocent, and young enough to be taught well.”

“Do you not fear she will grow to resent you?” Sara asked, genuine even in her bluntness. 

Watching as Rickon took Jaehaera by the hand, the girl still skittish, and attempted to lead her, Cregan’s chest ached. “She will grow up learning the truth, and do with it what she will. It is a heavy burden, one I hope to give her the strength to carry.” he replied, walking to them and delivering the girl from his son’s spiritedness.

“Come, Rickon,” Sara said, nudging the boy along towards the swordsmaster, and Jaehaera seemed glad to be left to her own devices. She was a small child for her age, a sweet girl with a curious disposition, she had taken to pointing at everything in the castle, silent questions for Cregan to answer. 

This time, she pointed towards heavy wooden doors in a corner of the yard. “Those are the kennels where the direwolves are kept,” he explained.

“Wolves?” she asked, and Cregan found the curious lilt to her question endearing.

“Would you like to see them?” he asked, holding out his hand, and Jaehaera took it. 

The feeling of her small fingers closing around his, and the weight of her hands in his, so light and fragile, reminded him of a longing for more children he had buried years ago. Rickon was still young, but Cregan missed the days he was a babe curling into his chest, and the precious moments he had spent at night soothing him while the castle slept around them.

He took Jaehaera inside the kennel, where the wolves had their own den, safe from the cold and the wind even though most of them had no trouble sleeping in piles of snow. “We will not go further. This is Nymeria, my sister Sara’s wolf, and she is near her deliverance,” he said, stopping in front of one of the dens, which was closed and housed a sleeping beast. “There will be pups soon.”

“Jaehaera?” came a call from outside, and Cregan pulled the girl along. 

“Come, your aunt is calling for you,” he said, and indeed you were pacing the courtyard when they found you, anxious to set eyes on your niece again. Relief spread across your face as you saw them, rushing to meet them on the other side of the yard.

“Where were you?” you inquired.

“In the kennels,” Cregan replied calmly, letting go of the girl. “The little one wanted to see the wolves.”

With a gasp, you reached for Jaehaera and she hid her face in your skirts. “I would rather not,” you said.

“They are caged at the moment, and trained nonetheless,” Cregan placated. “They are as hounds. Far less lethal than dragons, if I may,” he added, but seeing your reaction, instantly knew it had been the wrong thing to say.

Still, you held your tongue for the sake of the child. “Be it as it may, I would rather not.”

“As you wish,” he said sternly, but before he could take his leave, you spoke again.

“I apologize, my lord, I know they are the sigil of your house, and a source of pride, I am sure,” you said in the way a woman said those words to a man when she had learned it would save her from his wrath, and Cregan loathed to hear them.

“Do not call me that,” he said with a sigh, perhaps the first command he had even given you, but it sounded soft and sad instead of assertive. “Even if the duties of a wife are not expected of you, I am still your husband, and you do not need to defer to me.”

When your only answer was an unconvinced, silent nod, he walked away, the line of shoulders high and tense. Since you had arrived several weeks prior, he had made no demand nor given you any order, leaving you much to your own company, and you wondered when he would finally grow tired of it and impose his will upon you. 

While he had been nothing but benevolent and generous since the first day you had met him, a victor standing in front of his prisoner, you wondered what the price to pay for it would be, in the end, and what you would have to sacrifice for your peace. If there was one thing you had learned in this cruel life, it was that no good deed came without a cost.

Time went on as winter deepened, and more often than Cregan found it comfortable, you rose in the night to wander the grounds. As the Maester had instructed, he never attempted to rouse you from your walking dreams, and during the day, you did not show any inclination that you knew where your feet were taking you as you slept, or what words you were speaking. 

Most of your nightmares spoke of your niece, and more rarely of your nephew, and Cregan wished there was something he could do, but no words or deeds could even soothe the atrocious death of a child.

One night your demeanor changed however, your usual aimless wandering was instead an agitated one, as though you were waiting for someone. Meandering near the back of the courtyard, you suddenly gasped and turned towards the Godswoods, no doubt hearing a call that came from your own mind.

“Helaena?” you cried out, and there were only the howling winds to answer you. “Helaena!”

Cregan followed you as you bolted towards the woods, plunged in darkness and heavy with snow. As you made your way through the thick trees, he wondered how you could see where you were setting foot, and feared it would finally be the night you injured yourself. Coming upon a clearing, he watched helplessly as you spinned on yourself as a cornered animal searching for an escape.

“She’s lost,” you lamented. 

Since that first night, he had refused to form the habit of speaking to you, but this time he could not restrain him. “She is with the Gods,” Cregan said, frustration bursting in him at his own helplessness. “She is with her son.”

“The butterflies—” you gasped, as though you were suddenly remembering an old truth you used to know, and Cregan wished he could make sense of it. 

Unexpectedly, that dream was the turning point in your walking dreams. After that, you came back to the Godswoods night after night, threading through the snow, frantically searching for butterflies as though they held the answers to the questions that plagued you, and Cregan desperately wanted to follow you on this path of the mind, but only you could reach this place. 

Night after night when you rose to pursue invisible endeavors, Cregan followed you as sentinel, a silent guard that protected your nightmares and guarded your torments, holding onto the hope that your grief would relent and allow you rest.

The Godswoods were quiet most of the time, but dawn brought a special kind of silence—the morning breeze had barely picked up, and the cold of the night was still lingering in the air, over the frozen ground, leaves trapped in frost and ice. There was a sense of peace to it that Cregan hardly found anywhere else in the world. He often came to tend to his sword in contemplation, to ground himself to the earth and seek solutions to problems he could not find a way out of without the counsel of the Gods.

He was not used to being so full of thoughts and questions. He usually knew his course of action, as most of his decisions were guided by the values his father had raised him in. Honor. Duty. Fairness. Justice. 

However none of these would help with his predicament when it came to you. Honor and justice had compelled him to rescue you and your niece. He now wondered if Cley was not right, if he had not acted out of loneliness instead of a true sense of honor. 

Therefore he prayed under his breath for only the Gods and the trees to hear him, until the sound of soft, careful footsteps broke the morning cold. Branches cracked and snapped, and you appeared on the small path leading to the Weirwood tree, burrowed in the furs he had his sister prepare for you.

“Princess,” he said as he rose, setting his sword aside, propping it against the root he had been sitting on.

“The Northerners pray to the Old Gods, don’t they?” you asked in lieu of greeting as you came up to him, and he was surprised by the softness of your voice. Sleep was still clinging to the lines around your eyes.

“Yes,” he replied.

“What do you pray for?” you inquired, taking a seat further down on the root, and he mirrored you, sitting back where he had been. He rested the sword against his own knee, following your gaze to the handle.

“Guidance,” he said after a while, his hand coming to loosely curl around the thick wood of the hilt. It made his palm look small when you knew it to be broad and rough, and you could not reconcile the knowledge that he had wielded it, taken lives with it, and the private kindness you had seen from him.

Looking up at his profile, you observed him for a moment, stricken with how very young he looked in the white light of the dawn. He had lowered his eyes as you had approached and was keeping them down, a firm gesture that sat heavy in your chest—it was not mindless reverence towards your royal lineage, but deep-seated respect, and you hardly knew how to respond to it.

“Do you think they will guide you, to do the right thing?” you asked, and he did not seem to mind your intimate prodding. 

He nodded slowly, awfully serious, then asked, “What do you pray for?”

“Peace and purpose,” came the instant answer. “Relief for my niece and for myself.”

Cregan nodded again, then finally his dark eyes rose to yours. They were not merely brown as you had thought at first, but a warm gray where darker swirls swam. They could be hard and serious as he often was, but underneath it there was a softness to them, and a sense of sorrow you could not understand.

“For what it is worth, I am sorry for the bloodshed that has destroyed your family,” he said without an ounce of pity. “I wish it could have been otherwise.”

Tears clouded your eyes then, blurring your vision until all you could see were the shadows of the leaves dancing in the breeze. He averted his eyes again, and you appreciated the gesture, as much as you did the fact that he never took back his words nor apologized for them—what he said, he meant and stood by, and you leaned into this utter certainty for a moment.

“It was inevitable,” you said after a long moment of heavy silence. “I grew up knowing that in order to claim her throne, Rhaenyra would have to put my brothers to the sword, and my father never changed his mind that she was to come after him.”

“It sounds like a heavy burden to grow up with,” Cregan said, which was gracious, but not as much as his next words. “You stood with your blood to the very end, and honored them even in death, I can admire that.”

This place was haunted with the same ghosts you had seen in King’s Landing, and you were plagued with the same thoughts and regrets, day and night. They would not let you sleep, nor find peace—you had come to understand these last few weeks that the ghosts hadn’t inhabited the castle but rather lived within your own spirit, clinging to your soul to remain alive, and your grief was feeding them despite yourself. 

Some days you were afraid they would drag you under, and you suddenly felt desperate for your husband to reach out and pull you back to the land of the living. “Why did you bring me here?” you whispered.

“I thought I could save you from this place,” he replied, as close to an admission of failure he could possibly say. “Why did you agree?”

“I thought I could flee from my grief,” you said, and his eyes were awfully kind when you looked at him again, the frown gone from his brow and replaced with a softness that made you breathless.

“Let us get you out of the cold, princess,” he said, rising and sheathing his sword, hoisting the strap over his shoulder before holding out his hand for you to take. 

“Why do you still call me that?” you inquired, curling your hand around his forearm, his own fingers closing around your wrist delicately. It was far too cold to be without gloves and yet, his touch felt warm even through the leather.

“Because you are a princess of the blood,” he explained, then looked down at the satchel he had brought with him to the woods, sitting at his feet. He thought it seemed the right moment, from the contemplative air around you to the way you leaned into his arm. “There is something I had made for you.”

He let go of you only to retrieve the satchel and pull its lapel open, taking a piece of fabric out and handing it to you. It unfolded under its own weight, revealing the embroideries on one of its sides—in threads of forest green and indigo, countless butterflies were flying over a canvas of midnight blue. Sown and threaded into what seemed to be fleece, the creatures you spent your tortured nights looking for stood out, and the sight iced you down to your very veins, the sort of cold that burned with its intensity. 

“How did you—” you choked, but no other words would come.

“Have I made a mistake?” Cregan asked, the very first time you had seen doubt from him.

To his utter relief, you shook your head, instead burying your face into the fabric, your hands trembling where they clutched the shawl. Soon a muffled wail rose in the air, the like of a wounded animal, and it struck Cregan down to his very core. 

Knowing no word from him could ever soothe your sorrow, he instead stepped as close as he could without touching you, guarding you from the growing winds that danced in the trees, shielding you from the world as you howled, the sort of rage that only despair could bring.

“I know of grief as well,” he finally said, the words tearing the soft insides of his chest as they came out. “For months after Arra died I looked for her, only ever finding cold sheets and empty rooms.”

When you lowered the shawl, looking up at him again, your eyes were rimmed with red but clearer than they had previously been. “Where did you find solace?” you asked—this was the first time he had openly talked of the woman that had come before you and whose steps you were now walking.

“In my son,” he replied. “In my duty to my people.”

Before you could answer, a sort of gasp rocked your body and you fell forward into his chest. Deep within your core, a sensation unlike any you had ever felt rose, a bursting that caused no pain, the fluttering of wings against your womb. Cregan cradled the back of your head softly, his palm barely grazing your hair, and held you through what he thought might be another fit of grief.

Absolute certainty fell over you in gentle waves, settling into you as sure as the tide came. Cradled in the gentle song of the wind and the smell of Cregan’s leathers, life itself became known to you, and for the first time in months, you finally felt your chest ease. 

Without a word you stepped away from Cregan’s arms, your hand coming to rest low on your belly, and you prayed that your instincts were right, but your body could not lie the way your mind could.

“We were wed three moons ago, and I have not bled since,” you murmured, and in that moment you thought that perhaps, this was why fate had brought you North.

Author's Note ✢ Dividers by @/arcielee. Thank you so much for your patience while I worked on this chapter. Feedback is always deeply appreciated ♡

Series taglist ✢ @earlgraey111 @asteria33 @scarletraine @queenofthedarkforest @jamesiie @heartysworld @stell404 @lanadelray1989 @alinnashay @alicetoti27 @cosmosnkaz @dinahslefttoe @msismsis @swagangelllamawolf @piastri-pages @theprophaecy @winter-solstice24 @escape-your-nightmare @kootenaiwoman @isansstuff

@princesstiti14 @venicemistress @winkymar @avacadoissour @apocalypticmess-lin

Warnings: mentions of bastards

Author's note: In the next parts reader will be older, but for now i wanted to explore more her chilhood dinamics.

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If Alicent built your days...

The rest of your family unknowingly filled the spaces she left behind.

You learned very early that your mother loved you in her own way, which often made it difficult to distinguish love in such a strict routine.

Meanwhile, others loved you much more easily.

King Viserys adored you.

Perhaps because you were his youngest. Perhaps because illness had already begun stealing years from him before it stole his body.

Or perhaps because, whenever he looked upon you, he saw only Alicent.

"My little flower," he would murmur every time you climbed onto the arm of his chair.

His joints ached too much to lift you now, but he always reached for your hand.

"So much like your mother."

You beamed whenever he said it. "I am?" The question always overflowed with emotion.

Viserys, despite having begun to lose sight in his left eye, was still able to see how you vibrated with joy every time your resemblance to your beloved mother was mentioned.

"So very much." He smiled tiredly, brushing a loose auburn curl away from your forehead. "The same hair, the same beautiful smile, and the same stubborn little chin." He said grabbing your small chin between his thumb and forefinger.

You giggled. "Mother says I shall not be stubborn."

Viserys laughed, the sound dissolving into a cough before he recovered. "Then your mother has forgotten what she was like as a girl."

You frowned thoughtfully. "Was Mother naughty?"

Alicent, seated nearby with her embroidery resting forgotten in her lap, looked up immediately.

"Your Grace." He said in a serious tone and with a reproachful gesture.

Viserys merely offered a sad smile. "No." He squeezed your tiny fingers in his big palm. "But she used to laugh more." A note of longing permeated his voice, a slight hint of sadness for a past that neither of them could quite recall.

And, for just a moment, something flickered across Alicent's face. A memory. A girl in a blue dress running through the gardens of the Red Keep, smiling, happy, and carefree. Long before duty took hold of her life, long before she was queen and wore crowns, long before she had to lead the proof of her dishonor by the hand through the halls of the Red Keep.

You never noticed the sadness behind her smile, you simply nestled closer against your father's side, hugging him tightly and burying your head in his chest.

"I hope I always look like Mother."

Viserys kissed the crown of your head. "You always will, my little dragon"

Across the room, Alicent lowered her eyes, clutching the embroidery she had been sewing so tightly that the needle pricked her skin, drawing a little blood. 

She said nothing; she couldn't bear to correct him.

Nor could she bear to agree.

Princess Rhaenyra noticed everything.

Far more than Alicent wished she did.

The court was full of little performances. Knights boasted of their tournament victories, lords flattered their feats in battle during their youth, ladies whispered about the furtive glances that different lords gave them at night, while children played beneath tables too large for them.

And amidst all of it...

There you were.

Hair loose down your back.

One pale lock hidden somewhere beneath the heavy waves and your brown eyes searching curiously around the hall, trying to gather all the information the world wanted to give you.

Everything is fascinating to a five-year-old girl, especially the crown princess.

Rhaenyra was, for you, a muse straight out of a fairy tale. Her porcelain skin, her purple eyes, and her long white hair, always styled in the most dazzling ways, always seemed worthy of a queen. A Valyrian queen nonetheless.

The very image of House Targaryen, your father's house. Meanwhile, you, always observing from some shadowy corner of the palace, were the blood of Oldtown. The green Hightower blood ran through your veins, and your mother, as always, never hesitated to show it.

While your half-sister wore elegant black gowns with sleeves and necklines of red lace and intricate embroidery of dragons and tales from Old Valyria, your gowns were always deep green. Sober gowns, made of plain fabrics, without embellishments, embroidery, or any ostentatious, worldly decorations that might distance you from the faith of the Seven. The only adornment you wore was that necklace with the seven-pointed star that always hung heavily on your chest, like a figurehead of a ship announcing its wearer's entry into every room, representing the owner's identity and strength.

There was no doubt where your loyalty lay.

Every now and then you would catch Rhaenyra looking back at you. 

She always smiled at you and you always smiled back. She never failed to return it, not once. You thought she was kind, The Realm’s Delight she was called once upon a time.

Alicent knew better.

One afternoon, while musicians played softly in the background and the children chased one another between the columns, Harwin Strong leaned lazily beside Rhaenyra.

His eyes followed you as you hurried after Helaena. "There she goes."

Rhaenyra hummed. "There she does."

Harwin tilted his head.

"She has your friend's smile."

"My former friend’s smile." Rhaenyra corrected him.

"But not her eyes." Harwin's grin widened.

"No." Rhaenyra's eyes never left the girl running around. "For years..." she said quietly, "...she stood in this very hall and looked at my boys as though they were stains upon the throne."

Harwin snorted softly.

"And now?" Rhaenyra's smile grew gentler, not quite cruel but simply tired. "Now she cannot look at her own daughter without seeing exactly what she spent years condemning."

There was no triumph in her voice, only irony. Perhaps even pity, she felt pity for you, because she knew that Alicent could never love you the way she loved Jace, Luke or Joffrey.

She felt sorry for you, because she knew that no matter how hard you tried, you could never have your mother's love.

Because every attempt to be more like her was one more reason to distance yourself further from the court, one more reason for Alicent to love you less.

A bastard, without a mother to protect your honour, your legacy, your legitimacy. A mother who would never be able to encourage you, to motivate you to take your rightful place at court. A mother who, instead, made you hide in the shadows of the Red Keep.

Her eyes moved toward where her children were playing carefree. Her brown curls swayed with every movement. What would become of her own children if she weren't there to defend them? How cruel would the court be to mere infants who had done nothing wrong but believe their mother?

She couldn't even imagine, she couldn't even imagine how his children would feel if every time he looked at them, contempt and disgust were reflected in his eyes.

She couldn't even imagine looking at them the way Alicent looked at him.

He wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy.

Ser Criston Cole never allowed himself to linger near you.

That was the safest thing. The wisest thing. The most honorable thing, or so it was said.

He was Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

You were the King's daughter.

Distance was duty.

Distance was survival.

And yet distance became impossible around you.

He was the protector of the Queen, and you were always with her. In that you were alike, both always following the queen from a prudent distance and obeying her orders.

Every child in the Red Keep admired Ser Criston. He was patient and he never raised his voice.

You didn't have a clear opinion of the knight who always followed your mother. He was simply there; Cole never tried to engage you in conversation and only answered the queen when required.

However, as time went on you realized that you could demand that he answer your questions and Alicent, for some strange reason that you didn't know at the time, never stopped you.

Unlike many knights, who wouldn't bow their heads to address you and were incapable of giving you a minute of their time, Criston Cole always answered your questions, even the ridiculous ones that only a little girl could think of.

"Could a dragon fit inside the throne room?"

"No, Princess." He always replied with that courteous and chivalrous manner. The most faithful servant. The knight of the seven kingdoms, one might say, always noble, polite, and dedicated to the cause of answering the princess.

"What if it was very little?"

Cole glanced at the queen, who was hiding a small smile, as they walked through the palace corridors. Seeing no negative reaction from your mother, he replied, "Perhaps."

"What if it curled into a ball?"

He pretended to consider it, straightening up and readjusting his grip on the sword... "...A very little dragon."

You nodded solemnly. "That’s what I thought."

He smiled despite himself.

Other members of the council or even other knights laughed about the stupid questions and curiosity that plagued the little princess mind.

Criston did not. He never laughed at you, not once.

One day, while Alicent was resting on the garden porch talking with other ladies, and after you had insisted terribly on wanting to go and find beetles for Helaena, your mother had sent you to Criston with the good protector that he was.

There wasn't much space to walk around; it was already late afternoon and the shadows only rested in the vicinity of the buildings and some tall trees in the garden.

Cole was beside you and couldn't hide the pain in his chest as you spoke of not being able to leave the shade, since Mother had strictly forbidden you from being in the sun.

However, when it came to crossing from one shadow to another, running to get through the sun as quickly as possible, and lacking a parasol, you casually grabbed Sir Criston's hand so that you could both cross the terrible border of sunbeams.

Criston nearly forgot how to breathe. Your fingers were so impossibly small and they wrapped trustingly around one of his gloved hands as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

He looked down, and you were chatting happily about the orange butterflies your sister had shown you. Your hands still united even after you had reached the shadow again.

Completely unaware.

He wanted–

Gods...

How he wanted to lift you into his arms, to kiss your forehead, to tell you that you had inherited your mother's laugh. That your curiosity came from him, that he knew every expression upon your face before you made it. That your eyes and your skin were completely perfect the way they were, and that there wasn't anything wrong with them because they came from your father.

From your real father, whose hand you were now holding.

Instead, he gently untangled your fingers from his, coming to a halt.

"You shouldn’t hold my hand, Princess. Only your Mother’s or your Lady’s hand"

You looked up, confused. "But I wanted yours."

His chest tightened so painfully he thought the armour itself might crack and with a solemn tone he knelt in front of you. "...Mine must hold a sword, to protect you in case of an attack."

"Oh." You accepted the explanation instantly.

Children always did.

That night, Criston remained in the training yard until long after sunset.

He trained until the last of the squires had retired, until the torches burned low. Until sweat soaked through the linen beneath his armour.

It was not enough.

Later, behind the closed doors of his chambers, he knelt before the image of the Warrior.

He prayed. And prayed. And prayed.

Then he reached for the leather scourge he had sworn he would never need again and, even so, he took off his shirt.

When dawn came, no one remarked upon the stiffness in the Lord Commander's movements.

No one noticed the fresh marks hidden beneath the white cloak of the Kingsguard.

Pain was easier than wondering what kind of father he might have been.

Of all your siblings...

Helaena understood you best.

Perhaps because neither of you quite belonged where everyone expected.

Her chambers were unlike any others in the Red Keep. Noisy courts became quiet there, silks and precious jewels gave way to jars of butterflies, spiders and beetles.

Most people found caterpillars sleeping inside little wooden boxes unsettling  but you found them fascinating.

"They're beautiful." You whispered as you pressed your face to the glass box.

Helaena smiled as she played on the floor with her new acquisition, a small blue caterpillar that seemed to have thousands of tiny green feet. "They're only ugly until they change."

You crouched beside her. "Do they know they're going to become butterflies?"

"I don't think so."

"Then how do they know what to do?"

Helaena looked thoughtfully at the tiny caterpillar resting in her palm. "...Perhaps they simply become who they always were."

You considered that for a very long time; here you have the silence and freedom to think in peace without anyone watching. A small Eden into which it seemed the presence of the Seven could not enter.

Mother never interrupted when you were with Helaena.Perhaps because she believed insects could never lead anyone toward dragons.

But Helaena, without ever intending to, became the only place where you forgot yours.

If Helaena became your sanctuary

Aegon became your shield.

He would have denied it to anyone who asked. Loudly and repeatedly. That he did not care about the annoying ball of red fur that seemed to appear in any dark corridor of the palace and that always followed him around asking incessant questions about nothing in particular.

He would always deny it with an eye roll dramatic enough to be seen from Dragonstone.

Yet everyone within the Red Keep knew the truth.

Prince Aegon Targaryen could torment his brother from sunrise until supper, he could sneak frogs into the kitchens, steal enormous quantities of wine from beneath the noses of servants, and escape three tutors in a single afternoon.

And Prince Aegon never arrived on time to anything.

Not to his lessons, not to sword practice, and not to supper.

Not even to the endless prayers his mother insisted the family attend together.

If a septa expected him at the seventh bell, she learned to expect him at the eighth. If a maester summoned him, another servant was usually sent to fetch him a second time.

Everyone complained, everyone sighed, and everyone had long since accepted that Prince Aegon Targaryen simply did as he pleased.

Except when you asked for him.

The first time had happened by chance. You had been sitting cross-legged in the library with a High Valyrian book almost as large as your lap, quietly sounding out the unfamiliar words beneath your breath.

Aegon wandered inside with every intention of hiding from his own lessons.

"What are you doing?" he asked almost listlessly as he looked at you there, sitting on the floor with the book between your legs.

"I'm learning High Valyrian."

"...Why?" he asked after a second.

You looked up, confused. "Because Father says every prince and princess should know it."

"...That sounds dreadful." He said as he lay listlessly down on the chaise lounge, with one leg dangling on the floor and the other bent over the soft pillows.

You frowned at one of the lines, got up with effort, and, staggering with the book in your arms, went to the armchair. You climbed onto the armchair and over Aegon's body as he grunted, finally sitting with your back against his stomach and reopened the book.

"I don't know this word." You said, pointing at the word and moving the book close to Aegon's face.

Aegon slightly lowered his arm from his eyes and barely glanced at the page before replying, "It means dragonkeeper."

You pondered for a few seconds before pointing to another word. "And this one?"

"Fire." Aegon said wearily, covering his eyes with his arm again.

You frowned slightly before turning several pages, trying not to drop the heavy book, searching for another word. "And this?" You impatiently pointed at another word. "Arg...uris? Ar...guris? Argh...ugh...uris? Argh...oooris?"

"Gods..." Aegon laughed “Arghurys”

"Arg...uris."

"...No."

You frowned. "Ar...guris?"

"Still no."

You tried again, slower this time, and intoning almost as if you were howling at the moon, "Argh...ugh...uris."

Aegon laughed even harder, clutching his stomach with his hands as he trembled from the laughter that came from him.

You pouted "I'm trying."

Once he stopped laughing, he said with a small smile, "I know." He nodded as he sat up slightly using his elbows, then leaned closer, tapping the word with one finger. "Arghurys. It means hunter."

Your face brightened and you looked at them with the biggest smile anyone had ever given you. "You know High Valyrian!" you said excitedly.

"I suppose." He murmured softly.

You nodded, convinced. Yes, you had already decided. "You'll help me."

It was not a request.

Aegon looked toward the open library doors as though considering escape. Then he looked back at you and thought of the beautiful smile you had given him. No one had ever smiled at him like that, and a warm sensation filled his chest.

"...Fine."

After that, it simply became expected.

If you asked Aegon to help with your lessons, he came. No matter what else he had been avoiding.The maesters quickly learned that there was only one reliable way to ensure the prince attended anything on time: To tell him his little sister was waiting.

"You are late again, Your Grace."

"I know." He said, rolling his eyes.

The master clasped his hands and tried again. "You have already missed your own lesson."

"I know." He barked with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

The maester waited a few seconds before adding, "...Princess Y/N has been waiting for nearly half an hour."

Aegon stood still, before turning around and shooting the Maester a murderous glare. "...Why didn't you say so first?"

He would already be walking away before the old maester had finished speaking. 

He never cared enough to study for himself, but he hated not knowing the answers to your questions.

So, more often than not, the evening before your lessons, he could be found lazily turning the pages of whatever book the maesters had assigned you, grumbling beneath his breath about dull kings and impossible High Valyrian grammar.

Not because he enjoyed it, but because he liked the way your face lit up whenever he knew the answer.

You never understood why everyone insisted your eldest brother was lazy.

He certainly looked lazy, he yawned through lessons, skipped half of them altogether,  and complained about everything.

Yet somehow, whenever you wanted him, he was always there.

As children, it never crossed your mind that people could change. To you, your brother had always been good. You believed he always would be.

And you would spend years trying to remember this version of your brother.

The one who always came when you called.

If Aegon became your protector...

Aemond became your greatest contradiction.

Aemond was… Peculiar.

Not that he disliked you, that would have required finding you interesting enough to dislike in the first place.

For years, he simply couldn't understand you.

You woke before sunrise without complaint, you knelt through every prayer, you copied every line the septas set before you with neat, careful handwriting. Your dresses were always immaculate and your posture never faltered. Your long auburn curls fell perfectly down your back, never braided, never pinned, never out of place.

You thanked every servant, you curtsied to every lord, you lowered your eyes whenever an elder spoke.

Everything about you was...

Painfully ordinary.

You were exactly the sort of little lady Mother wished all her children had become.

And Aemond could not understand how someone carrying the blood of Old Valyria could be so utterly uninterested in everything that made House Targaryen… Well, House Targaryen in itself.

He devoured histories and you memorised hymns. He spent afternoons tracing old maps of Valyria and you embroidered flowers onto handkerchiefs. He could spend hours listening to the old Dragonkeepers speak and you politely excused yourself before they had finished their stories.

Whenever someone mentioned dragons, your attention drifted elsewhere.

It made no sense to him.

Sometimes he wondered whether you simply lacked curiosity altogether.

You never questioned anything, never argued, and never demanded anything.

You simply accepted everything and it irritated him far more than it should have.

Then came the comparisons. Not from Mother, never from Mother bit from everyone else.

"The Princess has remarkable penmanship." and "The Princess has already memorised the fourth chapter." or "The Princess recited the Star without a single mistake." and even "The Princess is most diligent."

Always the Princess.

Aemond never struggled with his lessons. He was usually the brightest pupil in every room at least until people began mentioning you in the same sentence. And he disliked that far more than he cared to admit.

Not because you outperformed him, you rarely did, but because everyone seemed so impossibly impressed whenever you accomplished the very same things they had always expected of him.

As though neat handwriting were somehow more remarkable on your page than on his, as though your discipline deserved admiration while his was merely expected. He found it deeply unfair.

You, meanwhile, couldn't understand your brother at all.

Everyone insisted Prince Aemond was clever. And you surely believed them.

He certainly knew an extraordinary amount about dragons, swords, kings and places with names you could barely pronounce.

Unfortunately, those also happened to be the only things he ever seemed interested in.

He rarely smiled, rarely laughed, rarely joined Aegon when he invented games for you and Helaena through the corridors, and rarely sat with Helaena among the flowers.

He always seemed astonishingly busy while not doing anything in particular. Simply thinking, always inside his own mind.

You eventually decided Aemond simply preferred books to people.

You didn't dislike him.

You simply couldn't think of a reason to seek him out. There was nothing the two of you enjoyed together.

When Aegon found you, he taught you High Valyrian, he made you laugh, and he even tickled your little nose. When Helaena found you, she showed you beetles hidden beneath leaves and told you about the little animals that nobody else saw. When Mother found you, there were prayers, lessons or long evenings brushing your hair.

When Aemond found you there was usually only silence. And strangely enough, neither of you minded it.

Yet there was one thing Aemond noticed more than anything else:  Mother.

She was never affectionate. Not truly, no to anyone. She did not kiss scraped knees, she did not tell bedtime stories, and she did not shower any of her children with embraces or laughter.

Duty always came before tenderness.

That much was true for all of them. 

And yet she was always beside you. Every morning, every afternoon, and every evening.

Always watching out for you. She corrected the way your sleeves sat upon your wrists, she reminded servants to bring your parasol, she disappeared with you behind the doors of her chambers every single night, she inspected your lessons herself, she walked the gardens with you, and she called for you. Constantly.

Aemond could not remember the last time Mother had spent an entire afternoon with him.

He saw the little smiles she reserved only for you. Brief and almost invisible, gone as quickly as they came. Most people would never have noticed them. 

Aemond did. He noticed everything and each one lodged somewhere beneath his ribs. He told himself it was because you required more supervision. Because you were younger, because little sisters always needed looking after. He repeated those explanations until he almost believed them.

Almost.

For years the two of you barely existed in each other's worlds.

If Aemond spent the afternoon buried somewhere within the library, you were likely in the sept, reciting prayers beside your mother.

If you embroidered quietly beneath the shade of the gardens with Helaena, Aemond was somewhere near the Dragonpit, pestering Dragonkeepers with endless questions.

If he disappeared into the training yard, you were practising your handwriting.

If you walked beside the Queen through the castle corridors, he had already taken another passage entirely.

It became an unspoken rule of childhood.

You always seemed to be walking in opposite directions, like the two ends of a compass that refused to meet.

On the rare occasions your paths crossed within the endless corridors of the Red Keep, neither of you stopped. Just a brief glance, a polite nod and then you continued walking. 

You to the sept and him to the library.

You to your embroidery and him to his histories.

It never felt strange, not to either of you.

There simply never seemed to be a reason to remain in the same room for longer than necessary.

That evening, everything began as it always did. The servants were dismissed and the doors closed. The familiar crystal bottle rested upon the table beside Mother's silver brush.

You climbed onto the cushioned stool before her mirror without needing to be asked, your long auburn curls already tumbling down your back as Alicent stepped behind you.

The room filled with the familiar rhythm of the brush gliding through your hair. Slow, gentle, and patient.

You loved this part.

Outside those chambers, Mother was always the Queen.

Inside them, and just for a little while, she became simply Mother.

You watched her reflection through the mirror as she carefully gathered the thick lock of hair hidden deep at the nape of your neck, separating it from the rest with practiced fingers.

The soft auburn roots had returned once again.

She sighed almost imperceptibly before uncorking the crystal bottle. The sharp scent of vinegar and herbs filled the room. You barely noticed it anymore, and now you even associated that love of ammonia with a safe and happy place.

As the little brush painted the mixture onto your roots, your eyes wandered absentmindedly towards the open window, The cold night breeze gently swayed the silk curtains.

Faintly, beyond the thick stone walls of the chamber, the distant sounds of the castle settling for the night drifted through the silence.

Somewhere far below, a door closed. Footsteps echoed briefly along a corridor.

Then nothing again.

Only the quiet, steady rhythm of the brush moving through your hair.

You smiled to yourself.

"...Mother?"

"Hm?" Her attention never left the careful strokes of the brush.

You tilted your head slightly, watching your brother disappear beneath one of the stone archways.

"If Aemond wanted..." You started speaking in a small voice and Alicent hummed distractedly. "...could you make one of his white locks red too?"

The brush stopped. Not gradually but instantly.

You looked at her reflection, waiting for an answer.

She hadn't moved. Her hand remained suspended in the air, the little brush still resting against your hair.

"...So he could look a little more like you," you continued innocently. "Then we'd match." You said excitedly, noticing and trying to fix the shift in your mother's mood.

Silence.

You frowned.

"I could even show Helaena how to apply it, then even Aegon and her could match."

The colour drained from Alicent's face so quickly it almost frightened you.

For one terrible heartbeat she simply stared at your reflection. Then, all at once, she spun your stool around so abruptly your feet slipped from the wooden footrest.

Her hands landed on your shoulders, her slender fingers gripping you with a devastating force. A small, frightened whimper escaped your lips when you saw your mother's terrified eyes.

"Never." Her voice was barely more than a whisper, yet it sounded harsher than any shout you had ever heard.

You blinked up at her, startled.

"...Mother?"

Her fingers tightened without her realising.

"You will never say those words again."

"I only thought—"

"No." She said, shaking you by the shoulders as the word cracked through the room. Her breathing had become even now, each breath shallower than the last.

"Not to Aemond." Another shake. "Not to Aegon." Another. "Not to Helaena." Her eyes searched yours with something you had never seen before.

Not anger, not disappointment, but terror.

They reminded you of the eyes of sheep before they were incinerated by Sunfyre, the dragon of your beloved brother Aegon. You had only witnessed it once, but those trembling eyes of the lambs had left such a mark on your memory that you still had nightmares about them.

"You will never tell anyone about this."

"I wasn't going to—"

"No one." Her voice trembled. "Not your brothers." Her fingers dug a little tighter into your sleeves, now grabbing your wrists. "Not your father, not the servants, not the Maester, not anyone."

You saw how your mother's eyes changed color, how a dark shadow completely obscured them, leaving aside that tearful brightness and replacing it with flashes of blind anger.

You had no idea what you had done. The little bottle? The white lock? Nothing made sense anymore.

Your lower lip trembled. "...Mother?" For the first time, your voice sounded frightened and a tear rolled silently down your cheek. "I don't understand."

Alicent's face crumpled for the briefest of moments, but almost immediately she closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe. She straightened her back and walked away from the vanity, her back to you. When she turned around to look at you again, the panic had been pushed back behind the familiar mask of the Queen. That slight sneer of disgust and contempt that was already so familiar on your mother's face.

"You don't need to understand." She spoke slowly, cold as snow. "You only need to promise me."

You nodded quickly. "I promise. I do, mother. I will never tell anyone," you said as small sobs escaped your lips.

"No." Alicent barked, and for a moment you could see a flicker of anger again before it was overshadowed by a look of contempt. "Look at me."

You did while you were drying the tears that kept falling with the sleeves of your nightgown and trying to wipe them away with the soft embroidery of the cuffs of your nightgown on your cheeks.

"Say the words." She said in a cold tone, her eyes wide with shock. The queen appeared with regal bearing and all her magnificence just a few steps away, almost as if she were in a royal audience, her posture immaculate. "Say the words, daughter. Your Queen commands you."

And you, with your childlike innocence, did what your mother told you: "I promise I won't tell anyone." Sealing a promise that would last for years.

Children usually did what their mother told them to do.

She held your gaze for another long moment, searching your face as though trying to decide whether a child could truly keep a secret she did not even understand.

The room was silent once more.

The brush still rested abandoned upon the floor where it had slipped from Alicent's fingers.

You rubbed your sleeves where she had held you, more confused than hurt.

Mother had never looked so afraid, not even when Father had fallen ill, and not even during the thunderstorms that rattled the windows of Maegor's Holdfast.

Whatever terrible thing you had almost said, you could not understand what it had been.

You only remembered Mother's face.

Years later, you would realise that something had died inside those chambers that evening.

After that night, you never quite got your mother back.

For your mother became harder to find beneath the Queen. 

After that night, there were moments when you could still glimpse your mother. But they became fewer with every passing year, 

Until at one point, only the Queen remained.

Thus grief, too heavy for words, whispered to an overburdened heart until it broke.

Tell me what you think about exploring her childhood. This might be slowburn with Aemond (since I’m starting since they’re children) but trust me with this one.

Authors note: Little one shot in honour of HOTD coming back

Disclamer: (I do NOT allow anyone stealing, translating or imitating this work)

Don't forget to reblog, like and comment!!

The labour began before dawn.

By midday, every candle in Queen Alicent's chambers had burned halfway down. By nightfall, they had all been replaced.

The screams never stopped.

They echoed through Maegor's Holdfast until even the servants walking the corridors lowered their voices. Every cry was followed by another prayer, spoken through clenched teeth until Alicent no longer knew whether she begged the Seven for mercy... or forgiveness.

"Mother Above," she gasped as another wave of agony tore through her body, "have mercy on me."

The pain answered before heaven did.

She folded over herself with another cry, fingers digging so deeply into the linen sheets that her nails tore the fabric.

The Grand Maester remained at the foot of the bed, calm despite the mounting tension inside the room.

"Again, Your Grace."

She obeyed.

She had obeyed her entire life.

Her father.

Her husband.

Her duty.

The Faith.

Another push, another scream, another whispered prayer.

"Forgive me." She did not dare speak the reason aloud. She had not dared for months now.

Not since the quiet, stolen moments that had begun years earlier, when the weight of the crown and the slow decay of her husband had left her lonelier than she had ever been.

It had not happened all at once. There had been no single night to mark the beginning. Only glances that lingered too long and silences that stretched between them.

By now, she was no longer a girl. She was a queen. A mother. A woman who had learned how to endure.

And yet, somewhere between duty and exhaustion, between grief and the desperate need to be seen, she had allowed herself to forget.

Once.

Then again.

And again.

Until forgetting became something she could no longer undo.

Each morning she had knelt before the Seven, praying never to bear the consequence of her weakness. And tonight, she feared the gods had finally answered.

Another contraction ripped through her.

"My Queen!" the midwives gathered around once more. "I can see the babe!"

Alicent cried out so loudly that her throat burned raw.

Everything hurt, her back, her hips, her chest. Even breathing felt like punishment. She had given birth four times before, yet it had never been this painful. Nothing had prepared her for this.

"This is justice," a cruel voice whispered somewhere inside her own mind. "This is what sinners deserve."

One final scream.

One final push.

Then—

The cry of an infant filled the chamber. Tiny, fagile and alive.

Alicent collapsed back against the pillows, every muscle trembling with exhaustion. For several blissful seconds, she simply breathed. It was over. She had survived.

"...Is the baby well?" she whispered.

Silence, complete silence.

The relief vanished immediately. Her brows furrowed as she looked from one midwife to another.

No one smiled. No one dared congratulate her, The Queen. No one dared move an inch.

The only sound in the room was the newborn's cries echoing through the chamber.

"Why..." Alicent's voice trembled. "...why is no one speaking?"

The youngest midwife had gone completely pale. One of the older women quietly made the sign of the Seven across her chest. The Grand Maester stared down at the infant for far longer than was proper.

The colour slowly drained from his face.

Alicent felt her heartbeat quicken.

"...Is she breathing?"

"Perfectly, Your Grace."

"...Then bring her to me," Alicent commanded, her voice carrying all the authority of a queen.

No one moved.

Despite the protests of her aching body, the Queen pushed herself upright on her elbows.

"I said..." she repeated, more slowly this time, "...bring me my child."

The Grand Maester swallowed.

"It is... a daughter."

Relief flickered across Alicent's face.

"A daughter..." Another daughter. She smiled weakly. "Helaena will be delighted to have a new girl to play with."

The old man's lips parted before closing once more.

"There is... something else."

Alicent's smile disappeared. "What?"

He searched desperately for words that did not seem to exist. "...She resembles you greatly, Your Grace."

For one confused heartbeat, Alicent almost laughed before extending her trembling arms.

"My daughter, Maester. Now."

At last, one frightened midwife stepped forward.

The child was carefully placed into Alicent's embrace.

The baby immediately settled against the warmth of her mother's chest, her cries fading into quiet little whimpers.

So small.

So impossibly small.

Alicent's expression softened.

"Oh..."

The infant had her nose,the exact same delicate curve and her lips, her cheeks, even the little furrow that appeared between her brows whenever she frowned.

However.

Her hair, though still damp from birth, was already unmistakably auburn. Almost identical to Alicent's own.

"My sweet girl..."

Then the baby opened her eyes.

Brown. Warm brown.

Not pale lilac.

Not violet.

Not even green.

Alicent stopped breathing and her smile froze.

Slowly, almost unwillingly, her eyes travelled over the child's tiny face once more, then down to her neck, her tiny hands, her little fists curling against the blanket.

And her skin.

Golden.

Not dark enough to invite immediate suspicion. But not pale enough to belong to House Targaryen.

It was the exact shade of skin she had kissed beneath the cover of darkness on countless stolen nights.

Not here, not in this room, not in this palace but beneath moonlight. Behind locked doors. When Criston Cole had whispered that he should never have loved her. When she had answered that neither should she.

Her stomach lurched.

"No..." The word escaped before she even realised she had spoken it and her fingers began to tremble. "No..." She repeated, this time with far greater desperation.

The baby blinked innocently up at her.

It was a cruel jest of the Seven, delighting in the divine punishment they had chosen for her sins.

The child offered a toothless little smile and let out a tiny, happy coo.

Alicent recoiled as though she had been burned alive.

"No!" She nearly threw the infant away from her. The baby only avoided striking the floor because the nearest midwife caught her just in time.

"My Queen—"

"No!" Alicent cried as she stumbled backwards across the chamber, one hand clamped over her mouth in a desperate attempt to suppress the nausea rising in her throat.

"It cannot be." She shook her head violently as tears streamed uncontrollably down her face. "It cannot."

The room spun around her and her stomach emptied itself onto the stone floor again and again as desperate, broken sobs escaped her lips. Nothing remained inside her, yet her body continued to retch while tears poured down her cheeks without restraint.

One horrified maid stepped forward.

"Your Grace—"

"DON'T!"

Alicent pressed herself against the far wall, staring at the baby as though she were a monster. "No... Don't you dare come any closer."

The child cried louder. And louder. A divine torment, without question. The cry the Seven themselves had sent to haunt both her days and her nights.

"Take her away."

"My Queen..."

"Take her away!" Her throat burned as she screamed after so many endless hours of agony.

"She needs her mother, Your Grace," the Grand Maester said gently, attempting to approach Alicent with the infant cradled in his arms.

"I SAID DON'T COME NEAR ME!"

At that exact moment, the doors flew open.

Ser Criston Cole entered in full armour, one hand already resting upon the hilt of his sword.

"Your Grace, are you—"

His words died instantly.

The Queen stood barefoot against the wall, still shaking, her bloodstained gown clinging to her legs and abdomen. Her auburn curls were tangled, her cheeks flushed crimson from the endless tears that wracked her body.

The floor bore the evidence of her sickness.

Every servant in the room looked ready to faint as the baby cried somewhere behind them.

Criston frowned. "What has happened?"

No one answered.

Alicent slowly lifted her eyes to meet his. He had seen her frightened, he had seen her grieving, he had seen her furious. But he had never seen this.

Pure despair.

Slowly, almost against his own will, Criston turned toward the infant just as the Grand Maester, finally obeying Alicent's command, carried the baby toward the door.

As he passed beside him, Criston stole a glance at the child's face.

His breath caught.

Auburn curls. Alicent's face. And...

His own Brown eyes.

His knees nearly gave way beneath him. The room disappeared into a blur of shadows and muffled voices as bile crept up the back of his throat.

The proof of his dishonour stood before him.

His daughter.

Their child.

The living proof of their consummated sin.

Criston slowly looked back at Alicent.

She was crying silently now, one trembling hand covering her mouth as she stared out of the window, King's Landing stretched beneath her feet.

Anywhere but the child. Anywhere but their daughter.

He understood.

Perfectly.

Neither of them would ever speak of this.

Not while they lived.

King Viserys never noticed.

Or perhaps he no longer possessed the strength to notice.

By the time the child was presented before him, the King's body had already begun to fail him. His hands trembled as he reached out for the babe, carefully cradling her in his arms.

"Another beautiful daughter." A gentle smile spread across his face, and Alicent could have sworn that, for the briefest of moments, the light that had once lived in his eyes had returned. A youthful warmth shone through the years of illness that had ravaged him.

His ruined face softened as the baby wrapped her tiny hands around one of his old fingers, attempting to chew on it.

"So like her mother." He stroked the infant's auburn curls with surprising tenderness. "My little Alicent," he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of her head before breathing in the sweet scent of her hair.

The Queen lowered her gaze. "...She favours House Hightower."

Viserys let out a weak chuckle. "Good. It pleases me greatly." He smiled fondly at his wife as he gently rocked the baby in his arms. "I have enough silver-haired children already."

The court laughed politely. Only Alicent did not. She stood frozen beside the cradle while Viserys admired every feature that reminded him of the woman he had loved ever since Queen Aemma's death.

"The same hair."

"The same smile."

"The very same sweet face as yours, my sweet wife."

Not once did he mention the baby's eyes.

Perhaps he no longer remembered the colour of his own.

Not everyone was so blind.

Princess Rhaenyra watched the presentation from across the hall without uttering a single word. Beside her stood Laenor Velaryon, while a little farther behind them lingered Harwin Strong.

The princess observed the infant quietly. The babe was born with auburn hair, brown eyes, and darker dornish skin.

Her gaze drifted, almost unconsciously, toward the new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, after Ser Harrold Westerling passed away from old age, and a small smile escaped her lips. Then she looked towards Alicent.

The Queen refused to meet her gaze. Rhaenyra tried fighting the smile appearing in her lips. Not triumphant. Not exactly mocking. But not completely innocent either.

She glanced sideways, and Harwin followed her gaze toward the child. His brows rose only slightly before understanding settled across his features.

Laenor noticed a heartbeat later. His eyes widened as he looked first at the faithful knight in a white cape, then quite shamelessly turned to look at his own wife. A quiet laugh escaped him.

"So..." Rhaenyra murmured softly, just loud enough for the two men beside her to hear. "It would seem we are not so different after all."

Laenor raised his goblet with an amused smile. "I have always believed hypocrisy makes for the finest entertainment." He lifted his cup a little higher. "A toast to the Seven... and to their exquisite sense of justice." A light chuckle escaped him.

Rhaenyra said nothing. She simply continued watching Alicent.

The Queen never looked up. She did not need to. She could feel those knowing eyes upon her skin.

For years she had condemned Rhaenyra. She had called her sons bastards and questioned their blood, questioned their honour.

Now the gods had answered with exquisite cruelty. Not by exposing her. That would have been merciful.

Instead, they had given Alicent exactly what she had spent years despising.

A child she would spend the rest of her life trying to convince the world was something she was not.

No one ever spoke of that night again. Not the Grand Maester, not the midwives, not Ser Criston Cole, not even Alicent herself.

By the time the little princess celebrated her first nameday, every witness had convinced themselves that silence was simply another form of loyalty.

The Queen saw to it personally.

The oldest midwife was quietly dismissed from court, granted enough lands to ensure her comfort for the rest of her life.

Another chose to take her vows as a Silent Sister.

The youngest left King's Landing altogether before the child had even learned to walk.

The Grand Maester never uttered a single word. He had served three kings and he intended to die serving the fourth.

Some truths were safer buried.

Others were buried every single day.

The princess grew into a beautiful little girl.

Every passing moon made Alicent's heart heavier. When she laughed, she saw herself. When she frowned, she saw herself. And when she tilted her head in curiosity, she saw herself.

Then the little girl would look up with those warm brown eyes, and Alicent's stomach twisted all over again.

Criston's eyes.

Always Criston's brown eyes.

It became impossible to look at her for too long.

So Alicent learned another kind of motherhood. One built not upon affection, but discipline.

Routine. Prayer. And control.

If she could not change the child, she would shape everything around her.

"You are the blood of Oldtown before you are anything else." The sentence became as common as the morning bells. "You are a daughter of the Seven."

"Your heart belongs to the Mother."

"Your thoughts belong to the Father."

"Your soul belongs to the Maiden."

Every lesson began with scripture, every meal began with prayer, and every evening ended inside the royal sept.

While Aegon disappeared from his tutors, while Aemond begged endlessly to visit the Dragonpit, and while Helaena wandered through the gardens collecting insects no one else noticed, you learned hymns.

You learned the Seven-Pointed Star before you learned the histories of Old Valyria. You knew every prayer by heart before you knew the names of the Conqueror's dragons.

Alicent insisted upon it. The less you loved dragons, the safer you would be, the farther away from the truth you would remain, the farther away from ever knowing that you could never bond with one.

Sometimes, late at night, she imagined you years from now. Your hair hidden beneath a white veil. Your eyes lowered.

A septa.

Anonymous. Forgotten by the court.

Safe.

No dragons. No marriage. No heirs. No questions.

That image soothed her.

Maybe if she prayed hard enough, perhaps the Seven would grant her at least that mercy.

The milk baths began shortly after your fith nameday.

At first, you thought they were wonderful. The enormous marble tub was filled until white foam lapped against its edges. Pitchers of warm donkey’s milk were poured in, the finest and whitest milk from all the Seven Kingdoms.

Honey.

Ground pearls.

Rosewater.

Sweet herbs.

The servants poured them one after another while steam curled lazily through the bathing chambers.

"It smells nice."

"It should." Alicent watched from her chair nearby. "It is good for princesses."

You accepted that answer happily. Princesses took milk baths. Princesses wore silk. Princesses prayed. And princesses obeyed.

That was simply how the world worked.

But as the years passed, the baths became longer. More frequent, exactly every second day. Sometimes every day even during the summer.

You would sit patiently while the servants rubbed fragrant oils into your skin until it glowed pale beneath the candlelight.

Whenever you complained, Alicent would simply say, "A little longer."

Children accepted answers adults never would.

Always a little longer. She never explained why.

She only noticed, with quiet relief, that your skin remained fair despite the blazing summer beyond the castle walls.

The sun became your greatest enemy.

Though you never understood the reason. Whenever you stepped into the gardens, it had to be beneath a parasol.

Always.

White silk, embroidered with seven-pointed stars, perhaps an unconscious attempt to protect the truth from ever coming to light.

A servant carried it faithfully above your head no matter the season.

When you tried running ahead, as children did:

"My lady!" The poor handmaid hurried after you. "Please... The Queen will be upset."

You would stop immediately. "Oh."

Soon, however, you stopped running altogether, knowing there was no possibility of stepping beyond the limits of the parasol.

Shade became as natural as breathing. You learned which gardens remained cool beneath the trees and which sunny hallways to avoid.

You assumed every princess lived this way. You had never known anything different.

Only Alicent noticed the difference after those rare afternoons when the sun found you despite every precaution.

The warmth returned to your cheeks, to your hands, and to your shoulders.

Only slightly. Barely enough for anyone else to notice.

Enough for her. Enough to remind her of your Dornish skin.

She would order another milk bath that very evening.

There was only one part of the day you truly loved.

Every night. After supper.

When Mother called for you herself.

You would hurry through Maegor's Holdfast with your hair bouncing freely behind you.

No one ever questioned your place, not truly; not when they saw the pale streak that had begun to appear as you grew, hidden deep at the nape of your neck. A divine gift, they whispered, a blessing from the Seven themselves, proof of Valyrian blood made manifest.

Unlike Helaena, whose silver hair was woven into intricate braids by patient ladies. Unlike the Velaryon girls at court. Unlike every noble child you had ever met. You always wore your hair loose. Long, thick, untamed auburn curls.

Mother insisted upon it.

"It suits you," she used to say.

So you believed her. She never allowed anyone to braid it. Never pin it up. Never twist it into fashionable styles. You simply thought she liked it that way.

And you never questioned why.

Children rarely questioned love.

Inside her chambers, every servant was dismissed, every single one. Only the Grand Maester remained.

He always arrived carrying the same small wooden chest. But he never opened it. He simply placed it upon the table, bowed, and withdrew.

Only after the doors had closed would Alicent unlatch it. Inside rested a tiny crystal bottle filled with a pale, cloudy mixture that smelled sharply of vinegar, herbs, and crushed flowers.

You smiled the moment you saw it.

"My turn?"

Alicent looked up, and that was always the first time each day she smiled at you.

"Yes."

Your favourite part.

You climbed eagerly onto the cushioned stool before her mirror as she stood behind you.

Slowly, very slowly, she began brushing your hair. Long strokes through your reddish curls. From crown to waist.

Again.

Again.

Again.

The room remained quiet except for the soft sound of the bristles gliding through your auburn curls. You loved closing your eyes. Mother's hands were always gentle in that moment. Her harsh personality long forgotten, leaving only a sweet mother stroking your hair with tenderness.

Not hurried, not distant, gentle.

Sometimes she hummed the hymns she sang in the sept. Sometimes she spoke.

"You have beautiful hair."

"It looks like yours," you would always answer.

"...Yes." She always replied with a tight smile.

You smiled at your own reflection.

"I hope I always look like you."

The brush stopped for only a heartbeat before continuing.

You never saw the tears gathering in her eyes, every single time.

When every knot had disappeared, Alicent carefully gathered the thick white section of hair that grew from the very back of your head.

Deep at the nape of your neck. Hidden beneath the heavy layers that fell over it. No one would ever be able to notice the auburn roots growing beneath it unless your hair was lifted completely away from your shoulders.

That was why she had chosen to place it there.

The rest of your hair remained untouched. Only that hidden lock needed to be treated.

She tied the surrounding hair aside with practised fingers until the section lay exposed. By now, the roots had begun returning. The soft auburn colour appearing once again, barely half an inch, clashing with the rest of the white strand.

You reached up automatically.

"They're red again... They always grow," you said, a hint of sadness in your voice. "Will they become white tonight?"

Alicent forced herself to smile. "Yes."

You nodded excitedly, looking delighted. "I like it when it's white."

"I know."

"It makes me look more like Father."

"...It makes you look like a Targaryen."

You simply nodded, satisfied.

Alicent uncorked the crystal bottle, and the familiar acidic scent filled the room.

"Ready?" she asked, and you nodded enthusiastically.

She dipped the small brush into the mixture before carefully painting it over the hidden lock, working from root to tip with painstaking precision.

Within moments, the burning began.

Your little shoulders tensed.

"It stings," you tried to complain.

"I know."

"It always stings."

"I know."

She continued anyway. Every hair. Every inch. She could not afford to miss even one.

Tears gathered at the corners of your eyes as that spot on your scalp burned. You never complained, and you certainly never cried.

Instead, you leaned backwards until your head rested lightly against Alicent's stomach, seeking comfort from your mother.

Without thinking, Alicent's free hand came to rest atop your head. Slowly, almost unconsciously, she stroked your hair.

"There..." she whispered. "My brave Targaryen girl."

You smiled despite the sting.

That sentence...

Just those three little words were worth every moment of discomfort.

You would endure far worse if it meant hearing your mother say them again, if it meant her touching you with such love and gentleness

Neither of you realised the terrible truth.

For you, this was love.

For Alicent, this was penance.

You were the punishment the Seven had seen fit to send her. Her Sword of Damocles. Her everlasting sentence. The living proof of every broken vow and the greatest sin she had spent years begging the gods to forgive. 

You were the Seven's answer to a forgiveness she had begged for and never received.

And from the day you were born, Alicent would spend the rest of her life hiding from the truth she had brought into the world

Until conscience, as it always does, made a coward of her.

Maybe a part 2?

Surprisingly, it was your cousin, Daeron, who offered you the most kindness. He was the only person you could yield to in the entire Hightower base. You could only pray he wasn’t relaying every conversation you’d had back to the Lord Ormund Hightower.

Everyone else treated you like you were common. Specifically Ser Gwayne Hightower.

He was rude—and vain—and arrogant. He was irritating. When he would try to make conversation, you would always end up in a fight. And it was just your luck for him to be the one instructed to take you on a multiple-week-long journey from the Reach and back to your rightful home in the Red Keep.

He was the one to tell you that your mother had taken King’s Landing back. You assume your mother saw it fit to have the Queen Dowager’s brother be the one to accompany you, because maybe she has something in store for him when you make it there. Perhaps a beheading? He could do without the ability to speak.

Then he was the one to tell you that you would join her in King’s Landing. That you were finally going home. It was the only thing to come from his mouth that made you joyful.

You overheard chatter that by you departing the Reach as soon as the letter was received, and by you making it back unharmed, House Hightower would be granted something close to immunity for their role in the war. You knew it was something a lie. Your mother and stepfather would never let the Green beasts live with what they had done—not only to you, but to her son too. To your mother herself.

The thought of what your mother might be doing to the Dowager Queen now gave you anxiety from being excluded. You should expect that they’ll be calling for Daeron’s capture too, though perhaps you will be able to put in a good word for him—get him sent to the Wall instead of hanged.

Speaking of Daeron, he was already somewhere distant when you had finished gathering your belongings, even though the things you owned in the encampment were scarce. You had said your goodbyes to each other not long ago—he claimed he had to prepare for something with Lord Ormund, and that he would not be available the next morning, for your departure.

You were, as expected, ready to leave. You had wanted to lie down and rest so that the next morning would come sooner, but Ser Gwayne had called you into his tent for one final word.

“There was something else written in the letter. Something I believe should have been saved for a calm moment, such as this,” he begun, and held up the refolded parchment which illustrated the clemency that would be provided to House Hightower upon your safe return to King’s Landing. “Would you prefer to read it, or shall I?”

The glint in his eye was one of compassion. You did not like it.

You shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “Proceed.”

He raised his brows, pressing his lips together before giving a heavy sigh and opening the parchment back again. The fingers that gripped either side of it seemed to waver. His eyes quickly found the line he had so desperately wanted to read.

He inhaled a heavy breath. “The Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne Jacaerys Velaryon was slain in battle against the Triarchy Fleet. He was struck down by crossbow fire alongside his dragon, Vermax, in the waters off the Gullet.”

Gwayne let his hands drop slowly, and he sealed the parchment back. He looked back up at you.

Your head was shaking back and forth. Denying his words, maybe. The movement had come naturally, and you could not stop it.

“Is this a jest?” you exhaled a small laugh, hoping it would work to quell the distress already coursing through your veins.

You knew it was not a jest.

You knew if the war did not end soon then he would die in some violent, gruesome way, but to hear it confirmed was something entirely different. To hear it confirmed by a Hightower was something worse. The primal need for the man before you dead, perhaps in such a way your own brother was killed, washed over you in an instant.

He remained silent at your question. "It pains me, though your brother's death does not alter our course,” he said instead. “We shall depart at first light.”

It pains him?

You will show him something that pains him.

There was a lengthy distance between the two of you already, but you quickly closed it as you rushed across to smack him across his cheek.

Your hand stung, yet you did not wait for his reaction. Instead, you turned on your heel and left the tent.

Jace did not hit you until the fresh air did, and you let yourself shed the tears that you had pushed back into your sockets. The tears that you could not—would not—let fall in front of the enemy.

day one

You never liked Gwayne. He was arrogant, and he would treat you as if you weren’t the daughter of the Queen—or more importantly to them, the granddaughter of King Viserys, and the niece of their usurper.

The ride up the roseroad so far had been silent. He had tried, but you did not speak a word in response. It pains me, he had said, and then he practically told you to get over it and go home! He is moronic, and conceited. It pains you that you have to make this journey with him.

If need be, you could be doing this by yourself. You’re fierce enough to ride alone—gods, you’re essentially already riding alone, Gwayne’s useless self.

Your brothers taught you to be fierce, in spite of their age. Jace had always insisted on letting you spar with them in the yard of the Red Keep, and you learned quite well from it. You certainly couldn’t beat a knight with your skills, but it had helped you gain a certain confidence that princesses tend not to have.

Aegon had never liked you practicing with them. Neither did Ser Criston. You did beat the usurper once—caught him off guard and swept him out from under his feet—which must have bruised his ego in the process, as he felt it just to push you to the ground when your back was turned right after. That earned him a clout in the ear from Ser Harwin.

You chuckle to yourself recalling the memory—specifically Aegon’s stupid face when he realized who had hit him, and more specifically when Ser Harwin did not get in trouble for it—and you notice Gwayne looking at you in your peripheral. The smile is wiped clean off of your face.

“Does something amuse you?” he mutters.

When you look over to see him, he is glowering at you, his upper lip lifted with judgment.

“I understand you may not have many fond memories to look back on when times are tiresome, but I do.” You look forward at the road ahead.

He scoffs out a laugh. “I have many fond memories.”

“Tell me one,” you counter.

All you can hear is the wind blowing through the trees. Ser Gwayne Hightower, the parentless knight, no recollections to look back on fondly.

Gwayne sucks in a breath. “I do not have to.”

“That is what I thought.” You smirk to yourself, and lightly kick the side of your horse, forcing it forward and ahead of him.

day two

You were unsure if you should speak the words you did, but they had just slipped out at a certain point.

“I take it you did not care much for Jace.” Your gaze had already been trained on the head of your horse. It seemed hard to look anywhere else.

You and Gwayne had been mindlessly trekking forward all morning, both of your eyes still heavy with the slumber that you had lacked, sleeping in an inn on top of stiff beds.

“What makes you say that, princess?” he asks.

“You are a Hightower. Your sister is the Dowager Queen. Your nephew is the usurper. You kill for them—” you look over to him. He has been staring at you the whole time, and he looks quite furious.

“I believe you will find I do not have much of a choice in the matter,” he interjects sharply.

Your head shakes. “Everyone has a choice.”

He huffs. “What do you reckon I do? Desert my army? Get caught and hanged for treason?”

“I would.” You look back at the road ahead. “I should.”

Gwayne sighs, and returns his attention to the road as well. “We both have duties, my princess. Duties one cannot simply run from once they get to be too demanding.”

“Essos is said to be nice this time of year.”

A short laugh escapes him. “Essos is said to be nice all times of the year.”

You let out a heavy, deflated sigh. “Would it not be nice? I’m sure they don’t care about who we are there. We could be free. You could be a sellsword, and I…” your thought trails off. You cannot think of what you would be somewhere like Essos.

“You could be a scribe,” Gwayne says sincerely.

You nod. “I could.”

The idea of a life in Essos, perhaps with Gwayne, seems appealing at the very moment. The lack of sleep much be getting to you.

It does seem nice. Abandoning your name, as much as you are loyal to it, could be the best decision that you have made. He seems to want the same, if you convince yourself his words weren’t just tactical, some way to earn your empathy so that you will convince your mother to spare him once you reach the Red Keep.

If the war would not come to an end with her taking of the throne, you would have to escape there yourself. And if Gwayne wanted to come with you, if he was still alive by the time you left, you might just be willing to take him with you. Silverwing—who had surely made it back to Dragonstone—was large enough to saddle two.

day three

The inn you would stay in tonight would be much worse than the last. Not only because of the stiff beds, but because of the lack of them too.

Gwayne knew of the ones that would not ask any questions while not costing all the coins in his possession. So far they had been shit, but they had been true to their history of keeping quiet with matters that did not concern them, as far as you both knew.

You would remain outside with your cloak hood pulled tight over your head and your body facing a wall until Gwayne would come fetch you to take you to the room.

He would refer to you as his squire to the innkeepers and guests who questioned your presence. If they had questioned your demeanor, he would call you reserved and paranoid. Nobody had asked anything past that, but if they did, he was prepared to tell them that you had been tormented by some childhood event.

When Gwayne had taken you to your room that night, you had not expected to be faced with a singular bed.

“Have you gotten your own room?” you had asked, not realizing until you had drawn off the cloak from your head that there was only one mattress before you.

Gwayne only shrugged. “It was all that remained. The innkeeper told me that puppeteers are traveling in town, and all seem to be staying here.”

You could not contain your fury at the thought of sharing a bed with him. Or making him sleep on the floor. “How many fucking puppeteers are there?” you demanded, body tense with unreasonable anger.

He scoffed out a laugh. “My princess, it isn’t exactly the largest inn.” He had already begun shucking off his armor, as well as ridding himself of his gambeson and chausses. “You will live. I will sleep on the floor.”

“Are you sure? Can’t you speak with the innkeeper?”

“There is no need to draw any more attention to us. And what, princess, will you be sleeping on the floor in place of me?” he mocked, already in knowledge of the answer. “Do not fret over it. I have slept in worse places.”

You were silenced at that, and had called him for help with undoing your dress. The whole ordeal was strangely impersonal. He had done it the night before, and you felt nothing. Perhaps it be the exhaustion both of you had carried.

The two of you had retired to your respective sleeping areas shortly afterward, both clad in just your smallclothes.

Later that night, you found yourself wide awake, shivering in the relentless cold that seemed to break in past the shut windows.

Gwayne had been sleeping on the floor furthest from where you were lying on the bed. You assumed he was sleeping as well, but it was strangely silent. You had expected to hear the soft breathing of someone consumed by their slumber, though all you heard was the whistling of wind outside.

And your heart still held unpleasant sympathy for where he had been forced to rest. If your thoughts were true, he was not sleeping at all.

“Ser?” you whisper.

“Is something wrong?” you hear from below.

You smile at his voice. No, at being right. You do not smile at his presence, you smile because you like being right. You rolled over then, the mattress groaning beneath you, to stare at the dim expanse of the side where he lay.

“Are you comfortable there, on the floor?” you question, smile piercing through your words.

He scoffs. “You jest, princess, but I have no doubt that this floor is just as soft as the mattress you lay on.”

You were hit with a flurry of breathless laughter at his words. It must be your lack of sleep. You could hear him chuckle too after some point, but both of you had been slowly silenced as the seconds passed until you could only hear the commotion outside again.

Perhaps you should invite him to sleep alongside you. You are not without mercy. Of course, it would be strictly unromantic, not like how a wife and her husband might find one another on restless nights such as this one.

“Would you like to put that to the test?” you say without a second thought.

Gwayne clears his throat. “I would not want to invade on your solace, princess.”

“There is plenty of room for you.” You crawl across the bed to see him.

Your eyes find him as he thoughtlessly fiddles with the edge of his chemise, and as he freezes once he meets your gaze.

You beam down at him again. “And it would bring me solace, knowing you were sleeping the slightest bit easier.”

“Are you sure of it?”

“I am.” You think it is the sleep deprivation deluding you. You would never act like this normally. He can sense it too.

He slowly rises from his position on the ground, and multiple bones crackle once he stands.

You roll back over to your side of the bed, watching as he joins you. He seems tense, especially as you join him under the covers.

The two of you lie in bridled silence, neither one of you able to fall asleep. A chill runs through you from the temperature, and Gwayne’s head swivels to look at you.

You turn over on your side to meet his gaze, expecting him to say something. He does not, and looks back up at the ceiling instead.

Your brain, clouded by the fact that you are simultaneously freezing cold and devastatingly fatigued, opens, then pauses as you search for the words.

“Are you cold as well?” you mumble.

Gwayne shrugs nonchalantly. “Slightly.”

You chuckle mirthlessly. “I am.” The sheets suddenly feel rough against your skin. “More than slightly.”

“I can ask the innkeeper for another quilt.”

His earlier words flash back to you. “There is no need to draw any more attention to us,” you repeat.

You see the corner of his lip turn upward. “What do you reckon I do, then, princess?” he asks, and you reach out to touch his arm.

The muscle quickly tightens under your hold.

“You’re warm.” You move closer to him. “If we lie close together, we might just make it through the night.”

That is how you ended up huddled next to Ser Gwayne Hightower for the rest of the night.

You were unaware of the fact that he was lying frozen next to you, and that he did not get a wink of sleep, especially as you mindlessly slung an arm around his middle in your slumber. And as your nipples, solid from the cool breeze that had seeped in through the windows, brushed up against him as you shifted throughout the night.

day four

Gwayne had stopped to relieve himself when you heard them.

The myriad of chirps from some kind of birds had caught your attention, and you had jumped from your horse in an instant, following the sound.

You found yourself on the edge of an open field, behind some bushes, as you looked down to some small yellow birds that weren’t flying away. You deduce that they must like your presence.

It wasn’t long before Gwayne anxious voice interrupted your calm, calling your name just moments before stumbling upon you.

“What are they?” you whisper.

“Chicks,” he responds, in a normal tone. At your silence, he continues, “baby chickens.”

“Truly?” you question, head cocked to the side, watching them.

Gwayne stares at you. “Have you… never seen chicks before?”

“No, only…” you turn your head to him, “chickens.” You shrug.

He shakes his head with a theatrical sort of despair. It would have seemed real if the corners of his lips were not upturned.

“You truly are a princess,” he mutters, and crouches down to the ground.

You stoop down alongside him, watching as the chicks run past one another, chirping quietly.

“Can I touch one?” you mumble.

He gestures with a chin toward the chirping bunch. “Go on, then.”

You reach down to one of the animals, but you can’t quite seem to get a good grip on it. You don’t really try to grip it. You do not find the chance to. Instead, your hand just lingers hesitantly above the crowd of them.

Gwayne’s hands come down to meet yours. He grabs one of them, effortlessly and gently, cradling it in his hands.

Your hand is still lingering beside his, still in a motion as if you were going to grab one, as he did, so he brings the chicken in his hands to yours. You bring your free hand to join the other and cup them together.

He lets one hand release the chick into yours, and it comes down below the two of your hands as if to hold it steady. The other covers the chick to prevent it from jumping out of your hold.

The hand that is under yours touches it, and urges it to close. “Gently,” he murmurs, and you’re holding the chick on your own now, gently and effortlessly, just like he was.

His hands withdraw from yours. He watches as your lips curl up, a pure joy that he had yet to ever witness fill your face, do exactly that. His own mouth mirrors something similar.

You shudder nervously as the chick twitches around in your grip. It comes out half in the form of small chuckles and half in struggled exhales.

Your brows draw together. It seems impossible to relax them, and you feel a panic settle in at nothing in particular. Perhaps it be that your brothers are dead, maybe because you are with a man that you have such complicated and mind-boggling feelings for, or that you were just held as a prisoner for the Greens, and that man is a Green, he is the Green, the Hightower Green you have been conditioned to hate—

Gwayne has stopped smiling. You feel tears running down your face. The chick flies out of your grip once you try to see it closer, and you try your hardest to catch onto your breath, to catch it as it runs from you, but you cannot. You are sobbing before you get any sense to stop it.

“My princess?” he leans closer to you, a wavering hand inching dangerously close, and you push yourself from off the ground. He follows.

“I’m sorry,” you manage through heaving breaths, smoothing down your now wrinkled dress. Why are you apologizing? You do not know why you are apologizing. He is a Green. He should be apologizing to you, for being on the side of the war that killed your brothers—oh, gods, your sweet brothers. Your sweet, young, desperate, dead brothers.

“It’s all right,” he mumbles. His hands, still, are reaching toward your arms, yet not touching. Never touching. Just hovering near yours, always, like he wants to touch you, but he doesn’t.

You wipe your eyes, but the tears keep falling. You mutter something again. Sorry, you hear yourself say again, and then your body moves for you. You wrap your arms around his neck in an embrace so tight you might be strangling him.

He stumbles back slightly, arms still hesitating beside you, and then finally you feel it. He folds them gently around your waist. As gentle as he held the chick.

“Don’t cry,” he comforts.

You do not obey. You would if you could, but for now, you remain in his hold. You, regrettably, enjoy it.

day five

Gwayne did not like to see you cry.

He had first seen it the moment you realized you were captured by the Hightowers. You hadn’t been conscious enough when they found you to care about where you were being taken. He hadn’t enjoyed the sight then, not as his belligerents did, and he does not like to see it now.

He was the one to convince his fellow commanders to spare your life and to instead take you as a hostage. He was the one to have you held in a tent next to his own in the encampments with his two most upstanding soldiers posted outside, and not in those grimy cages fit for animals. He was the one to have you ride your horse directly next to his when on the road with the rest of the army—much to your dismay—as to prevent any dishonorable conduct from occurring. He would never tell you these things, of course, but they live with him.

Gwayne would tell himself that he did all of these things because it was right, that he would do it to any other female prisoner-of-war, given the shocking lack of honor among his knights who vowed to defend it. He had done a good job separating the wheat from the chaff when he became a commander, but there were only few he truly trusted to never harm the young, an innocent—and those who cannot protect themselves. Like you.

You liked to put on a front. And it somewhat worked with others, but not with him. He wishes it would, for some odd reason. Maybe he would not see you the way he does, if it did. He would still treat you with mercy, but it would not be to the level it is. He would never have accepted your hug. He thinks he would have pushed you away.

He wouldn’t have, but he believes he would have.

Since he had finally felt your touch the afternoon previous, the road to the Red Keep had been as quiet as the first day of your journey together. He suspected you had been embarrassed after letting him see your emotions, as you had been combative toward him every day since you had woken up from your comatose state.

He had expected it to come at some point, the unveiling of your feelings, but not in that way. He had expected to hear you sniffle from beside him while on your horses. He would have stayed silent, and he would have let you cry. He believes he would have let you cry on your own if you hadn’t come to him for comfort first.

The fact that you did had brought him joy. It made him hopeful, in some strange way he did not feel himself familiar with.

“You are betrothed to Lord Samwell Blackwood, are you not?”

You look at him, puzzled. “He has been with the Stranger since the war begun.”

Gwayne nods curtly. “So I’ve heard.”

“Then why have you asked?”

He inhales a heavy breath. “I feel it my duty to tell you of this.” He clears his throat. “Before your mother took the throne, there was word among our commanders to betroth you to your cousin, Prince Aemond.”

“You jest.”

“I do not.”

You cock your head to the side, wetting your lips. “And what did you have to say in the matter?”

“That is unneeded for you to know.”

“Why? Because you encouraged them to?”

His voice picks up immediately where you left off. “No, because I fought against it.” He scoffs a laugh. “The One-Eyed Prince is… he is mad.” At your gawking laugh, he turns his head to you. “You must know it too. He is simply and utterly mad.”

“You are his uncle.” You would never tell of his treasonous words to any other, but you feel you must remind him.

“Are you going to betray me and inform my army of the fact?”

“I do not have loyalty to you, though I will not speak of the words to another.”

“Good. Now you tell me something in confidence,” he presses.

You shake your head at the sheer audacity of him. “Why would I do that, ser?”

“What else will we converse about? It is a long and arduous road ahead of us.” His eyes peer into yours, and you feel a sudden urge to tell him everything you have ever kept from him.

“Alright then,” you look to the sky in mock ponder. “When I was young, I would pray to the gods each and every night for a gallant and true knight to take me away from the Red Keep and off to some distant land. There was this one knight, he had belonged to our Kingsguard, who I absolutely adored.” You sigh on the memory, oblivious to the fact that a true and gallant knight was riding right alongside you. “I was just a girl then. It was a silly dream. And the gods do not always play in my favor.”

Were you jesting? Or were you truly so oblivious?

“Do you remember his name?” he asks.

“It has lost me. But I remember his face. He was gorgeous, that one, and very gentle, too. Back then he was the same age as my brother is now.”

He does not let you sit with the fact that you mentioned your brother as if he were alive. “That’s quite young, isn’t it?”

You nod. “Indeed. He was the youngest of every knight in the Keep. Perhaps the youngest in history.”

“What happened to him?”

You exhale a breath, and look down to your horse’s head. “He was in the fire that killed Ser Harwin. I do not know why he had been called to Harrenhal, and I suppose I shall never know. Are you yourself betrothed, or married, ser?”

He huffs. “Gods, no. I was, and remain, of little use as a political pawn for House Hightower, my father being the second son.”

“Therefore if you were to wed, you would do so for love,” you state.

“I suppose so.”

day six

The hood of your cloak was pulled tightly over the upper half of your face, seemingly ritual for whenever you made it to inns, and you felt a tap on your shoulder.

You turn, expecting to see Gwayne, but in his place stood a knight in armor, donning a Hightower sigil on his gambeson.

It is your luck to see Gwayne rushing up from behind him to fetch you.

“Squire, let us retire to our room, yes?” he says, and you nod eagerly, pulling the hood further over your face. The two of you attempt to move forward, and you make it past the knight—

“That is no squire,” the man interjects, grabbing onto your wrist, stopping you. “That is a girl.”

Gwayne steps in between you and the knight, forcing him to release your joint from his hold. His gaze flicks down to the man’s gambeson.

He takes a step closer to him and lowers his voice. “If it pleases you, she’s my distraction for the night, ser. Not worth your notice.”

The knight clears his throat, and Gwayne steps back.

“Blessings upon King Aegon.” He smiles, turning back to the inn entrance.

His hand guides you forward, lingering on the small of your back, surely for the sight of the knight behind you. And then it trails down, over the curve of your back end, and you feel the slightest grip onto it before the door behind you closes, and his hand immediately falls away.

The walk to your room is silent.

Gwayne swallows painfully once you make it to your room.

“I’m sorry—” he begins.

“How may I distract you tonight, ser?” you interrupt, smiling stupidly at his lie, and he sighs one of relief at your lack of offense.

He breathes out a laugh, and swiftly moves to shed himself of his armor. He has been struggling on his own each time he has done so. You only noticed it the last night, and offered help, but had been rejected.

You would not ask this time, you would simply do. Your fingers were desperate and untrained in their efforts, but they did the trick in time for him not to deny you, and he was rid of the metal captivity.

You turn as he does, ridding yourself of your heavy cloak and pushing your hair out of the way of the laces of your dress. He pulls them loose without a word, and the warmth of his body behind yours would surely prove the most effective thing of the night, you decide as you gaze at the thin quilt on your bed.

As your gown slides down your body, you can hear the shuffling of Gwayne removing all but his linens behind you. If you took just a step backward, you would be touching him.

“It is a terrible coincidence, the Hightower army resting here,” you mumble, your hands fiddling with the light cloth around the your wrists.

“It is,” he agrees solemnly.

You retreat from his warmth and sit on the edge of your bed, your back up straight and your fingers clasped together in your lap. You weren’t particularly tired this night. Maybe it be from the surge of adrenaline at the knight outside, and it had already raged through your limbs, rendering them restless the moment the door to the inn had shut behind you.

Gwayne’s hand was close to you then, to an area you regarded as most private among you, a maiden. The memory of it twinged deep in your stomach. It was an unfamiliar feeling.

He had joined you in sitting on the edge of a bed, albeit his own. His own stature had mirrored yours. All tense and surged with the possibility of a fight.

“It is rather cold this night,” you mutter.

Gwayne nods curtly. “It is.”

Your gaze lowers to watch your fingers be relentlessly picked on by those of the other hand. “I fear one of those knights will bust through the doorway, and take me away with little fight, you being so far from me,” you whisper. The night was silent enough for him to hear it.

“I fear the same.”

You look up at him. “If he were to do so, it would certainly raise suspicion if your whore was sleeping in a bed adjacent to yours.”

He takes a turn to meet your eyes. “If you wish to sleep in the same bed as I, you need only ask.”

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. “May I sleep in your bed tonight, Gwayne?” you muster.

“As you wish, my princess.”

day seven

Your horse stops before you instruct it to.

In the distance lies a field of flowers, pink and purple, some yellow, and all illuminated by sunlight. It was nearly time for it to set.

You cannot still be in the Reach, you think. It has been much too long, but thank the gods if you are. What a sight to see.

You want to see it closer. Gwayne will be okay with it, you declare, and you hop off of your horse and begin walking in the direction of the field.

“No, princess,” he says, exasperated. “We cannot go off trail again.”

“The flowers,” you breathe. “It is beautiful.”

The scent in the air is intoxicating. It is rather pungent, the closer you get to it, and the air seems more sultry than just moments before.

You remove your cloak from your shoulders, letting it drop behind you as you continue forward. It is the slightest bit relieving from the heat, but your body quickly acclimates to it again, and the sweat begins beading. It is no wonder. The sleeves under your dress are long. It makes you question why you decided to wear such a stupid thing, in this climate.

Once you make it to the field, it envelopes you. The fever. It starts in your lower abdomen in a heavy thrum and travels up the rest of your body.

Where is Gwayne?

You turn around. He is just a few steps behind. He has been trailing behind you the entire time. It was hard to notice, with the pull of the meadow, but now that you are here, he is all you can think about. All you can focus on. You do not like that.

His hair illuminates in the sunlight, much like the flowers. Your skin tingles.

He froze in his movements the moment you did. You continue further into the field. His feet fall in step with yours, and you think you can hear his breathing, all shaky and uncertain.

You make it to an empty patch of the meadow, and stop once again.

“Ser?” you turn back to face him. The scorch of the sun worsens with each passing second. Sweat gathers on your brow. “My dress... please… help me get it off.” You raise a timid arm to your back, accepting defeat once you find yourself unable to reach the laces.

Gwayne’s thumb twitches toward you. His forehead glistens. He must be burning too.

You spot the clench of his jaw, and take a wary step toward him.

“Stop—” he holds a hand out, body turning away from you. “Do not move. Please. Just stay there.” He avoids your gaze.

“What is it?” you ask. You know what it is.

You know what he is feeling, because you feel it too. It presses hard and deep in your abdomen, and it just wants to be relieved. You want to be relieved. And Ser Gwayne Hightower looks rather handsome in this light, surrounded by the pink and purple—and was it red?—flowers. He seems close to pouncing on you like a wild dog. Gods, may he?

He had always been alluring. May it be your frustration that you could never have him in the way you wanted that made you so combative, or the fact that he is a Green—it is probably both, but neither seem so important now. Not when you feel the heat of a thousand suns burn through you, all the way to your core, and then all over again.

The man himself looks close to releasing in his braies just by looking at your face. It brings you some ease, yet also further discomfort, to know that he feels the same as you. You had blocked out the idea, seeing yourself as delusional and unrealistic for thinking he would ever show any form of attraction toward you.

“Gwayne—” you exhale, though it releases itself in the form of a groan. “It is sweltering.” You bend over to clutch the end of your dress, and you are close to pulling it off yourself, if fate was willing. Something halts you.

“Please, don’t.” His voice sounds pitiful. It is all low and whiny. “I do not know if I can handle that. Not now. Not when… fuck.”

You want to keel over and die.

You release the cloth from your grip and let the dress fall back down. You rise back up, slowly, and flatten down the wrinkled fabric of your middle with your hands.

Your lips tremble. “What do you want to do?”

“I am unsure.” He still cannot look you in the eye. “It is impure, and unchivalrous for me to be thinking of you this way.”

“I am all right with it.” It is then that you realize how you sound. Desperate for a Green, as if you were a common whore, which is probably what he thinks of you as. At least he tries to fight it. You should fight it too. You are fierce enough to fight whatever it is that is welling up inside of you.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, and the shame tries to conquer the hunger—but the hunger wins in the blink of an eye. The blink of your eye, in fact, as you look back at Gwayne.

“We cannot,” you mumble. “We should not. I am a maiden. You are the opposition. We cannot.” You repeat the words to yourself, over and over, like a mantra. If the shame did not prevail, perhaps distraction will. Your eyes shut tight again, and you repeat the words. We cannot. We should not. You are a maiden. He is the opposition.

We cannot, we should not, you are a maiden, Ser Gwayne Hightower is hard by simply standing in your presence—

Your eyes snap open, and you find that you are standing directly in front of him. You must have been inching closer to him with each sentence you repeated.

Your gaze flicks down to his crotch. Sure enough, your thoughts did not lie to you. Perhaps your dragon blood has given you the gift of prophecy.

He finds it appropriate to look at you, finally, and you realize how close you are to one another.

In specific—how close your lips are to one another. So, so close, yet so far. You almost want to give in, and you lean just a little closer. He stays still, though when you stop moving, his head moves closer too, close enough that you can almost feel his breath fanning into your own mouth.

Your noses are touching, that is how close you are. You could just slot your lips right onto his. It would be so easy, so incredibly simple, if you would just move forward, just a little—

His hands reach up to cradle your face in his hands, thumbs on either side grazing your cheekbones. They move down your face, down to your lips, and one of the thumbs strokes over the bottom lip. And he closes the gap.

You feel his lips envelope yours first, and then you feel his tongue inch into your mouth. Your lips close over one another’s, and he moans. Ser Gwayne Hightower is moaning into your mouth, and it feels like you have been sent to each of the seven heavens and back again. Your head is pushed backwards with the force of his kiss.

Your hand reaches around to brush over his nape. His hands travel further down your body, one finding itself wrapped around your waist, the other petting your breast over your dress. It seems that the true touch of it pacifies him, as it allows you to push deeper into the kiss, letting your tongue slide into his mouth.

You only break away to lower yourself to the ground. He follows, as though the answers to every challenge in his life were held on your lips. He hikes your dress up your legs, your smallclothes with it, until they both pool at your waist.

He lifts two fingers to his mouth, coating them in spit before reaching down to your bare cunt and thrusting them inside. You let out a shrieking moan, letting your head press into the dirt below you and thrashing back and forth in pleasure.

“Look at me,” Gwayne instructs. You let your eyes lock onto his, you try, but the deep press of his fingers inside of you makes it hard to focus. His lips, hanging open, hover just above yours, and he moves forward to bring you and he together again.

It is breathing moans into each other’s mouths and pathetic, desperate mashing before you finally get the hold onto his lips, or perhaps him onto yours. His fingers cease, and slip out swift enough for it to go unnoticed for a single moment.

He breaks apart from your mouth, and wastes no time in sliding himself down your body. The disappointment at the loss of his fingers does not last long, as his lips lock onto your cunt.

Gwayne snakes his arms under your legs and he yanks your body closer to him. Your fingers curl in his hair, and he only laps harder at you.

“Y—yes, ser—” you cry, your thighs squeezing his head, clit pulsating under the assault of his tongue.

He breaks away for just a moment, big blue eyes locking onto your weak ones. “Not ser. Gwayne. My name is Gwayne.”

And he dives back into you, gathering your wetness on his tongue in a torturous swipe from bottom to top, one that earns a sweet little whine from the depths of your throat. It reminds him, in that moment, of the sounds you would make when you did not get your way back in Oldtown—the sounds he would shamefully think of as he fucked his fist late at night, the sounds that he would repent about for thinking and acting on with such humiliating vitality, and more importantly, for not regretting any of it in the slightest.

The sheer relief you get from his mouth onto yours is unlike anything you have felt before, because you have not felt it before. You had heard word of the act in song, and in gossip spread around by your ladies-in-waiting, but to experience it was the greatest decision you ever made. A true, gallant knight between your legs, satiating the hunger that spread in your loins and his alike, yet he is only focused on your release now, latching his tongue on your clit and sucking hard.

His fingers graze your folds and glide around the edges, already slick with your wet. One finger probes, just the slightest bit, and you shudder at the contact.

You let out a loud cry as it presses itself fully inside, without warning. Perfection, you think you hear him say. The words vibrate on your clit, agonizingly so.

His finger pumps in and out of you, and his mouth works on your cunt all the same. The fire in your veins only grows stronger as your climax approaches.

Your fingers tug and pull on his hair, and somewhere in the middle of your gratification a second slim finger of his joins the first, pressing deep into your cunt as they allow him.

The sounds coming from your mouth you do not think you have ever made before. They approach from deep in your lungs and are hoarsely ripped from your throat.

It creeps closer, that unfamiliar thing called release, and your walls tighten around his fingers. Gwayne only sucks harder, and pushes his fingers further into your cunt, his knuckles pressing into your folds.

The feeling floods your body in an instant. It feels prickly, for some odd reason, and it nips your limbs, but blissfully so. Your brain feels fuzzy, and you cannot think of anything but him. It is a way that makes you crave for it immediately once it ebbs.

You let out a little sob once his fingers slip out from inside you. You didn’t know you were crying, and a few stray tears fall from your eyes before you realize.

Gwayne licks a stripe up your cunt, collecting whatever fluids he procured down there into his mouth and swallowing them with the gulp of a man who might just be dying of thirst.

He is up your body and has his wet lips on yours by the time you tear yourself away from the sight. It is then that you feel how truly hard he is under his linens. His cock presses against your spent core, and he nearly jerks back at the contact.

“Gwayne,” you breathe, and his head shoots up to look at you.

“What is it, sweet girl?” he mumbles, suddenly winded by the sweet sound of his name on your tongue.

“I want you to fuck me.”

He is frozen solid at your ask. Your arousal on his mouth glistens with each slight twitch upward. “You’re sure of it?”

You nod, but it is not enough.

“Tell me,” he commands.

“I want you to fuck me, Gwayne, how else must I tell you?” you reply impatiently, and grind your hips up to feel his hardened cock brush against you once more.

Both of your hands come up and intertwine themselves behind his neck, preventing him from straying any further—pulling him down to you, in fact, so you can grind up on him some more.

You lift your head from the ground to try and capture his lips into a somewhat calculating kiss, but his strength prevails, and his head softly twitches back before your mouth can get hold on his.

You fall back, defeated, but his hand comes to hold your wrist, and he comes down to close the gap. He chuckles into your mouth at your desperation, and you only kiss him harder, as if you were trying to become one with him.

His hand rubs up and down your wrist for a moment, before he reaches down to release his lower half from his linens.

You take a hand from off his neck and reach down to meet his own, searching around for his cock. You get a firm grip on it, stroking it up once. He lets out a shuddery moan, and his hand finds your wrist once again—not stopping you, but guiding you, perhaps.

He pumps himself with your hand, and you let him for only a moment, before overpowering his gentleness and guiding his length to your cunt. The tip of it glides on your folds. You could die right here, and it would be okay.

Gwayne pushes into you with a wounded groan, his jaw hanging wide open. You, on the other hand, nearly shriek.

He rocks himself out of you slowly, then back into you almost sluggishly.

“Is this all right?” he manages through strangled breaths, and you nod fervently, using the hand still on his neck to push his head closer to yours.

You mean to kiss him, but his forehead lies on yours instead. You’ll take what you can get.

He presses swift pecks on your cheeks, on your nose, and on your lips as he gains momentum. Your eyes flutter shut, but his hand comes up to press a few light smacks to your cheek.

“I said to look at me,” he grunts. “I want to see your eyes—“

You open them back up at that. They’re glossed over again, with tears, and you’re glad that Gwayne does not take it as pain. There was pain, but it is long gone. He kisses the droplets as they fall from the corners of your eyes.

It is utterly intoxicating, the drag of his hips. He seems to lose himself in the feeling too. Wave after wave of constant pleasure washes over you with the somehow gentle slam of him into you.

You babble incomprehensible speech, just as lost as he is as he, slack-jawed as he fucks you. His eyes are focused on your face, your face saturated with sweat, for a single twitch of anything at all, yet he finds nothing. Nothing but rapture, as he believes it should be. He brings his hand back down to your clit and strokes it so delicately, but it brings you sweet relief all the more.

You feel it cresting again. Up your spine, down your legs, dumbing your brain into mush, prickling at the back of your neck. “Gods, Gwayne—Oh, gods, I’m gonna—“

You don’t finish the sentence. It hits you, you cum again, so hard around his cock, and it isn’t long into your perfect bliss before he is pulls out, spilling his seed onto the bunched-up cotton of your dress.

You feel as though you are one with him. It is like your flesh melts into his. Your sweat certainly does, especially as he joins his forehead with yours again, all sticky and damp.

“I am deeply sorry—” he says in between quick kisses, “to have taken your maidenhood.”

You shake your head softly. “If it shames you so, I can raise a proposition of marriage to my mother once we get back to the Keep.” He laughs at that, unknowing you were not telling a joke.

Still, you breathe out a chuckle.

day nine

The communal bath that you had found yourself in was satisfyingly empty. Since Gwayne had taken your maidenhood two moons previous, you had been desperate for it to happen again, and again, and perhaps a thousand times more, though you resisted the urge to ask outright while in the inns.

Now, though, seemed like the perfect moment to do so. You could clean yourself properly for the first time in weeks, and then dirty yourself all over again with the satisfaction of your mutual sin.

He had already undone the laces of your dress for you, and you stepped out of the gown that dropped to your feet, eager to feel the warmth of the water envelop your skin. And for him to join you. So that you could see—and feel—his bare body, properly. You had already shed your linens by the time you made it to the water.

You had retreated to the further side of the bath, so that you could watch as Gwayne undressed himself. It was nicer like this, being able to take in his body for the first time, as he stripped off his gambeson, then his chausses, and then, finally, his smallclothes.

His figure was very unsurprisingly robust. The light of the countless candles surrounding the baths set for quite the intimate atmosphere.

You bit back a smile as he inched closer to the bath, stepping inside with a heavy sigh of relief. The Hightowers did seem to prioritize cleanliness. Perhaps they place it next to godliness. Gwayne certainly does not seem to mind, given how keen he was to eat your cunt until you came undone on his tongue.

He threw his head back with a shuddering sigh once he finally sunk into the water. You watch as the grime expels from the surface of his body in one fell swoop, becoming one with the rest of the stream.

“Have you something to say?” he questions, a brow darted upward at your uncharacteristically blissful expression.

Your cheeks flushed, a harder, content smile crossing over your face. “Just observing.”

“Must you observe so far?” he mutters.

“I must,” you sneer, giving a firm nod.

His eyes flick down to your bare breasts, sat warped on your chest under the soft wave of the water.

He quickly averts his gaze to the center of the bath once you perk them forward with your arms.

“I am truly apologetic,” he starts. “For taking your maidenhood. ‘specially in such an unclean place, where anyone could have seen us if they had simply come to probe into the noise.”

You scoff. “Would you have preferred it happen inside the walls of some dull inn?”

“I’d have preferred you comfortable.”

“I was comfortable. I am comfortable.”

At his silence, you push yourself off of the wall and glide over to him. He sits frozen as your chest brushes against his arm.

“Are you a maid, ser? Well—were you a maid?” you question, feigning a look of innocence.

“I haven’t been a maid for a long time, princess.” His head hangs low.

He lets you grip his arm and guide it between your legs. “Are you ashamed of the fact?”

“I am ashamed that I am not,” he mutters, seemingly unfazed as you grind your cunt against his wrist. You let out a low moan, your breath wavering before you realize his lament.

So you release his arm from your hold and straddle his hips, placing your hands on each of his shoulders. Your chest is eye level with his face. It seems to be the only thing that can bring his head back up.

You can feel his cock hardening below you as you rock back and forth against him. He watches your face that stares down back at him—both of your jaws are slack, and you breathe heavy pants into each others mouths, gaining some semblance of pleasure from the act.

But it is not enough, no. It is never enough.

You take a hand from his shoulder and reach down to grip his length, guiding it into your walls at once. You push down unto him with a sweet little cry, one quickly silenced by his lips on your own.

His kiss is just as tender as you remember it being, amorous flowers aside, and you hum into him. A hand cups your cheek and he tilts his head, his tongue breaching the plush of your lips, just exploring.

Your fingers curl around his nape as you thrust, up and down, up and down, and he concurrently rolls his hips back and forth.

“Fuck—sweet princess—” he moans once he breaks apart from your mouth.

You gasp and shudder, and he reaches his head up to kiss all over your face. Your eye, the brow bone above it, down to the highest point of your cheek on the side of your face, then to the corner of your lip, and then he cranes his head down to kiss you on your neck. You throw your head back to allow him access.

Once he reaches your sternum, he darts his tongue out first when attaching his lips to it. “Oh, gods,” you whimper into his hair.

“Ser? Gwayne—” you can't quite speak, the words near dying on your tongue. “Are you mine, Gwayne? Tell me—” your hips slow, and his only speed up. He begins fucking up into you, and another moan rips through your throat.

He nods fervently against your neck, lifting his head back up to see you. “I am yours, princess. Fuck—” his hips stutter, though he relents.

It does not give you solace. If he is yours, how long shall he remain so? Until the gods rip him from your grasp—which would be soon now, with each tread of your horses closer to the Red Keep.

His hand slides up to your ribs as if to stabilize you, and he wraps it around your middle. His forehead drops to your shoulder, raising with each jolt of your body upward, the constant slam of his cock up into your cunt and then out again.

You know few things now, except for him. Your walls clench around him, and he nearly ceases at that. You continue in his ministrations, rocking back and forth onto him, savoring in the way his length hits you in the spot that makes you feel near the brink of climax.

“I love you.” You think you hear yourself say. And he just watches you, as you chase your peak, so blissfully unaware of the words that just came from your mouth. Your sweet mouth.

Gwayne reaches a hand to cradle your head, and push it closer to his, so that he can take your sweet mouth into his. It is less of a kiss and more of two mouths pressing against each other, but you accept it either way. The two of you pant raggedly against each other, and you feel your core tighten with each deep press of his cock inside of you.

He can feel it too. It is more of threat than satisfying, the idea of spilling his seed inside of you, but you seem to not care. You might just not know. If you were true to your word of your maidenhood—he does not care if you were or not—you must be pitifully unknowledgeable on the subject.

He remembers word of you being betrothed to some high lord widow who had died on the frontlines of battle when the war first broke out, fighting for the side of your mother. Then, once you were captured, there was word of you marrying one of his two younger Targaryen nephews. The thought of you being kept as a prisoner for Aemond sends a shudder through his body, and he rids himself free of the idea as his orgasm approaches closer.

“My princess—” he tries. You do not notice. You persist in your pursuit of release, and he grips your jaw gently, catching your attention. “Look at me.”

You nod at nothing in particular, mouth hanging open and mewling needy whimpers as you oscillate on his cock.

“I cannot—I cannot cum inside.” He lets out a strangled moan as you begin grinding faster than just moments before, as if encouraging him to do so.

“Why not?” you breathe.

His head nearly lulls back as he staves off his own release. “You could get with child.”

You grip his hand and lead it to your breast, and he lets himself fall for your entrancement, kneading it between his fingers. Your nipple is caught between two of them, and he presses them together just the slightest bit too hard, earning a wince from above him. It makes him realize he has been regrettably neglecting them this entire time.

“My breasts are sore.” You inhale sharply. “I shall bleed soon.”

Ah. In that case—

Gwayne dips his hands back into the water, finding your hips to guide them, delighting in the way your moans grow more and more fervent as his cock drags against your walls.

It approaches swift, and you do not have any time nor stamina to warn him of it. You wonder if he can sense it.

Just as quick as it came, it washes over you in an instant. Your muscles clamp down around him, and he moans loud into your shoulder—you soon feel a warmth deep in your womb, the warmth of his seed. A minuscule part of you hopes it will take.

Shortly afterward, he lifts your bodies from the water, carrying you with your legs wrapped around him. His cock has slipped out of you, but the kiss he places on your lips distracts you from the loss.

You push his chest, separating your mouths, and wrap your arms around his neck. “Let us leave together, Gwayne. Silverwing is large enough to saddle two. You could be a sellsword, and I a scribe—I your wife. I shall give you children, if it is what you desire. We can spend our days in rest and tranquility, like this.” Your breath still hasn’t caught.

It is a moment of silence before Gwayne finds the words. The dubious words, though the ones that provide enough hope to settle you. “Perhaps, my princess. Do not worry yourself with eventuality.” And he sets you down on the marble just above the bath. Your calves dip back into the water, and it is then you realize that they are aching.

He kneels down into the water and takes your legs over his shoulders. You feel the stretch in your thighs, equal parts from their growing soreness and the length of his shoulders. His release begins seeping out of your cunt from the pressure of it all.

He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then to the inside of your thigh, and then finally to your clit. His head dips down to your opening, and he sucks.

It becomes more like he is kissing, or eating you, at some point. You cannot tell. The pleasure has already gotten to be too much, and you are writhing under him.

His arms wrap around your thighs and he pulls you closer to his mouth, and you loudly and embarrassingly moan, your fingers rake through his hair, gripping it tight when his nose brushes against your clit.

You haven’t discovered his objective, but thank the gods for him. It is somewhat relaxing and simultaneously frustrating for him to be lapping away mindlessly at your cunt.

“Please, Gwayne, let me cum—” you beg, all breathless and crestfallen, and his eyes flick up to you. He finds you are the most spoiled thing he has ever met, yet also the most beautiful. He thinks, in that moment, that he truly should consider being taken as your husband.

He nods once. “As you wish.”

And his mouth is replaced by his fingers. He pumps them into you, a relentless pace, and his lips find themselves back onto you, but now on your clit.

He laps at you and rocks his fingers further inside, getting your folds all slick and glossy with both your own and his own arousal, as well as his own saliva.

He curls his fingers deep in your cunt, in that spongy spot that once sheathed his cock, and it is enough to bring you to climax before you realize it.

You swear your vision goes black for a moment as you cum, and the bliss fills your body over the irritation. It was embarrassingly fast how quickly he brought you to absolution, but you did not have enough might to let it wash over you the way your orgasm had.

Gwayne looks up at you with those big blue eyes of his, now glossed over. The lower half of his face is sheen with your cum—his cum—and he pants and lifts himself up to join you on the marble, his strong body glistening with the damp of the bath.

You think you might faint.

day fourteen

Tonight’s inn had been the nicest of all fourteen. You and Gwayne had jointly decided for it to be the last of your stops, and that you would make the journey the rest of the way there without sleeping.

It was not long to King’s Landing. As much as you had longed to see your mother, and to be home again, the thought of what would happen to Gwayne in the coming days was a thought too harrowing to bear.

But it had lingered in your mind since the field. Certainly he could not leave you, having taken your maidenhood. Your mother would find a way. She knows what it is like to be infatuated with someone you should not be infatuated with. She knows Gwayne. As a soldier for the opposition, yes, but she knows him all the more.

If she has held mercy for his sister, she would certainly hold mercy for him, especially given the situation at hand. The situation of you being in love with a Hightower, and him having bedded you—well, fucked you in a field, then in a bath, a few scattered moments along the road of him lapping at your cunt, or sticking his fingers there to cull your nerves the nights you were too tense to sleep. Your mother coddled you enough before you were taken hostage, and she would certainly do more once you are back with her.

Gwayne seems to sense your restlessness. You have resorted to single bed rooms in the inns, given the underestimated lack of coin he decided to bring with him. He has been able to pick up on your behavior for the last few days—noting to himself how much you lack sleep the closer you get to King’s Landing—and he has always been able to get you to talk about it. Tonight, you seem not wanting of his perception.

He turns over to face you. “Are you feeling well?” he asks.

You look to him for a moment. “I feel fine.”

Propping himself up on one arm, he maneuvers himself closer until he is hovering above you, as he stares down at where you lie. “You mustn’t need to lie.” His voice is soft.

Your lungs expand with a heavy breath of air. “I do not wish for you to leave when we return to the Red Keep. You told me that we would talk about it, and we never have.”

He brushes your hair behind your ear with his free hand. “What would you like to talk about?”

“I want us to wed.”

Gwayne stares into you. And then hangs his head low with laughter.

“I am serious, Gwayne. If you swore fealty to my mother, the rightful queen, she would show you mercy. I have no doubt she has shown it to your sister, and to your niece and her daughter too.” His smile was wiped from his face sometime as you spoke.

“You cannot be certain of that, though, can you princess?” he mumbles, raising his head back up to cock it to the side.

“I cannot.” You begin picking at the skin around your fingernails.

Gwayne places a hand over them, stopping you. “The agreement was for me to bring you, unharmed, to the Red Keep. And then I would leave, or they would have my head.” His hand envelops one of yours.

“My mother would not let them have it, if I simply tell her.”

“You speak lightly of a heavy thing, my princess.” He squeezes your hand a bit tighter. “If you so much as suggest that the Hightowers are anything less than treasonous vipers, your mother’s council will smell a captive who has learned to love her cage. You are her only daughter, yes, and she adores you. Therefore, if she discovers how thoroughly I have failed to keep my distance, amnesty will be the last thing she grants my house. It will be fire and blood, starting with my head on a pike.”

“She knows what it is like to love someone forbidden to her.”

Gwayne grins at your words. “She also knows she must satisfy her council,” he says softly.

As much as it pains you, you realize he is right. Yet he still remains as handsome as ever in the dark, and his lips are glossed over, looking so plump and lonely.

“Will you kiss me?” you mutter, and kiss you he does. His mouth is just as soft as you had imagined, and he is still so tender and hesitant in his ministrations you almost feel a want to take over.

Your lips are pliable, though, and part for him almost instantly. The hand that held yours comes up to cradle your cheek, and your legs open up a spot for him to slot himself into.

You are grateful for the loss of layers in spite of the outdoor elements—which have been terribly cold nearly the entire journey—as they give you easy access to the growing length in Gwayne’s linens.

He breathes a low groan into your mouth when you reach a hand under the fabric cuff of his waist to grip his cock. You pump him in a slow rhythm, and he nearly falters completely, the arm propping him up above you buckling and lowering him to his elbow.

The hand cradling your face moves to your own core, and he hastily hikes your shift up your thighs. His fingers find your cunt, pressing his thumb to your clit and stroking it.

The two of you breath and pant into one another’s mouth, the speed of both of your caresses increasing as your moans do.

“Would you—” Gwayne pants, “like me inside?”

You nod eagerly, and pull your hand from his cock. His own hand ceases motion on you, and he uses both arms to gather your body and flip you onto your stomach. The featherbed mattress bounces with the movement, and you reach your hands behind you to pull your shift up entirely to your middle, perking your ass up toward him.

Gwayne has already rid himself of his smallclothes in the meantime. He places a hand right above your backend, stabilizing both you and himself, and lines himself up with your cunt.

He leans his body over yours and presses soft kisses along your spine, pushing himself inside of you with a long groan. You let out a needy one all the same.

“Keep moving—” you beg, letting the top of your head fall to the pillow below you. He hums in response, and begins thrusting slowly, still hesitant.

It is a stretch, but a welcome one nonetheless. It is easy to lose trail of your thoughts with the drag of his cock in and out and the press of his chest to your back, the song of his pretty little grunts and groans singing in your ear.

He wraps his arms around your middle, one hand gripping a breast through the soft cotton of your shift. You flick your hair away from your neck, and his lips quickly find the spot, tipping you into absolute bliss.

One of his arms, the one not clutching your chest, sneaks down to your core, and he begins rubbing your clit with a seemingly endless vitality.

The other pushes the two of you up so that you are both standing on your knees. Your hands extend to his head behind you, pushing it closer as you awkwardly crane your neck so that you can join your lips with his in what may be the sloppiest way they have ever met each other.

His fingers continue their assault on your pearl, and his hips rock into you, and it all feels so much. So good, yet so much. Your chest rises and falls rapidly with each slam of his cock into your cunt, the strength of which also makes his head bob slightly into your kiss, coating the area above and below and beside your lips with his own spit.

There is little surprisingly little build-up to your release. It comes quick, like the tide coming in to take away a shell from the shore. It seems to tear through you, lighting up every nerve in your body, pulled straight from your breathless lungs and your racing heart and illuminating your frenzied brain with nothing other than euphoria.

He is still pumping in and out of you, seemingly chasing his own release. You feel a warmth deep in your overwhelmed cunt, and you know he has come, his body slowing entirely. He breaks away from your lips with a soft little cry, and you simply look at each other for a moment as your breath returns to the both of you.

In this moment, you think Ser Gwayne Hightower is the most beautiful creature in the world.

“You are more than a beauty,” he says in turn. You grin at him, still breathless, and join your lips together once more.

day sixteen

When you arrive at the gates of the Red Keep, Syrax and Caraxes are posted on the battlements.

You look over, and Gwayne seems as if he might just curl up and die. You scoff out a laugh at the sight, and he immediately straightens his back.

Open the gates, yells some guard from behind the wall, and the gate begins to part, grinding against the gravel below.

You will see your mother today. For the first time in months, you will see your mother. Will she be different? Is she a different person now that she is on the throne? More importantly, will she be a different person now that her eldest son is dead? You wonder if they have burned the body yet, or perhaps even set it out to sea. He could not become a Targaryen, as he would never become King—the gods would not allow it, so history will remember him as a Velaryon. It would only be fitting for his body to be released into the water.

You should tell her about this. She must be so overwhelmed with all of her recent duties, she may have forgotten about the fact. Is little Joffrey still in the Vale? Surely, mother must have sent for his return by now. He is too vulnerable there on his own, no matter who he is with.

When you blink hard in an attempt to settle yourself, you realize your horse has been guided inside the walls of the Keep, and Gwayne is helping you off of your horse. His hands are on your waist, and you jump down with a grip on his wrists to stabilize you. Yet your eyes are not on him—they are on any entrance, every door where your mother could come out of.

He sighs, and you finally glance at him. His hands hesitate to leave their spot on your middle. “You are home, and you are safe, my princess.” And then his arms drop back to his side, as if ashamed he let them linger for a moment too long.

“Must you go?” you breathe out a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood that seems to deepen with each passing moment.

His hand reaches for yours, and his voice is lower now. “It is the deal.”

For some reason, your heart seems to shatter. It feels odd and disheartening, knowing that he in this moment has a harsher effect on you than anything before.

Your expression has dropped, and Gwayne must be able to see it. His hand grips yours tighter, and he sucks in a breath, his head dropping to avoid your gaze. Your gaze, which quickly wells with tears. You are confused as to how this would have been the outcome of your journey together—and you are unsure if you are glad of it, or instead disappointed in yourself for not realizing that this is what would always happen.

You lower your voice too. “I do not want you to go,” you say, and your hand finally reciprocates Gwayne’s affection. You clutch it, tight, hoping it may get through to him.

It does not. His head does not lift, not even a single bit. You think you can see his brows furrow.

“I have done my duty, my princess,” he mumbles.

Hundreds of solutions flow through your mind in an instant. He could stay, swear fealty to your mother, and he could be yours. He could be your sworn shield and protector. He could be yours, if he would only say yes.

You open your mouth to say it, but nothing comes out. The words die on your tongue.

“Stay,” is what you can manage. “Please, Gwayne.”

His head tilts up, but he still averts his gaze from yours. Something else, something in the distance, catches his attention. It catches yours too. Two heads of familiar lengthy silver hair—your mother and her husband—inch closer to you and Gwayne.

The hand that held onto his was already back at your side. You must have done it without thought.

“Mummy,” you mumble. And she smiles.

She inches closer to you, seemingly dumbfounded that the sight before her is real. “Sweet girl,” she says, and you feel close to crumbling.

You want to step closer, to close the gap between the two of you, but you cannot bring yourself to leave his side.

But Gwayne is by your side one moment, and gone the next. He is pulled away by the gold cloaks, and it is with little struggle. He lets himself be pulled away. He lets himself be pushed out of the walls of the Keep, and he watches as you stand and stammer all bewildered and reaching to plead his forgiveness to the queen.

The gate closes on him once his horse is by his side.

day thirty five

You have not found much use for yourself since you have returned to the Red Keep. Neither has anyone else.

The war still rages on. It reminds you of the promise you had made to yourself, to leave if it did not end, to leave with Gwayne to Essos. He would be a sellsword, and you a scribe, under the protection of Silverwing.

It seemed a better life, a freer life, you and he on the road together. Being locked away in your chambers of your own volition, anything seemed better.

But Gwayne had abandoned you that day. He had let himself be carried away, and your mother had ignored your pleas of his fealty. It seemed nobody was on your side.

You had only wished for peace. Whatever had grown in place of it had taken your brothers away from you, and Gwayne, too, in some way.

If the war had not gone on, perhaps you could have met him another way. Perhaps he would have been your betrothed. And you could love him the way you wanted to, the way you should have since you woke up in the encampment with him by your side.

He had protected you all those months ago, you had come to realize. The violence of the men who fought under his command would have harmed you more than the words that came from his mouth when defending himself in your stupid fights, the ones you would feed into when he forced you to ride alongside him as the soldiers would march further into the Reach. The words that you replied with when he would anger you, when he would attempt to get close to you.

You should have let him get close to you when he tried. Your need for survival had prevailed then and you took every attempt as some sort of tactic to manipulate you to his side.

But Gwayne had no side, as you swiftly figured out. He wanted out of his cage seemingly as badly as you did, but he did the intelligent thing—the thing he warned you he would always do—and returned to his people, to those he swore loyalty to.

These days, it feels you have no people. Your mother is always off attending to her royal duties, your stepfather and cousins assisting her. And you have no brothers left to bond to. Joffrey is still too little, and too shy, to converse with. The others, your half-siblings, are just a few years young.

If the Hightowers had left you for dead that day, you think you would be more comfortable in the arms of the Stranger than you do in this seemingly haunted home. Your maidenhood would be untainted, and your memory would live on as tragic and loyal. You had left to fight for your mother’s cause after all and you would have died for it then, gods willing.

A piece of you wants to hurl yourself from a window for the treasonous thoughts you have had, but you just want peace. You want peace and freedom. Most of all, though, you want Gwayne.

You can only hope he wants you too, wherever he is. You will wait, and you will bide your time until the war is over—if you live until then. And you will take Silverwing and fly to him, and you will be with him, and you will exile yourselves to Essos. You will dream of that outcome until it happens.

Something deep inside you says it will.

You strip off your nightgown, a smooth rippling like water. You sit in the bathtub and let the nozzles pummel your back and your shoulders until the aches from training fade away and you imagine your bruises being erased. You throw on a royal blue sweatsuit that Salem left for you and clean the steam off the bathroom mirror to check your reflection before you head out to the common area for breakfast. Before I see Aemond.

The girl in the glass—the woman, actually, although it feels strange to think of yourself that way, especially here where it is children who are fed to the meatgrinder—is afraid…and the lighting must be kind in here, because she’s a little beautiful too. There’s nothing important on the agenda for today, so Salem isn’t here to attend to your hair or your makeup. You try to smooth down rogue wisps, then glaze your lips with a mint-smelling balm until they shine.

Okay, enough, you think, still inspecting yourself. He’s seen me crying, he’s seen me bleeding, he knows what I look like. Enough. You leave your reflection behind.

You’re about to open your bedroom door when you hear Charm say on the other side: “You’re too attached to her, Aemond.”

You drop to your knees and press yourself against the door, listening intently. You don’t hear Aemond respond; you can picture him being avoidant as he so often is, gazing down at the floor or at his own hands, penning his meticulous notes, puffing on a cigarette.

“You remember what it was like for you before, don’t you?” Charm continues after a moment. She sounds soft, and sympathetic, and human. It occurs to you that while the tributes change each year, Aemond and Charm have been teammates for a very long time. “With the girl…with Sirena…?”

“This is different,” Aemond says.

“Yes. It might be worse.”

Again, he doesn’t respond. The television must be on, because a faint unfamiliar voice is talking about the weather.

“Aemond, she…she’s not going to win. She’s not going to be able to kill people like Commodore and Roosevelt and Brookie. And even if, miraculously, somehow she was the victor…you’re never going to have what you want with her. You know that. I’m so sorry, but it’s not in the cards for either of you.”

Is that true? you think desperately, clinging to the door. How can that be true? How can we be so close to each other and yet so far apart?

“She’s good with a knife,” Aemond says, and he’s frustrated like it’s something he’s been wrestling with. “I just have to figure out how to keep her alive long enough to use it…”

Charm gasps at something. “Oh, look!”

Then you hear a voice that is impossible here in this cold, metallic, dry, mechanical place, and yet it’s unmistakable. Misty?!

You burst through the door and into the common area, and there on the television is your oldest sister, smiling with tears in her eyes as she answers a journalist’s questions. Daddy and Fleet are with her. They are home in District 4: blue skies, cliffsides, the ocean breeze in their hair. Misty is saying: “We’ve always known she was special, and now other people are realizing it too. And we just…we just really want her to be able to come home someday.”

“She’s a good girl,” Daddy says, like he’s driving a hard bargain in the marketplace, like he’s trying to negotiate. “Never asked for nothing. Never caused no trouble. Never complained about being stuck helping me on the boat rather than running around having fun someplace else. Never brought home a boyfriend. She’s only ever wanted a simple, quiet life. She don’t deserve to be hurt. She don’t deserve to be scared.”

The journalist has one last question. She thrusts the microphone back in Misty’s face and asks: “Your sister received a training score of 7 from the Gamemakers, which isn’t disastrous but certainly separates her from the favorites. Do you still think she has a realistic chance to win the Hunger Games?”

“Well, I’ll tell you this,” Misty says, abruptly severe. “She’s damn good with a knife. And Aemond knows that. And I guarantee you he’s figuring out how to help her kill those other kids right now.”

Aemond says to you from where he’s sitting at the dining room table, like it’s good news: “They’re giving you more coverage.” Sure enough, the screen is now awash with a montage of clips from the party at President Snow’s mansion last night: Aemond’s hand on the small of your back, Aemond standing between you and an unruly throng of admirers, Aemond glaring at the tributes who are most lethal to you, Commodore, Roosevelt, Brookie. We do look like a couple, you marvel, two lavish hostages in matching funeral black.

The journalist in District 4 has found Commodore’s mother, a gargantuan grey-haired woman who—for some reason—is beaming and has her hands on the shoulders of a young boy. When she’s asked how she’s holding up, instead of talking about her son she says: “We’re doin’ alright, it’s very kind of you to ask. My sister’s in a bad way, cancer most likely, and she sent my nephew here to stay with me and be properly looked after. Isn’t he a sweet little lad? Go on, Leeward, say hello…”

Commodore shuffles out of his bedroom, yawning and rubbing his still-bleary eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, sea monster,” Charm says fondly and changes the channel. She is lounging across the couch in a flowing white sundress accented with gold: buttons, hooks, dainty chains and jangling bracelets.

Someone knocks at the front door, which is odd. Salem has a key and comes and goes freely, as do the housekeeping staff. Charm checks her glittering gold pocket watch. “He’s not usually awake this early.”

“He must have slept on the train,” Aemond says, and then he tells you, because you’re closest to the door: “You can let him in.”

Who? you think. You open the front door and there’s a man standing in the hallway with a rolling suitcase. He wears neon green sunglasses, thin flat sandals, tan linen shorts, and a white shirt that’s unbuttoned down the front. His hair is shoulder-length and silver and greasy like he got sunscreen in it days ago and hasn’t scrubbed it out yet. He is carrying a glass fishbowl, clutched to his soft bare chest with one arm. A single goldfish circles restlessly inside.

There isn’t much of a resemblance, but the hair is striking and rare. Aemond’s brother??

“Hey, Sparkles,” the man says and pushes rudely past you into the suite. His sandals slap against the floor; he shoves his sunglasses up into his tangled hair. He startles when he sees Commodore, letting his suitcase topple over. “Goddamn, you’re big as fuck.”

“Hello, Aegon,” Charm says pleasantly from the couch.

“What’re you doin’, girl? You usually run such a tight ship. How’d you let a walrus in here?”

“He’s a very well-behaved walrus, you’ll see,” she says, and then to Commodore: “Sea monster, there are waffles on the table. Make sure you have something.”

Obediently, Commodore sits down—as far away from Aemond as he can—and fixes himself a plate.

Aegon plods over to the table and slides the fishbowl onto it. He points to the goldfish and instructs Commodore sternly: “Don’t eat that.”

Commodore, unsure of whether he’s joking, just nods.

Then Aegon ventures towards the couch, smiling sheepishly, clasping his hands behind his back like Aemond does sometimes. “You’ve always been such a gracious hostess, Charm. Don’t disappoint me now.”

She smirks, produces her compact from a small gold purse, opens it and flips down the mirror. She coats a finger with white powder and offers it to Aegon. He grabs her hand and snorts as much of the powder from her skin as he can through one nostril, then licks off the remainder as Charm laughs. “You’re a fucking animal,” she says.

“I know. I’m the one who belongs in a cage.” He straightens up again and turns to Aemond, who stands to greet him with a sigh; not like Aemond is disappointed he’s here, necessarily, but perhaps because he heralds the start of the Games like the boom of cannon fire. Aegon grins and dashes over to him, his arms thrown wide. He collides with his brother, but Aemond isn’t knocked off-balance.

“It’s good to see you,” Aemond admits, surrendering to the clumsy embrace.

Aegon pounds on his back. “You alright? You hanging in there?”

“I’m okay.” But when Aemond pulls away, he reflexively glances towards you, and Aegon follows his eyeline.

“Oh, that’s a problem,” Aegon says softly, gazing at you, wondering and sad.

Charm sniffs as she rubs white powder into her own nostrils. “How are the waffles, Commodore?”

“Good,” he dutifully replies. He is staring at the television as he forks soggy pieces of blueberry waffles into his mouth, a documentary about manta rays.

“Get your breakfast,” Aemond commands you, pointing to the table. You sit down next to Commodore and watch the manta rays with him as you both eat.

In the elevator, when you are alone, Aemond hits the Emergency Stop! button and opens his notebook, skimming his tidy black-ink annotations.

“Monty has something wrong with his left knee,” he tells you. “An old injury, maybe an ACL or meniscus tear that never fully healed. He tweaks it every once in a while. It’s a vulnerable spot if you need to find one on him.”

Aemond looks at you expectantly, and you nod to show you’re paying attention. I can’t kill those people, you think, as if you have a choice.

His wave-blue eye flicks back down to the paper. “Pluto has bad lungs from the mines, but everyone already knows that. If the arena has dust or sand, he’ll suffer. Brookie is excellent with an axe, she can reliably hit a target from thirty meters away, so don’t think you’re safe unless you have much more distance than that between you. She’s the type of tribute sponsors like…” A Career. A beauty. “But you might be in luck. She’s eighteen, but she still has a girlish look to her, a certain juvenile quality. Don’t get me wrong, there are men who prefer that. But there are plenty of others who want a woman, not a girl.”

Like me, you think, shuddering.

“Commodore’s eyes are so deep-set that his visual field is limited. Only slightly, but it might make a difference. He can’t see as well if the attack is coming from above or at the edge of his peripheral vision. He’s been trying to hide it.”

“I won’t hurt him,” you say. “He’s from our district. He’s from home.”

Aemond frowns; he’s disappointed in you. You feel his rebuke like knuckles to the belly. “I might not be there when you wake up on the day of the Games. Sometimes the news about the arena starts getting out early, so I always go a few buildings over to the Control Room and hang around for a while to see if I can learn anything. But I’ll be back in time to see you off.”

“Is that safe?”

“I have a connection there. I know what I’m doing.”

“How did Isla get an 8 from the Gamemakers?”

“She had to pick peaches twelve hours a day back in District 11. Of course she’s strong.”

You’ve rarely seen her do anything but halfheartedly stretch and receive lessons on survival skills. “If she is, she’s kept it quiet.”

“Because she’s smart.”

I can’t kill those people. You know you can’t. “Any tips for Roosevelt?”

“Yes,” Aemond says as the elevator doors open and he snaps his notebook shut. “Don’t try anything unless he’s asleep or otherwise incapacitated. Stay away from him.”

“He’s my friend.”

“You don’t have any friends,” Aemond says, and you follow him to the gymnasium.

It’s an easy day, a free day, the training scores already awarded and the interviews with Caesar Flickerman tomorrow night. It’s the tributes’ last chance to rest and unwind. Roosevelt is running on his favorite treadmill while his mentor Sherman slurs and slumps against the machine. Brookie is leisurely tossing axes that hit the bullseye every single time; Isla is providing encouragement as she stretches nearby. You go to join her. Monty and Pluto are playing catch with little Babylon from District 5, and you think as he laughs and grapples with them: Does he even understand what’s happening? Does he know these same people are going to be trying to kill him in two days?

At lunch, you chat with the people you believe are your friends. But as you sample today’s spread—cured meats and aged cheeses, dried fruit, honeycomb, an assortment of raw fish served on rice, something called sushi that turns out to be way more delicious than you would have thought—Aemond sits down beside you, and your companions instantly fall silent, their eyes wide and shifting and skeptical. Is he here to spy on and sabotage them?

You tell Aemond: “I don’t need you to supervise me to make sure I eat.”

He swipes a piece of salmon sushi off your plate and eats it in one bite. “I’m not supervising you. I’m spending time with you.”

“Oh.” And you smile, your face flushing as he sets a fresh glass of pineapple juice down in front of you. “Okay. Then that’s fine, I guess.”

“She guesses it’s fine,” Roosevelt quips to the others, snickering, his dark eyes flashing.

For a while no one is sure where to look or what to say, and then Pluto works up the courage to ask Aemond a question. “I hear the Capitol can fix anything that’s wrong with you. Is that true?” You all know that he means his lungs, the coal dust in his capillary beds and the dark poison in his bloodstream.

Aemond nods. “Just about, yeah.”

“And the food is always this good,” Isla says.

Aemond chuckles. “The food is really good.”

“And the victor can have a mansion here in the Capitol if they choose to,” Roosevelt says. “A big one like yours. And they can live here, and have anything and anybody they want.”

Aemond looks him dead in the eyes and smiles as he lies. “Exactly.”

At night you can’t sleep, and you hear the television on in the common area. Thinking it might be Aemond, you go out to meet him, but it’s just his brother: eating ice cream straight out of the carton at the dining room table, watching a game show on the huge blue-white screen as the rest of the room is draped in darkness. The contestants are at the top of an artificial mountain, perhaps ten stories tall, and are racing each other down an ice-coated path to the finish line at the bottom. They are shrieking as they slip and crash into each other, spinning helplessly on their backs like flipped turtles. Large mechanical penguins wander around nudging the contestants off the ledge, where they are caught by safety nets as the studio audience boos.

No safety nets in the Hunger Games, you think bleakly. Just rocks, and spikes, and darkness, and depths.

“You want some?” Aegon asks, offering you his spoon. Beside him on the table, his goldfish swims around his glass bowl in lazy revolutions like a planet.

The ice cream in the carton—soft and soupy, evidently some sort of cookie flavor—is less than tempting. Also, you don’t really know Aegon. “Uh, no thanks.”

“You’re going to regret passing this up when you’re in the arena eating leaves and worms or whatever.”

He has a point. “On second thought…”

You sit down next to Aegon and he grins, his teeth gleaming in the darkness, looking you over as he passes you the spoon. You sample the melted lagoon of ice cream. It’s better than you expected: very rich, very sweet, a pinch of salt to round it all out, chocolate chip cookies and ice cold milk in one. Aegon brought a suitcase, but he must have forgotten to pack pajamas because he’s commandeered some of Aemond’s clothes instead. The black sweatpants are too long, hanging past his feet, and the white t-shirt too tight across his belly. Aegon’s silver hair hangs in wet curls; he’s finally showered.

“So you visit Aemond every year for the Games,” you say.

“Yup.”

“Do you always bring the fish with you?”

Aegon laughs. “His name is Sunfyre. I rescued him from Charm’s shoes once, years ago. I can’t trust anyone at home to remember to feed him.”

“One fish doesn’t seem like too much of a commitment.”

He shrugs. “The house is chaotic. My sister’s too busy with her bugs, my little brother is always knocking down walls for his latest home improvement project. Mom has cats. Disaster seems inevitable.” He’s studying you again, not leering—which you’re very grateful for, the silk nightgown is not really appropriate for mixed company—but only seeking, contemplating. “I was wondering if it was an act,” Aegon says. “The you and Aemond thing.”

“It’s not,” you confess quietly.

“I know that now. I knew it as soon as I saw the way he looks at you. On the tv, the Capitol can show anything. They choose the angles and the clips, they write the narrative. And it would be a good strategy to get you sponsors, if Aemond had thought of it. It makes you both seem more desirable. It makes the romantics sigh at the tragedy and the predators willing to do anything to fuck you. But it’s real, and that’s not good.”

“We can’t help it,” you offer in a weak defense. “Do you hate me?”

Aegon is taken aback. “Huh? No. I don’t even know you. But I don’t want him to do something stupid and get himself killed. If he breaks the rules to help you, he’s slitting his own throat. He’ll never get to escape from this place. He’ll never get to discover what other world is out there.”

“You know he’s planning to leave?”

“Yes. And he deserves to. He’s done his time.”

You give the spoon back to Aegon, but he seems to have lost his appetite. He stirs the melted ice cream, peering down absently into the carton. “Aemond volunteered for you,” you say.

Aegon sighs. “He did.”

“Because you were younger.”

“What? No, I was eighteen. I’m the oldest.”

“Oh.” You blink at him. “Sorry, I just…assumed.”

He smiles miserably. “Yeah. I get it. I wasn’t so impressive then either. They called my name on Reaping Day and my mother lost her fucking mind. She was screaming and sobbing, and everyone knew…you know…that if I went, I wasn’t coming back. The Peacekeepers grabbed my arms and started dragging me to the stage, and then I heard Aemond shout that he volunteered. I think he wanted to help our mother, and I think he wanted to save me, because he’d actually have a shot. But I think he also wanted to be more than just some boy from District 4 who always had his face hidden in books and got ignored by girls. We’re all sold a mirage of what it means to win the Games, and by the time we realize it’s not real, there’s no going back.”

Fifteen years old, you think, the horror of it overwhelming. Fifteen years old and a killer. Fifteen years old and losing his eye. Fifteen years old and having strangers crawl across the bed to him, their weight shifting the mattress, their mouths hungry.

“He shouldn’t have volunteered for me,” Aegon says, watching the television again, cold blue-white light on his face. His eyes—ungouged, unruined—are larger and darker than Aemond’s, deep wells, nightscape currents. “He should have let me go to the Games, and I would have died in the arena, and the nightmare would have been over. But now he has to live with what he did. None of us knew what winning meant. The rest of the family still doesn’t. Aemond can’t bear to tell them, it would break their hearts. But I come for the Games every year, and he can’t hide it from me. It’s the least I can do, sharing the weight of it. I’m the reason he’s here.”

“I think he likes that you visit, Aegon. Even if he doesn’t say it.”

Aegon looks at you, profound futile pity…but there’s a warning too. Don’t get in Aemond’s way. “You know, they won’t let you go if you win. You’d be the new toy. They have to keep you long enough to rub off all the shine. Aemond’s done ten years, and I’m not convinced even that’s enough. They might make him stick around a little longer. So don’t think he could take you with him or give you his ticket. Don’t kill those other kids because you think you’re going anywhere.”

“I understand,” you say, gazing though the window at the starless void of the night.

Tomorrow is the 47th Annual Hunger Games, and today things are strange.

There’s hardly anyone in the gymnasium, and the tributes there aren’t speaking to each other. Roosevelt is running on his treadmill, red hair flying, dark eyes straight ahead and vacant and humorless. The kids from District 3 are at separate stations; Kista is doing some sort of pattern recognition game on a computer, while Tendo is weaving hemp and tree back into a hammock almost compulsively. The girls from Districts 7, 8, and 9—Oakellen, Calico, and Gotha—aren’t braiding each other’s hair anymore, but silently and grimly stretching, repeating the same poses they’ve seen Brookie and Isla do…the same ones you’ve done. Commodore is lifting colossal weights with a cackling Jackline Humboldt.

In the cafeteria, as Aemond stands by the wall and colludes with Mags and Beetee in whispers, you fill your plate with food from the everchanging daily spread. A Taste Of Greece! the banner hanging above the buffet reads. You’ve never heard of Greece. You wonder if it is one of those other places that Aemond knows so much about, like Tanzania or Mexico or Egypt. You try a little bit of everything, as Aemond once advised you to: lamb, olives, spanakopita, pita, hummus, tzatziki, dolmades, a salad with tomatoes and cucumbers and feta, baklava for dessert.

You see Roosevelt eating alone and go to join him. But when you sit down across from him at the table, he doesn’t even look up. “What’s wrong?” you ask, worried, wounded.

He doesn’t answer for a while. “I don’t want to kill you,” Roosevelt says at last. “And I don’t plan on killing you. But I still have to hope that you die. I can hope that it’s as quick and painless as possible, a rock falls on your head or you take a blade to the carotid, or you freeze to death in your sleep, or you fall off a cliff and don’t even have time to be afraid before you hit the bottom. But I have to hope that you never leave the arena, because that’s the only way I get to survive, and see my Mom again, and win the life that I want. So I’m sorry, but I can’t be your friend anymore. It just feels too ingenuine.”

He picks up his plate and leaves.

You can hear the audience roaring through the concrete walls as Salem heaves and jerks you into your gown for your interview with Caesar Flickerman, the famed host of the Games, much-adored here in the Capitol (and much-maligned at home in District 4).

You are in an underground dressing room, walls of mirrors, nowhere to look except at yourself. Your dress is made from thousands of small glass beads arranged to look like waves on the ocean, blues and greens and whites. It is very tight and stops at mid-thigh in the front; the back has a train, ropes of beads that dangle all the way to the floor, dragging and clattering, flowing like a tail of a fish. Salem has lifted your hair off your neck with a single large claw clip made from mother of pearl; you are given earrings to match. Now comes the essential glimmering step, the one the Capitol expects, the one you are becoming known for. Salem picks up the bottle and begins to squirt your arms disinterestedly.

Gently, you push Salem’s hands away. “Can Aemond do that?”

Salem smirks, like they aren’t surprised by the request. “Of course he can.” They gather up their stylist equipment—makeup to paint you with, sprays and oils for your hair—and disappear. Moments later, Aemond is here misting your skin, drawing glittering half-moons under your eyes. He does not look at the knife that hangs from your throat, or the ornate gown, or where it sits low and smothering across your chest, held up by two flimsy bejeweled straps. He only sees you. Aemond is wearing a dark blue suit, like the beads that form the water’s deep currents. When he turns, you notice that they’ve given him a matching mother of pearl clip to secure a portion of his long silver hair, just a small flat one.

Aemond goes to the door and pauses when he sees you aren’t following him. “Everything alright?”

You hesitate. “Salem didn’t give me any underwear.”

An apologetic smile. “I think that was purposeful,” Aemond says. “Are you nervous? Did you want to rehearse again? Do you know what you’re going to say?”

“I think so. I understand what they want.”

“Do you?”

“My advantage isn’t being fast or strong or vicious. My advantage is that people want to fuck me.”

He opens the dressing room door. “Keep your legs crossed during the interview and you should be okay.”

You walk with him into the hallway, your blue heels clicking on the cold concrete floor. There are production crew members hurrying you along as they franticly check and recheck the time on their pocket watches. You trot as fast as you can without stumbling. Aemond’s palm comes to rest on the small of your back.

You are both ushered up a flight of stairs, and then there’s a studio set up with blinding lights and chaotic racks of props. The tributes are all in a row, their mentors and escorts fluttering around giving last-minute counsel and practicing lines. Charm, dressed like a clownfish and with her hair dyed orange, is beaming up at Commodore as she pins something to the lapel of his cerulean blue suit. It’s a tiny silver Loch Ness Monster.

The photographer approaches, clapping his hands impatiently to get everyone’s attention. “Alright, these photos are for promotional material. You’ll each take your turn, then you’ll wait to go up the next stairwell for your interview with Mr. Flickerman. Every tribute gets three minutes with him, and three minutes only. There’s a light on the stage that will go green, then yellow, then red. When it turns red, you better be on your way off that stage. Got it?”

A chorus of nervous agreement from the tributes. Brookie is wearing a gown made of gold coins that jangle merrily; they remind you of the chimes of bell buoys back home on the sea. Roosevelt is in a black suit, his hair slicked back, a choker of onyx stones around his throat. Monty and Pluto are trying to count the atoms on little Babylon’s flame-colored jumpsuit, spinning him around and making him laugh.

As the tributes are being photographed—posing sweetly, or formidably, or wielding prop weapons—a group of adults stand in the corner of the room watching, women in gowns and men in suits. Maybe they’re Capitol executives, or Gamemakers, or people who won some sort of raffle for VIP tickets, you have no idea. But they ogle at you and the other tributes, and hiss to each other, and pick you over like bones stripped of meat.

A woman, perhaps forty, grins as she gestures to Commodore: “Yes he’s an ugly brute, but do you think he’s that big everywhere?”

You are abruptly furious. You’re sick. He’s just a kid.

But he isn’t, and you aren’t either; none of you are. You’re fish in a net, you’re fillets to be portioned and sold and devoured.

“You next, sweetheart,” the photographer calls to you with a yawn. He’s already getting bored. We waves you closer until you are standing in the middle of the floor, stark lights, a whirring fan. He stands in front of you and raises the camera, expecting you to do something cute: a blade flourished, a kiss blown.

You have to want to live more than you want anything else.

You drop to your knees so hard you bruise them, unsheathe your knife, shove the blade between your teeth like a horse’s bit, like the way Aemond’s ring finger stifled your moans on a wet metal table. You crawl on all fours towards the photographer as the extravagant observers gasp and the fan rips tresses of your hair from the clip. The photographer is immediately revived; he goes down to the floor with you, gushing encouragement, the shutter of his camera clicking over and over again. Aemond just watches, his arms crossed, not saying anything but his eyebrows raised.

“Okay, you’re done!” the photographer announces, glancing down at his camera. “I got the shot. Good God, did I get it. They’re going to be putting that on billboards and buses. Who’s next…?”

You struggle to your feet, no easy task given the height of your heels and the constriction of your dress. Aemond swoops in to help you up. Some of the tributes are chuckling awkwardly, not knowing what to think. The Careers are gaping, and you see something in their faces that gives you horror and hope: fear. They know people are starting to notice you. They know you’re going to have sponsors. You click the sheath back onto your knife and let it swing loosely from your neck again, the long silver chain shimmering.

They’re herding the first group of tributes up the stairs to meet Caesar. They make you all stand just off-stage, your ankles trembling, your hearts racing. The mentors and escorts allow their tributes no free rein, as if they are skittish horses that could bolt at any loud noise or sudden movement. After a moment, Commodore arrives behind you, unspeaking, unsmiling. Charm is chattering away unimpeded, mostly about how dreadful the District 10 outfits are, fur and horns and cow print. She’s trying to distract him, you think.

The production crew instructs each tribute when it is their turn to be interviewed. They grab Brookie first and thrust her out onto the stage; she swiftly gets her bearings and smiles and waves for the crowd. Each three-minute segment goes by so fast you can’t really retain anything. Your thoughts are a hurricane, your skin is cold with sweat. Brookie and Roosevelt are quick and funny. Hawk and Sara are earnest. The kids from District 3 are well-versed in statistics and emerging technological innovations. Tendo shakes Caesar’s hand in goodbye. You’re next.

“I’ll be right here,” Aemond assures you, as if that means anything, as if he can save you; but you feel better knowing he’s so close. The spotlight roams to the edge of the stage, and you step into it.

The stage feels as vast as an ocean. The audience is almost deafening, although the lights are so bright you can’t really see them, just blooms of color and the prismatic glinting of gemstones. You try to remember to smile. Caesar is standing by his chair and beckoning to you. “Welcome, welcome, our lovely young lady from District 4!”

You reach for him and he seizes your hands, squeezing them, his face exuberant and radiant and…open, somehow. Ever-curious. Empathy that endlessly regenerates. It occurs to you that he’s the best kind of person for a job like this. When you’re in front of him, you’re his whole world, and he means everything he says, and he feels every joy and sorrow; and then the second you leave you cease to exist, and his devotion begins anew for the next transitory subject. “Thank you, Caesar!” you say as you both sit in your large cozy violet lounge chairs. “It’s so generous of you to invite me here tonight for this interview. Not that I had a choice.”

The audience laughs, and so does Caesar. His hair is tied back and dyed jet black, accented with silver pins of stars and the moon. He wears a black suit freckled with constellations. “Hahaha, that’s positively true, you did not volunteer!”

You say, smiling so widely it hurts your face: “It’s not too late to send me back and pick someone else!”

Caesar wags a finger like you’re being naughty. “But the Capitol, despite all its grandeur, would be a little less dazzling without you, dear. I mean, look at you! Look how you sparkle! Tell me, what is the inspiration behind all this glitter and glamour?”

“Well, the ocean is a bit like that, isn’t it? The wave crests sparkle so invitingly, but then below the surface are sharks and riptides and rusty fishhooks waiting to cut you. District 4 is famous for our sparkling, lethal water. I just don’t want anyone to forget it.”

He simpers, almost flirtatious. “How could we forget how dangerous you are with that knife hanging around your neck all the time?”

“Oh, this?” You rip the sheath off the blade and twirl it effortlessly between your fingers, the steel flashing, the mother of pearl hilt smooth. The crowd whistles and applauds. You spot the tiny green light on the floor of the stage, right by the ledge, your timer. “It’s been in Daddy’s family for at least three generations, and I’ve been using it to gut fish since I was ten years old.”

“And you think your experience will be an advantage in the arena?”

“Fish and people have a lot of the same parts, once you get past the fins and the tails.”

Caesar chuckles heartily. The crowd hoots. “And what a gorgeous decorative sheath! Are those little fish? With gemstones for eyes?”

You can’t keep the heat from your cheeks as you cover the blade again. “They are. Aemond had this made for me.”

“Ah, Aemond Targaryen. Your mentor. A very popular victor here in the Capitol.” Caesar looks to the audience, his tone conspiratorial, and they fall quiet, leaning forward in their seats. “You know, there has been some chatter about the two of you…how close you appear to be…and how ravishingly good you look standing next to each other! Rather like a couple, frankly.”

For the first time, your face falters. This isn’t for show. This is real. On gigantic screens mounted on either side of the stage, every expression is magnified. You catch a glimpse of yourself and think: How did they make me so beautiful? “He makes more of an impression than I do, but I’ll accept the compliment and I’m very grateful for it.”

“But how do you really feel about this buzz surrounding you and Aemond?”

You can see him waiting just off-stage on the periphery of your vision, a pillar of blue, a flash of moonshine. The audience is pin-drop silent. You tell them the truth. “I certainly find myself wishing that we could have met under different circumstances.”

Caesar’s voice is soft, sympathetic, cajoling. The light at the edge of the stage is yellow, but he pays it no attention. “Do you?”

“Well…” You gaze out into the audience, and now that your eyes have adjusted you can see them better. They stare back at you, not bloodthirsty, not grinning, not hungry. Their faces are solemn. Their eyes shine with impending heartbreak. “Before I came here to the Capitol, I’d never been in love before. And there are still so many things I haven’t done. I’ve never been kissed. I’ve never had anyone to call mine. I’ve never had a ring or a wedding. And with Aemond, I think…”

The light has turned red. Your time is up. Nevertheless, Caesar grasps your hands again, urging you onwards. “Yes, my dear?”

“I…” Your voice breaks, and a single tear skates down your cheek. The audience gasps, mourning along with you. With great effort, you begin again. “I think I want more with him than I’ll ever get to have. And that’s very difficult.”

The crowd erupts into grief-stricken sighs and whispers. Some people are crying. Caesar, his own eyes brimming, raises your left hand to kiss your knuckles. “You might yet have it, my sparkling tribute from District 4,” he says. “You just might.”

You aren’t conscious of standing up, and bidding Caesar goodbye, and waving farewell to the audience; but suddenly you’re standing just off-stage with Aemond again, in the shadows, in the gloom, and he’s leading you away as the other tributes and mentors and escorts glower at you, terror and vitriol in their faces, because you’re giving the people of the Capitol what they want and it’s working.

Far behind you, Caesar is saying as Commodore marches out to meet him: “Now folks, I promise I’m not as short as he’s making me look…”

Aemond leads you through the concrete labyrinth and out into the night, where the cars are waiting. Pedestrians scream when they see you. Cameras strobe and journalists shout questions. Aemond opens a car door and helps you in, your gown a straightjacket, your ankles quivering in your heels. You don’t know if you’ve made a mistake; he hasn’t said a word. He ensures you’re settled in the back seat and then goes around to the other side. He gets in, slams the door, doesn’t give the driver a destination. Everyone must return directly to the Tribute Center tonight; there’s nowhere else in the world for you. Aemond exhales shakily and looks down at his palms as the wheels begin to turn.

“Was that okay?” you ask him.

His voice is quiet, like he’s very far away. “It was great.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Aemond says. “No, you were perfect.”

“Then why can’t you look at me?”

Aemond says, still staring down at his hands: “You are so beautiful.”

You cross the seat to reach him, to lay your palm over his scar as streetlights and camera flashes strobe into the indigo cabin. And he kisses you, not soft or gentle like you always thought your first kiss would be but messy and famished, not the kind of hunger that steals and bleeds but something satiating, necessary, life-sustaining. You don’t know how to find a rhythm, and you don’t know which way to tilt your head, and you have no idea what your tongue is supposed to be doing, but it’s magic anyway, him pulling you into his lap and gripping your bare thighs beneath your gown, your hands clasping his face, his scarred perfect face.

“I’m so sorry,” you say, breaking away. “I’m probably terrible at this—”

“You’re not,” Aemond promises, smiling, and he kisses you again. You can hear people shouting through the glass, and you know they’re watching, they’re taking pictures, they’re encapsulating you into video clips to play on the news, but you don’t care. It could be your last night on earth. It could be your last night anywhere. And anything they see won’t really be you. “I’ve never done it this way before,” Aemond confesses, and at first you don’t know what he means. Then you understand: He’s never been with anyone who didn’t pay. He’s never had something real.

“Hey,” you tell him, your palms cradling his jaw, streetlight constellations in his eye, fractured luminescence sparkling in his sapphire. “I’m looking at you right now. No one else is, but I am.”

His left hand skates around your waist, beads rattling like windchimes of shells and shark teeth. His long lithe fingers tuck an unbound lock of your hair behind your ear. He touches your face like he’s been waiting to since the moment you met on Reaping Day, in the shadow of the Games, in the autumn of your life: your cheekbone, your lips. Then his mouth is on yours again and the cadence like a pulse, hot and pounding, is not so elusive. Your tongue tastes him. Your teeth graze him. The car makes a sharp turn and you lose your balance and slide out of Aemond’s lap, giggling and clawing for the backrest. He follow you down to where you end up sprawled across the seat, on top of you, still kissing you, his silver hair like moonlight and his hips braced against yours, knowing you wear nothing beneath your gown but sweat and secrets.

At the Tribute Center, Aemond draws you to the elevator and presses the button for the fourth floor. The metal doors close and he is on you again, your back to the wall and your lungs gasping in sharp scarce air. You take his hands and put them on your chest because he won’t touch you there until you’ve told him it’s alright, and he yanks down one of your gown’s thin glittering straps and tastes you, licks the salt from your skin, bites your nipple as you rake your fingers through his hair and moan. The elevator doors open again and you scramble to fix your gown before diving out into the hallway.

The television is on in the common area of the District 4 suite, Caesar Flickerman’s interviews with this year’s tributes ongoing. From the couch, Aegon gapes at you both: disheveled hair, dazed faces, Aemond’s rumpled suit jacket, one strap of your gown hanging off your shoulder. “So, what have you guys been up to?”

“Stay out here,” Aemond orders him, still breathing heavily.

“Obviously! This is where the tv is, where else would I be?!”

“Good,” Aemond says, and grabs your hand and disappears with you into your bedroom.

In the time it takes him to close and lock the door, you’re already on the mattress waiting for him, your shoes kicked to the floor, your outstretched palms impatient for him to fill them. He meets you there and drags you roughly into his lap again, the hem of your beaded gown pushed up to the tops of your thighs, and when his fingers slip between your legs you’re amazed by how close you are already, bright like clear skies, warm like summer, your blood pooling there until it is heavy like an anchor and dragging you someplace sublime. You’ve never been able to force this to happen no matter how hard you tried; he gives it to you so freely.

Instinctively, without premeditation or self-consciousness, your hips begin to circle and press against him, only the ocean blue cloth of his suit separating you, and even this is too much. You unbuckle Aemond’s belt in the twilight shadows and he realizes what you want. He reveals himself: staggering length and thickness, and you can’t claim to know your body well, but the prospect of the culminative act seems to defy physics. You move against him as he touches you, coating him in your wetness, teasing you both, his tongue darting between your lips as you moan, his fingers coaxing you into the depths of blue water, the riptides of a kind storm.

You cry out too loudly and he clamps a hand over your mouth, laughing as he whispers for you to be quiet, kisses your temple, strokes you beneath your gown until the tide starves away and you are empty and too sensitive. You shake his palm off your face, reach down to grasp his fingers that are dripping with you, raise them to your lips. Aemond watches, transfixed, as you lick him clean, and then he kisses you, the room whirling, scalding blood thrashing in your ears, your skull filled only with him.

Your lips rove to his jaw, down his throat, following the line of his breastbone as you unbutton the white shirt beneath his suit jacket. Then there are the taut muscles of his belly, and the slopes of his hips, and then…

Aemond, alarmed, lifts your chin to make you look at him. “What are you doing?”

“I want to,” you say. You want to learn everything about him, you want to touch him, you want to taste him. And you want him inside of you, but this way seems easier than the other. No pain, no blood, no irretrievable rite of passage, nothing that could poison this night-blue haze you’re both lost in. “Can you teach me how?”

He hesitates and glances to the wall, maybe because when you’re so far away it’s easy to forget that you’re the woman here with him, and phantoms begin to creep in, and nightmares and shame.

You come back to nuzzle his throat—shared salt, ghosts of smoke—and put his hands on you, the swell of your chest, the downy inside of your thigh. “It’s just me,” you remind him.

Aemond closes his eye and nods. “Lips over your teeth.”

You cover them, like a blade with a sheath, and sink low to take him in your mouth. He’s big, so there are adjustments to be made: how to keep your jaw open wide enough, how to draw in your cheeks to create friction. Your hair, fallen out of its mother of pearl clip, drags over his lower belly; Aemond knots his fingers in it, not to push you lower but to feel anchored to you like a boat safe in harbor. You pay attention to when he jolts and his breath hitches: your tongue lapping the underside, your lips sucking the tip. You’ve drenched him with saliva, you realize; he’s dripping and glistening with you. You peek up at Aemond, embarrassed.

He chuckles, and he isn’t so tense anymore. “It’s supposed to be messy.”

Reassured, you continue, and it’s getting easier now. You alternate between the motions he seems to like best; and your technique can’t be so impressive, but perhaps it’s the knowledge that you’re the one doing it to him, because low euphoric sighs are escaping from Aemond’s throat and his hold on your hair is rough and distracted. You don’t mind; it’s minute violence from harmless hands, like when he held you down on the metal table in the prep team’s pod.

“Give me your hand,” he says, panting, and places it at the base. He shows you how to grip him and you can feel him pulsing against the lines of your palm, the whirls of your fingerprints. When you caress and squeeze him, his head falls back and he gazes up at the ceiling, his ribcage heaving as his lungs battle for oxygen, his fingers twisting in your hair. When you glide your thumb up over the tip, he whimpers. Seconds later he gasps: “You should let me finish myself.”

Not a chance; he didn’t leave you to finish yourself. You keep stroking him, your hand tight and slippery, your lips and tongue edging him closer towards the feeling he taught you was possible. It’s an indescribable high, giving him the same gift. It’s the only time you’ve felt powerful since Reaping Day.

“Don’t,” Aemond begs. “You’re going to…you have to…”

He moans and tries to push you off, but you plunge down as far as you can like diving into clear water, swallowing him, devouring him, not to harm but to savor, not ravening but worshipful. It’s a potent mineral rush, metallic and a little jarring, but it’s a part of him. You linger there, working him until the very end, licking those last slow drops from the slit.

But Aemond doesn’t immediately begin to soften as you expect him to, as you’ve heard men do; instead he pulls you back onto the bed, an urgency like adolescent zeal, because this is almost like his first time too. You’re grinning as he covers you and kisses you deeply—salt like the sea, warmth like golden sand—and then his hand is skating between your thighs again, not merely to touch you but to open you. What you feel now is not pleasure at all but pressure, and stretching, and a sensation that is so foreign and intrusive it’s almost nauseating. You hold your breath, hoping it will pass, not wanting to ruin this, not wanting to disappoint him.

And he’s so much bigger than his fingers.

“I can’t,” you gasp, and Aemond stops, startled, wondering what he’s done wrong. But it’s not his fault. It’s my fault. I should know myself better, I should have explored this before now. But how could I have known my life was almost over? “I’m not ready. I’m sorry, I know I don’t have time to get used to the idea. But I’m just not ready yet.”

He shakes his head. He’s lying between your legs, nearly as close as it’s possible to be to another person, but you know he won’t do anything you don’t want him to. “You have time.”

Your voice is hushed; there are tears in your eyes. “Do you really think I can win?”

“I do,” Aemond murmurs, like something sacred, a secret or a vow. He kisses your forehead and then draws away, and you almost break and say: I take it back, I want you to do it. Even if it’s horrible, even if it hurts me. I’d rather bleed for you than for anyone else. “I have something for you.”

“Really?”

“It’s in my room. I’ll go get it.” And then, when he’s climbed out of bed and is buttoning his shirt and buckling his belt: “You should get cleaned up.”

“I should,” you echo numbly, realizing it’s over. You have to go to sleep, because you have to wake up early, because tomorrow is the start of the Games. Nothing on earth can stop it. Nobody on earth can save you.

“This is probably for the best anyway,” Aemond says, and he’s businesslike again. He’s your mentor, not your lover. He has to be. Maybe he couldn’t stand it otherwise. “You shouldn’t go into the arena right after…I mean, the first time…you could be sore, you could be cramping and spotting, you could develop a urinary tract infection. It’s a wild card to add to all the rest of the factors, and you don’t need that.”

“I don’t,” you agree, and he leaves.

Faintly, you hear Aemond tell Aegon out in the common area: “Everything is fine.”

Aegon snorts and replies: “Sounded a whole lot more than just fine to me…”

You tug off your gown and get in the bathtub, fill it with hot water, turn on the bubbling nozzles so there is something to disrupt the quiet instead of your own thoughts. Aemond comes back with a small plastic pill bottle, and you hit the button again so the nozzles shut off and the water goes still. You don’t hide your body from him; he’s seen it already. He sits on the rim of the tub and shows you the present he’s brought. From out in the common area, you think you can hear Charm’s voice; she and Commodore must be back from the interviews.

“I know you’ll be too anxious to sleep tonight,” Aemond says, shaking the bottle so the pills rattle inside. “These will help. Most sleep medication knocks you unconscious but actually suppresses REM sleep, which is the stage most necessary for physical and mental recovery. These won’t do that. They’ll put you into REM sleep within thirty minutes, and you’ll wake refreshed. It’s a good advantage to have. You’ll go into the arena well-rested and thinking clearly, and you’ll last longer than the others if there’s sleep deprivation.”

“How did you get them?”

“I have a client who’s a doctor.” Aemond twists the cap off the plastic bottle. “Open your mouth.”

You smile. “I think I can figure out how to take a pill myself.”

“Sure, but I’m not leaving them with you.”

No, of course not. Just in case you decide to try to swallow all twenty or thirty at once. You open your mouth and Aemond places a single white pill on your tongue, where it almost instantly dissolves. He touches your face, ghosts his thumbprint across your unscarred cheek, leans in to kiss you goodnight. You tease, already drowsy: “I’ll contaminate you.”

“No worries. I’m going to need one too.” He administers himself a dose, a cupped palm, a flash of white vanishing. “Finish up. Get into bed.”

Aemond stays until you’re beneath the blankets, and then he departs for his own room. You lie there on your back in the darkness—still breathing in his sweat and smoke and cologne, still surrounded by him—for maybe five minutes before you force yourself to get up, knowing you can’t fight against the pill much longer.

You tiptoe across the common area, Aegon peeping curiously at you from the couch, and steal into Aemond’s bedroom. He’s left the door unlocked. He gazes up at you through the shadows, murmurs of moonlight glimmering in his sapphire. He’s taken off his suit, but he’s not wearing anything else. His hair is still dry; he hasn’t washed it yet. There are stray flecks of your glitter on his skin.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, but he doesn’t seem surprised to see you. And when you seek refuge beneath the blankets, he holds you against his bare chest and tells you hushed beautiful lies, that everything is okay, that you’re safe.

“I’m so scared,” you whisper as you descend rapidly into the dark currents of sleep.

Hyacinth's steps, which started wobbly and needed the furniture for assistance just to get up, started to become confident. You walked the beaches of Dragonstone holding her tiny hand so tightly because you knew if you let go, the waves would not return her. Her babbling was inching closer to words. You know they are on the tip of her tongue, waiting to be said.

Your belly swells as the baby inside you grows. The Maester and the midwife tell you everything is going well as it should. The butterfly in your stomach that you previously felt turned into sharp kicks that sometimes kept you up at night. The nausea went away, and you had this urge to eat meat that’s well cooked but still bloody.

You write all of these changes to Baelor. Your letters to him barely have that warmth or affection, and they mostly feel cold, but he still responds to you with gentleness and tenderness.

Baelor writes to you asking about Hyancith. Your and the baby’s well-being. He and Valarr are getting back to good terms. Maekar, of all people, is asking about you. How his wound is completely healed, but he still has debilitating headaches and how some of his memories past Jena’s death are returning. You wished to be next to him, clarifying things to him.

All of his letters to you end with, “Waiting for your call, your husband Baelor.”

You wonder if you are being petty by remaining in Dragonstone. He will only come to you if you tell him to, but your stubborn mind tells you to remain put.

Hyacinth misses her father.

The baby doesn’t know what their father’s voice sounds like.

You miss your husband.

Your hand is forced when you wake up one morning with crampings and blood staining your linens. When they gave you milk of the poppy, in your dazed mind you called for Baelor. You called for your husband.

…

The letter that arrived from Dragonstone, written by the maester instead of his wife, made Baelor feel something he hadn't felt in a long while: panic.

The maester informs him that his wife woke up one morning severely bleeding. They managed to stop the bleeding, and mother and child were alright and resting. Before slumping into unconsciousness, his wife asked for him.

His wife called for him.

He shall go to her.

He doesn't inform the king, the small council or even his brother of what just happened or that he’s sailing to Dragonstone. He rushes to the harbour with a bag of gold and tells a captain he’ll give it to him if he takes him to Dragonsotne as quickly as possible. Storms or windless skies be damned!

The moment his feet land on the island, he ignores the guard that greets him and asks one simple but important question.

“Where’s my wife?”

…

The sound of your daughter gurgling wakes you up. You don’t open your eyes immediately. Your body was still under the effects of the milk of the poppy. You laid still and listen in. A nursemaid must have brought her in to make her feel at ease having you in her eyesight.

It was just a scare.

You didn't lose a lot of blood. The baby moves to prove they’re still living. The maester believes it must have been the stress that caused it and ordered you to remain in bed until the birth, which was just two moons away.

Hyacinth gurgles.

You were about to fall asleep when you heard another noise. Another voice. It was not from a nursemaid. It was from a man. It was Baelor’s voice. 

With a lot of struggle you opened your eyes. Baelor was standing near the window with Hyacinth in his arms. She was resting her body against his chest and tugging on his beard. His face was soft and he was rubbing her back. It was a sight you were familiar with.

You whispered his name so low you were not sure he even heard it over Hyancith’s babbling, but he did.

He looked in your direction, and he let out a relieved sigh. “Look! Mama’s awake!”

He walked to your bed and sat Hyacinth next to you. She crawled to you, planting herself on your chest and snuggling her face against your neck. You hugged your daughter back and kissed her head.

“Hello, my love.” You whispered.

You looked at Baelor. You wonder why he’s here. Then you remembered. You called for him. You didn’t think they actually would do it. You thought they wouldn’t understand your pleas. Your eyes tear up as you look at him.

“You came.”

“You called."

…

You are shocked when Baelor tells you he dropped everything and rushed to the island without telling the king or the small council. You assumed Baelor would’ve made plans and spoke to the council before boarding a ship. 

Maybe you shouldn't be surprised; this is the same man who entered a trial by combat wearing armour that did not belong to him and did not fit him. 

This impulsive act made by your husband made you feel warm inside and in places where you hadn't felt warm in months.

He settles quickly with you and Hyacinth.

He joins you and Hyacinth when you break fast in your bedchamber. He plays with her throughout the day.

He apologised once more about the cruel words he said. You keep a distance from him. Although you are the one that called for him, being around him made you nervous. You make small talk. You answered his questions. but you made yourself small and scarce in his presence.

He fulfilled his promise of being a father to Hyacinth. It was easy; she doesn't know the havoc her family is going through. He does his husbandly duties by making sure you’re comfortable and in good health. But for this part there’s still a long way to go forward before you fully forgive and welcome him to your presence, arms and bed.

“Father wishes good health to you and the baby.” He told you one morning when breaking fast. Hyacinth is in her high chair eating her porridge with her bare hands. Good thing her nightclothes are only changed afterwards.

He was holding scrolls that arrived from the capital after Baelor sent a raven, making them aware of where he was. “Although he wishes I had sent a warning first before making Maekar send the entire Kingsguard to search every nook and cranny of the capital.”

“That’s lovely," You said, sipping your tea. "And what does the one sent by your brother say?”

Baelor stares at his brother’s scroll with amusement. "There are a few words in here that are best not to say out loud. We have innocent ears in our presence.” He quickly glances at Hyacinth.

 “He’s mainly crossed with the fact that I left without warning. Says that I’m worse as Aegon when it comes to disappearing without consulting him.”

You chuckled, remembering that as soon as Ser Duncan went away, everybody noticed the absence of the young prince.

“He also says he wishes good recovery for you and the baby.”

You smiled. “He may not like me, but when I carried Hyacinth all of a sudden, he became curious about how I was doing. He once sent clothes that once belonged to the girls. Said a Taragryen Princess shouldn’t look… ghastly."

“Yes, Daella’s clothes.” Baelor said

He blinked and you blinked too.

He cleared his throat. “Sometimes they come and go when I least expect.” He looked at you expectantly. “I’m correct, am I?”

“Yes, yes, you are. It was Daella’s clothes.” You confirmed. “What else do you remember from that time?”

Baelor titled his head and hummed. “I remember… oranges.”

“Oranges?”

“I remember mostly the smell of oranges.”

“In the first months of the pregnancy I had this huge craving for oranges.” You explained. “It was the only thing I could eat without throwing up.”

“My mother adored oranges.” He mused. “My father planted them when she mentioned one time how much she missed them.”

Baelor looked at Hyacinth with a found look. You knew about that. The King told you when he saw you pick an orange from the tree. Hyacinth looked like Baelor, and Baelor looked like his mother. So you wonder if Baelor is seeing his mother in Hyacinth. When the King held her for the first time, you could swear a tear left his eye when he said Hyacinth looked just like the late Queen Myriah Martell.

“If it’s not…” He started but then stopped. It surprises you to see a confident man like Baelor hesitate.

“Yes?” You encouraged him.

“If it’s not too strenuous for you, I would like the chance to take a stroll on the beach with you after finishing the fast.”

“I would love to! The Maester tells me a short walk can do no harm.” You agreed. “We can go as soon as this little one is finished. One of us has to hold her hand or the waves will get her!”

“I was hoping… it could be just the two of us.”

You went still.

You haven’t been in a room alone with him since he arrived in Dragonstone. Someone was always present, whether it be Hyacinth, a servant or the maester. This will be the first time. You thought carefully. You nodded.

…

You leave your daughter in the care of the nursemaids. You and Baelor leave the castle; you hold his hand when you go down the stairs and link arms with him when you start walking down the sandy beaches. You breath in the fresh air.

“Have you thought of a name?” Baelor asked.

Your hand instinctively went to your bump. “I have looked over your family and other Valyrian names, but none of them seemed to fit.”

“When the boys came along, I spent days looking over high valyrian text trying to find that one name that fit them.”

“Only for you to end up name you first born ‘man’” You joked.

He smiled and looked at you curiously. “How did we come up with Hyacinth?”

You hummed. “You thought she was going to be a boy… I don't blame you; you had two sons, and your father had four. When she came out lacking that appendage.” You chuckled. “I’ve never seen you and the King so speechless.”

Baelor blushed. “I love her name.”

“Me too.” You agreed. “The moment you suggested it, I took one look at her, and I knew then and there it was her name.”

He looked at you, surprised. 

“What?”

“Forgive me, my lady. I assumed all this time it was you who had chosen her name. A tribute to your House.”

You sighed. “It’s alright. I wasn’t even thinking of my House when you suggested it. It’s so irrelevant that I almost forgot it was my sigil.”

Baelor’s steps started to slow. You stopped walking as well and looked at him. There was this vacant look on his face. As if he were no longer in the present.

“Husband?” You called for him.

He broke the silence, but he mostly talked to himself. “You had nothing... You had no one.”

You looked at him stunned. You knew he wasn't saying those words out of malice but still left you tense. His eyes were wide and staring up ahead. What was his mind making him remember?

“I asked you to marry me in Dragonstone.”

You felt your heartbeat speed up.

He realised his grip on you and walked forward. He halted a few paces ahead of you and stared at a hilltop. He pointed at it with a shaking finger.

“Right on that hill.” He didn’t look at you for confirmation. “You said ‘no’... You just told me to get up… you tried to pull me up… You kept arguing and arguing… You kept saying you came from nothing and that they would never accept you and I…” He laughed with mirth. “I was thinking at the time… Gods, she looks so beautiful when she argues with me! …and I refused to get up until you said yes.”

He made himself quiet again. His back was to you. You remained put; your hand was rubbing your belly to calm down the baby who was kicking hard inside you.

“You only said yes because I promised to never leave you… to never send you away. And I broke that promise!” His voice broke. “I held our daughter in my arms, and my first thought was she must have come from sin!” He spat that last word like it was a rotten fruit. “I was ready to send you away to another stranger, not caring if you would’ve been loved or taken care of…” His body shook. “I was going to take you away from her! Your whole world! Because I thought I was fixing something that was never broken in the first place!”

He sounded horrified. At his own words. His thoughts. His ideas. His choices.

“You are correct, my lady.” He said quietly. “I am a monster.”

Tears ran down your face, and you were sobbing. Your knees buckled. You wanted him to regret all of his words and actions. You wanted him to break down, but seeing it happen right in front of you, you didn't get that cathartic feeling you were expecting.

“Baelor.” You call for him.

He turns around. His eyes were bloodshot red, but he held back his tears.

“Please take me inside.” You cracked. “I don’t feel good.”

Whatever Baelor was feeling, he bottled them up and ran to you. You didn't protest when he picked you up and carried you back to the castle. You were no longer paying attention to your surroundings. You gripped his cloak tightly. You focused only on the sound of his heartbeat and his arms around you.

…

Baelor watched as the Maester examined his wife.

Every time she winced, he tensed. 

Every time she groaned, he fought to not leap from the chair.

“Everything is in order with mother and child.” The maester concluded. “Still, her ladyship should remain bedded for a few more weeks. Short walks can still happen and are recommended.” He looked at Baelor with a raised brow. “But no strenuous activities.”

He was about to ask what the Maester meant by 'strenuous activities’ but stopped when the realisation dawned on him. The tips of his ears went red, and he scratched the back of his head.

The Maester left. It was just the two of them, once again. They remained silent until it was broken by her gasp and moving around the bed. Baelor stands up and goes to her side. “My lady, should I call for the Maester again?"

“No. No.” She assured. “They’re kicking a little too hard; that’s it.”

Baelor felt a bit of relief. “Valarr and Matarys were the same. They saw their mother’s womb as a bed to jump on.”

She smiled with amusement. “All of your children are like that. Hyacinth was the same.”

“The boys would quiet down when I talked to them. Was she the same?”

“Yes.”

“Is it alright I try with the little one?” He asked almost hesitantly.

She stared at him quietly and then hummed. “I wish to sleep… go ahead.”

He hoped he didn't look too enthusiastic when he sat down next to her. He has been quietly craving to feel her belly and the child moving. Even when he carried her back inside, he made sure her hands did not touch her stomach. He raised his hand ready to touch it but stopped. He looked at his wife. “Is it alright if I touch you, my lady?”

She didn’t answer him. Instead, she grabbed his hand and placed it on top of her bump. The moment his hand touched the warm and hard skin, he felt a kick. Baelor almost jumped in surprise with the sudden movement. He laughed fondly.

“They’re strong.” He says.

“They are.” She agreed.

He leaned forward and spoke to the bump. “Hello, little one.”

The baby hearing the new voice kicked once again.

Baelor chuckled. “While I do enjoy knowing you are full of energy and strength, you’ll cease using your mother as a training dummy in this instance. She needs to rest, and so do you.”

The baby stopped kicking, but they still moved around.

Baelor continued to talk. “Defiant, aren’t you? You are my fourth child after all. Perhaps you’ll be like your Uncle Maekar.”

“Don’t even!” She said in mock horror.

Baelor laughed. He continued on talking to the child, and when he looked up, he saw his wife fast asleep. He leaned forward and kissed her bump. He looked at her and kissed her forehead, carefully not to wake her up.

When they kissed on the day she left. Baelor felt like he walking into a room he never entered before but as it went on, memories started to flood in. The taste of her mouth, the feeling of her lips on his mouth and skin. He craved those lips from days on. He took in the feeling of her soft skin against his lips and the smell of citrus, sand and the ocean that clung to her skin and hair. This will do for the time being until he gains her trust.

…

She’s screaming. 

His wife is screaming.

He is sitting on a hardwood chair while listening to it.

Have they given her milk of the poppy to ease her pains?

It feels like hours have passed since the midwife told her to push.

He gets from the chair and paces the room like a caged dog.

He twists the rings on his fingers.

He rubs his face and hair every few moments.

There was a final scream. So loud. So powerful. Baelor felt a shiver run down his spine.

Then there was silence.

That is soon broken by another scream.

A wail.

Baelor forgets all the decorum, all the rules and all the protocols and bursts into the room. Maids jump at his presence. A midwife is scolding him, telling him he shouldn’t be there. He does not care. The person he was looking for was in a bed shaking, attended by the maids. He ran to it. They dispersed like a flock of pigeons.

He sat beside his wife and scooped her into his arms.

“My love.” He whispered.

She shook against his arms. Her body was drenched in sweat, and the shift clung to her skin. Her hair was moist and stuck to her face. She weakly opened her eyes and then closed them again. “Baelor?” She whispered in a hoarse voice.

“I’m right here.”

He kissed her forehead and cheeks. He praised her strength. He told her she was strong.

“The baby?” She quietly whispered.

A sense of shame filled Baelor as he realised he hadn't asked for his child’s well-being. His mind became only focused on his wife. He looked to the other side of the room. The crying he previously heard turned into soft whimpers. The infant was bundled in a white blanket and carried by a midwife.

The child was placed in his wife’s arms as the midwife said. “A healthy girl, your graces."

His wife held her closer to her chest and cried happy tears.

“Hello! Hello!” She mumbled to her child and kissed her head.

Baelor watched the baby. She was red like a tomato and had dark curly hair like his. His child. His daughter. His baby girl. In awe. 

He kissed his wife’s cheek one more time.

“They wanted a boy.” She mumbled after awhile.

Baelor looked at her confused, and then he sighed.

He pulled her closer to him and laid his hand on the squirming bundle.

“Look at me, my love.” He gently commanded.

She looked at him.

“They don’t matter. You made her. She’s ours.” He told her. “Don’t let their silly remarks ruin this for you.”

She sniffed and kissed her daughter’s head one more time. The child had become quiet in her mother’s arms.

“We don't have a name for her.” She said.

Baelor looked at his daughter closely.

With his finger he gently caressed her cheek.

“Hyacinth.”

…

You love your daughter more than anything, but by the Seven, her favouritism frustrates you sometimes.

Of course you know your daughter adores you. She smiles when she sees you, when you call her name and when you speak to her. She cuddles with you in the early hours of the morning. She falls asleep in your arms when you read to her.

But you can’t compete with Baelor.

You ‘believed’ that when you were resting from your labours, Baelor must have called on Shiera Seastar to cast a spell on Hyacinth to make her attached to him.

Her lower lip trembles when he leaves the room for longer than five minutes. She made sure to let you and her nursemaids know she was not happy with his absence.

Tonight was one of those nights. She did not want to go to bed. It took a lot of rocking back and forth and humming lullabies to get her to sleep. When you laid her in her cot, you collapsed from exhaustion on your bed.

You could’ve called him, but this was one of those moments where you didn’t want to rethink your choices. Of leaving King’s Landing and taking her with you. Hyacinth didn't know any better. She doesn't know that the man who held her didn't know who she was for a while and called her a bastard. She doesn’t know her mother is punishing him even though there’s no point in prolonging it.

You toss and turn with a lot of difficulty. Your bump being your main obstacle. You also feel cold and pull the covers around you. You’re about to fall asleep when you suddenly feel warm. As if an even thicker cover were laid on top of your body. You move closer to the source and sigh happily.

Sleep almost gets you until you feel the warmth moving. You frown and wait. A hand is placed on your bump. You don’t panic. You don’t feel fear. There’s only one person in this place who would dare to lay on your bed and touch.

“Baelor.” You whisper into the night.

The hand was about to move away, but you quickly grabbed his wrist.

You slowly turned around and faced him. You put his hand back in your bump.

“Hi.” You said.

“Hi.” He said it almost boyishly. “Did I awake you?”

You shook your head. “I was barely asleep.” You sigh. “Have you always snuck into my bed in the middle of the night? Or is this the first time?”

He smiled at you. “First time.”

“Why now?” You asked.

“I had a dream.” He answered.

You looked at him almost amused.

“My memories started coming back through my dreams.” He explained.

“What did you ‘dream’ of?”

His smile became soft, and he looked over his shoulder where Hyacinth was sleeping peacefully in her cot. “Her birth.”

“Oh.”

“You were so strong.”

“I had too. Have you seen the size of her head?”

He chuckled quietly.

“You were also worried about how the court would react… to her being a girl.”

When the midwife told you the baby was a girl, a wave of panic went through your body. While the court still didn’t accept you as one of them when your pregnancy was announced, it made you more bearable in their eyes. “Giving us a boy is the least she could do after insulting the noble ladies of Westeros.” You heard someone whisper.

You hate that you let those whispers get the best of you. That those whispers made you into a little girl who wanted to make sure everyone liked her.

“I was worried, but you didn’t let it get to me.” You said. “Do you remember her holding her for the first time?”

Once you put her in his arms, he barely let her go. You have seen Baelor’s softness before, but with Hyacinth, he became even softer. He would tenderly kiss her head. He would let her tiny grip his finger. He would ask the nursemaids what she had done throughout the day as if they were matters of the Realm. His gaze would turn into stone when someone who wasn’t a family member or a trusty nursemaid held her.

He brushed a hair strand from your face. “I remember feeling so many emotions.”

You moved closer to him, and he put his arms around you.

“She was a challenge to put to sleep. She put up a fight with me," You said. “I think she was calling for you.”

“Why didn’t you call for me?” He asked, holding no judgement or resentment, just genuine curiosity and worry.

You shrugged and then started to sob, quietly knowing your daughter was a few feet away.

“Hey! Hey!” He calmed you down. “What’s wrong, my love?”

“I didn’t call you because I still don’t know I should trust you. Because I feel small again. That if I blink, I will lose everything.” He looked at you sympathetically. “You have been nothing but kind and respectful ever since you arrived, and I put my feelings above her well-being. She called for you before and after coming to the island. She barely ate because she missed you so much. I took her greatest source of comfort away from her. Maybe I’m a monster as well.”

Baelor pulled you to his arms and rasped into your hair. “My lady, please don’t think of yourself that way ever again. You are scared and hurt mother. I'm a stupid man who didn't use his words wisely.”

You gripped his white shirt and buried your face against his chest. 

“I want us to be a family again. I want to go back home.”

Baelor kissed your head. “I will give anything you ask.”

"Promise me?”

“I promise.”

...

Your second daughter was born a fortnight later.

Baelor was with you throughout the process. He held your hand. He rubbed your back. He whispered encouragements in your ear. He let out a sigh of relief when she came out crying.

She came out with a head full of dark hair and strong lungs, very much like her sister.

And very much like her sister, it was her father who named her.

“Hello, Alyssa.” He decided while holding her and kissing her head.

On the first day of Alyssa Targaryen's life, she learnt the feeling of his strong arms holding her, and her father sang her the same lullaby her sister and brothers heard. Her father told her that she had a sister, brothers, an uncle and a grandfather who were anxious to meet her.

The nursemaid brings Hyacinth the following morning. She looks at her new baby sister who is in your arms in silence.

“This is your baby sister, Hyacinth.” You gently explained to her. “Alyssa.”

“Give your sister a kiss, my love.” Baelor softly told her.

Hyacinth kissed Alyssa’s forehead with a wet smack. Alyssa made a fussing sound in protest. Baelor watched the three of you with a tear in his eye.

For a moment everything was silent. Just the sound of your daughters gurgling and cooing. The sound of the wind and waves.

The silence is broken by a sweet and inexperienced voice. “‘lyssa.”

The voice didn't come from either you or Baelor. It came from Hyacinth.

You and Baelor stared at each other in shock.

“What was that, Hyacinth?” Baelor asked her.

Hyacinth pointed at Alysssa. “‘lyssa.” She said again.

You gasped in surprise and started laughing. Baelor laughed as well.

“Yes, that Alyssa.”

…

The road ahead is unpredictable, but Baelor will make sure it is clear enough for his wife and daughters to go through.

He made a promise, and he will be sure to not break it again.

Trials of Seven… His brother’s mace… be damned!

...

A/N: Did I manage to finish a story? I think I did!

“I haven’t been called Kepa in years.” King Viserys muses, trying to remember when you and Rhaenyra stoped calling him that. His children with Alicent only ever calling him father. “It can also be used as uncle, so you are correct.”

“He clearly didn’t mean it as in uncle.” Aemond says wearing a stupid eyepatch after the incident in driftmark. You never more thankful you couldn’t attend given all that went down.

“It was a slip of the tongue, we’re trying to get the girls to call Gwayne Kepa as they’ve been copying me and Daeron by calling him love or uncle.” You say quickly, knowing it wasn’t a slip of the tongue, you knowing your son.

“How are my grandchildren?” Your father asks having spent the first half of dinner talking to Rhaenyra and her children. Your daughters having fun with their cousin, Rosie having been drawing with Joffrey. Lily playing with Jaces hair.

“Tell your grandsire what you’ve been up to Rosie.” Gwayne says to your eldest daughter, him happy for the opportunity to stop talking with his father.

“Rosie?” Viserys asks, Rhaenyra already knowing what all the children go by as you two write each other often.

“All of us have nicknames.” Rosie says perking up, the girl loving to talk.

“Do you?”

“Yeah, muña is darling, kepa is love or handsome but only muña call him that.” Rosalind says unintentionally exposing you before continuing. “Daeron is dae and Lillian is lily.”

“How is it living with your uncle?” Otto asks the young girl, clearly trying to make issues. Why? You don’t know. Probably to try and upset Gwayne.

“We don’t live with our uncle?” Rosalind responds tilting her head to the side in confusion. Not knowing what her grandsire is talking about.

“But you live with Daeron don’t you?”

“Yeah but he’s our brother.”

“No he’s your mother’s brother.”

“No, he’s mine.” Rosie denies, Daeron being her big brother no matter what some man says. “Muña even said it to the old lady.”

“What old lady?” Gwayne asks trying to think of an old lady you could have spoken to recently.

“You know, the old lady! With the hat!” She explains as of her fathers dumb.

“Are you talking about the women who owns the tavern we stoped at?” You ask, happy for the slight change in topic knowing you can distract everyone from the topic of Daeron being your son.

“Yes! The old lady!”

-

“I’m sorry.” Daeron says later that night after you’ve tucked the girls into bed, Daeron cuddling into your side while you read. Gwayne getting ready for bed.

“Why are you sorry sweetheart?” You ask, placing the book in your lap so you can give him your undivided attention.

“I deliberately called uncle Gwayne Kepa in front of the king and queen.” He responds feeling guilty, worried you might get in trouble for his actions.

“We know you did.” Gwayne says stopping unbuttoning his shirt to look at the boy.

“You’re not mad?” The boy asks quietly, not wanting you to be upset with him.

“Why would we be mad? You heard Rosie your her brother and our son.” You reply brushing a stand of hair out of his face, the boy trying to copy Gwayne with his hair.

“But I did it to try and upset them, that’s not right.”

“You are right, it might not of been the best thing to do.” You say, happy he’s taking responsibility but also knowing why he did it. “But, it makes sense that you did.” You comfort, cuddling your boy closer to you while kissing his face making the boy laugh. “We love you sweetheart, do you ever forget that.”

“I love you too.” He laughs noise scrunching up as he does. “Uncle Gwayne, are you going to join the hug?”

“Sorry who’s uncle Gwayne?” Gwayne asks Daeron a smirk on his face, not bothering to hide it. Feeling a mass amount of happiness when Daeron called him Kepa.

“Kepa.” Daeron whines holding his arms out to the man. “Please.”

“I love you my little dragon.” Gwayne says falling onto the bed, bringing you both into his arms.

“I’m coming, wait a second.” He tells your daughter sleepily stumbling out of bed. Rosalind having been going through sleep regression and acting like she did when just born and suffering from colic. “Can you go back to sleep, my little princess?”

“Why won’t she let us sleep?” Your half brother Daeron grumbles making you and Gwayne jump, not knowing the boy was in your chambers let alone sleeping on your sofa.

“How long have you been here?” Gwayne asks his favourite nephew, you two have practically raised the boy for the past few years. You having married Gwayne when Daeron was being given as a ward. Your stepmother and his father wanting to tie you to the hightowers. You and Gwayne eventually falling in love over the time of your marriage, Daeron being your first child in all but blood.

“A few hours, I had a nightmare.” He admits knowing you’ll worry given Helaena’s dreams.

“What type?” You ask quickly sitting up to look at him, wanting to check he’s ok.

“It wasn’t a dragon dream.” He reassures, getting off the sofa and joining you in bed, wanting a cuddle. Knowing his dream won’t come true but still wanting comfort.

“Good.” You say kissing the top of his ginger head, knowing your boy is a cuddle fiend like his uncle.

“Do you want to be the best uncle in the world?” Gwayne asks the boy deciding to try his luck as Rosalind if finally sleeping again. Knowing she’ll only sleep on someone’s arms.

“No.” Daeron say snugging into you on Gwayne’s side of the bed, knowing what his uncle wants. “Night uncle Gwayne.”

-

“They’re like cats.” Gwayne muses as you’re all sat in the gardens having a picnic while the dragons play. Stormfrye mothering Tessarion and Shrykos, teaching the young dragons how to hunt/play.

“What?” You ask looking at your husband in confusion, Daeron to occupied playing with a giggle Rosalind. The girl having just learnt how to walk.

“Dragons, they’re like overgrown cats.” He clarifies, never expecting to have 3 almost 4 dragon in his life/family. Your hand resting on your small bump, watching Shrykos pounce Tessarion.

“I suppose you’re right.”

-

“Do we have to?” Daeron asks having just read the letter his mother has sent asking him to go back to kingslanding for a visit. You and Gwayne beginning invited along as Rhaenyra and daemon were also going to be there, it being the kings nameday. “Can’t we just say home?”

“It’s father’s nameday we need to go.” You say fixing Lillian’s toy bunny, Rosalind having accidentally ripped the arm off while playing with her dragon.

“It was his nameday last year and we didn’t go.” Daeron counters, not even knowing his father, Gwayne being his true father. Just as you are his mother.

“That’s because it wasn’t a big one.” You say raising an eyebrow at the boy, knowing he was just trying his luck.

“This is so unfair.” He pouts, crossing his arms over his chest. Wanting to say home with his sisters.

“Life’s unfair sweetheart.”

-

“Right, it’s bedtime.” Gwayne says the night before you have to leave to go back to the red keep. The girls sleeping after you read them their favorite story. Daeron half asleep on his cuddle chair, it being big enough for two.

“Can you carry me?” The boy asks not wanting to walk and missing when Gwayne would carry him to bed most nights when he was little.

“Daeron you’re 10.” Gwayne say with a smile happy to carry the boy.

“And?” He asks in response smiling when Gwayne lets out a dramatic sigh before picking the boy up. “Thank you.”

-

“You must be proud.” A old woman says to you, you all having stoped at a tavern on the way to your father’s nameday celebration. “Your son is a darling young boy, he’s so polite and very good with his sisters.”

“Oh, thank you.” You say not bothering to correct her, Daeron is your son. You raised him, you were the one who would read him to sleep every night.

“He looks just like his father as well.” She says with a laugh seeing Gwayne playing tag with the children in the gardens. Gwayne spinning Rosalind around making her giggle Daeron doing the same to Lillian.

“He does.”

-

Torch in hand, he could hardly raise his arm to light the pyres, and where a word from him would have been expected, he could not summon his words. Instead the Maester recited a prayer in High Valyrian that he did not hear over the rush of his own blood in his ears. 

“All eyes are on you, my king,” Cregan murmured once silence had returned to the assembly, not as a stern reminder, but as encouragement. 

With a reassuring glance over his shoulder, to the nobles that had gathered, along with the Rivermen and the Northerners, as well as the Dragonkeepers, Jacaerys finally took the step forward. As he lit the pyres one by one, he prayed that wherever she was, his mother forgave him for his perceived sins. 

Despite his reason knowing it was the order of things, there was no escaping the feeling that he had stolen the crown from her. It was unfair, against the very laws of nature, he would argue, that he would be king when she never had the chance to reign.

The assembly watched the pyres go up in flame, the smoke adding to the heavy sky above their heads.

“She would be proud of you,” Baela said in a whisper, meant only for him and Cregan to hear, but he could not accept the praise.

Instead he walked away without a word, dismissing the Kingsguard that offered to open the door to the litter for him. He mounted his horse, choosing the path that would lead him through the city unguarded, but he refused to be scared of his own people. Cregan and Baela followed on their own horses, flanking him as they had done all day, two pillars holding him up. 

Once he would have crossed the gates of the Red Keep, he would have to disappear once more, instead replaced by the crown, the monarch, and there would be no time to mourn. 

“All day long I am plagued by demands and advice that often contradict one another, how am I to know which decision is right?” he lamented as the party made their way back to the city's gate. “They all expect me to guide them, but how might I know that I am not leading this realm into war, once again?”

“Surround yourself with counselors you trust, who look out for the interests of this realm and not their own,” Baela advised, and he regretted that she could not stay, but he understood her reasons for returning to Driftmark. He knew that before long, the matter of the succession to the Driftwood throne would arise.

“I should dismiss Unwin Peake, then,” he spat, then once the vitriol had been spoken, came to a wiser, more useful conclusion. “I shall write to my mother's cousin, Jeyne Arryn. I will need a trusted Hand once you have gone back to the North,” he said, glancing at Cregan.

The young man frowned, but gave a nod of agreement. “I hope you do not see this as disloyalty,” he said.

Jacaerys almost laughed, a mirthless exhale pushing past his lips again. “There hasn’t lived a man as loyal as you, Cregan.”

“I shall stay and serve as your justice until it is done,” his friend promised, and he was grateful for such a strong presence at his side—it also comforted him in his decision that Jeyne would be an apt replacement. She was kind to her kin, in her own way, but stern and unyielding towards other matters, and that was what he needed.

“And I shall answer any call,” Baela reminded him firmly. “I am only across the Bay.”

Jacaerys looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, taking in her kind smile and earnest eyes, the strength he knew she carried in her body and spirit. In another life, perhaps, she would have made a good queen.

For a fortnight you remained a distant spectator to the start of Jacaerys’ reign, and as he had promised, no harm came to you while you waited to know whether your blood would come, or you would be burdened with Aegon’s child. The prospect of carrying a contender for the throne was one you feared, and even though you knew many were still loyal to your bloodline, the truth of the matter was that you remained a woman, and would only gather support in a son’s name.

Were you to bear Aegon’s son, you would be raising him to be at war with his own family, while Jacaerys had offered you a crown and a promise of peace.

The trials saw many men executed or sentenced to the Wall, when Cregan Stark seemingly judged there still remained enough strength and honor in them. In some ways you wondered whether the Northerner was ruling as he pleased, instead of acting on the orders of his king.

In a gesture of good will and mercy, Jacaerys had allowed you to visit your mother for a half hour, and while you were escorted to a small chamber deep inside Maegor’s Holdfast, you felt as though you were being led to the jails. The chamber was plunged into darkness even though it was afternoon, heavy curtains drawn against the sun, and the whole room smelled of prayer incense. The stones were cold under your feet, even through your slippers and the carpet.

When you had first crossed the threshold, Alicent had held you long and tight. She was dressed almost as a Septa, in black clothes that made her look thinner and more frail than she was. Gone was the woman who had welcomed you to the capital nearly three months prior, dressed as was proper for the Queen Dowager, and confident the war was being won.

Since then Aegon had died, poisoned by those he kept close, and so had Rhaenyra, her wounds festering until a fever took her, and a boy now sat the throne. “What is happening out there?” she asked, leading you further into her room. “I am not allowed to know any of it. Are we to stand trial as well?”

“I do not know, mother,” you said. “Many men have been put to the sword, or sent North, but it seems even Jacaerys isn’t certain of our fate.”

Something dark crossed your mother’s face then. “My son should be sitting the throne, not this—” Alicent nearly whimpered, clutching the rosary she carried everywhere these days, the points of the star digging into her palm. 

She cut herself off, but you knew what words lurked beneath the surface. “All things considered, he has been merciful, mother,” you protested weakly, knowing full well you could have suffered terrible consequences for your confession. 

“He might be merciful, but that doesn’t make him true. If there is a rightful king it should be Daemon’s son, the little Aegon,” she accused, the name sounding awful in her mouth.

You said nothing for a while as Alicent sat in an armchair, the weight of their downfall visible on her shoulders and in the lines of her face. You poured the bitter tea your mother preferred into two cups, watching the fragrant steam rise. “On advice of his council, he has offered me his hand in marriage,” you finally said, setting the strainer aside and putting the lid back on the pot.

“Oh, my daughter, you would be queen?” Alicent asked, rising once more and rushing to you. “In those circumstances, it would be well to use this to your advantage. Men are easily swayed by beauty, if you know how to work your charms,” she explained in a hushed tone, taking your hands into hers.

“Do you mean for me to seduce him?” you asked.

Alicent shook her head. “He is young and still malleable. He has just acceded to the throne, and his council and courtiers hold the power now, but you may influence him as well. Be agreeable to him and he will come to trust you, and listen to you, eventually.”

“I understand,” you nodded—it all seemed logical to you, in a sense.

Alicent looked nearly mad in the low light of the candles, her eyes blown wide and her hands trembling where she was clutching you. “And when the time comes, he will bare his back, and we will have our revenge,” she whispered. “You may still light the way for us.”

Alicent’s words ringing in your head, you made your way back to your chambers once the half hour had come to an end, wondering what path would be yours to take, muttering prayers as you climbed the stairs, pleading for a sign of what was right. 

The Gods seemed to hear your desperate pleas, and as you reached the top of the staircase, a sudden ache in your core speared you into place. Gasping, you rushed to your chambers, heart in your throat, and slamming the door behind you, took a handkerchief that you wiped between your thighs. 

The white linen came wet with a bright red smear.

You did not know whether to be relieved or devastated—one way or another,your fate was nearly sealed.

Late at night was the only moment in the day Jace was able to have some solace—or perhaps in the early seconds of the morning before he fully woke, still on the edge of slumber, when the whole world was at peace and he was not king yet, just a young man clinging to his dreams. 

He spent most of his evenings at his desk, answering his private correspondence or writing in his journals, reading the diaries of former Maesters and lords, educating himself on the preceding reigns. He had taken to learn everything he could about his great-grandsire, Jaehaerys—the way he had built a strong, powerful reign, and the way his legacy had collapsed within the next three decades following his passing. 

Jace was eager to learn from the past, and not repeat its mistakes. 

To his relief, his mother’s cousin Jeyne Arryn had acceded to his request, and was now on her way to the capital, leaving her young nephew behind to regent the Vale. She had already proven herself, ruling the Vale for the last decade and a half while bearing the burden of being a woman, and such was the sort of advice he needed.

A sharp knock at the door came to interrupt him—he pressed the seal into the freshly poured wax, waiting until it hardened before peeling it back, and then called the visitor in. Ser Adrian Redfort, a white cloak personally chosen by the Lord Commander to protect Rhaenyra, stepped into the room. 

“My king,” the man greeted. “The princess is requesting an audience.”

Jacaerys discarded his letter and waved for him to let you in, suddenly wary that an unfortunate news was to come. He remained seated as you entered, crossing his trembling hands at his lap, partially hidden by the tabletop. The look on your face was grave, but you did not waste any time before you spoke, putting an end to his torment.

“My blood has come,” you said, almost too quiet to hear, and he had never been so relieved to hear of blood. “I am not with child.”

Seated behind his desk, the young king seemed relieved, though he attempted to hide it, but you could see the way his frown smoothed over, and the corners of his mouth eased slightly. “Very well,” he replied.

“I have thought of your proposal,” you said. “I will marry you for the sake of the realm.” 

“Before you agree, there are terms you should be aware of,” Jacaerys immediately answered, his gaze lowering to the desk in front of him where various letters were scattered over a map of the Reach.

“I am listening,” you said, your own eyes lingering to the coast where Oldtown sat, heart aching at the memory of your youth in the sun, far from the schemings of the capital.

“Lord Lyonel, your cousin’s son and heir, now rules House Hightower,” Jacaerys said, allowing you time to respond.

“I know him well, we were children together,” you replied, crossing your wrists at your belly, trying to gather some composure at the terms you would next be offered—all the while knowing you had no choice in the matter, and those would be orders instead of proposals.

“He is on his way to King’s Landing to treat with me,” Jacaerys explained, rising slowly until you were face to face, the large mahogany tabletop standing between the two of you . “He could treat with us together instead, if you could guarantee to think of the good of the realm instead of pride.”

Closing your eyes for a moment, you dropped your chin to your chest, reminding yourself of your mother’s words. “The realm has too long been at war,” you murmured. 

“Neither of us will ever convince the other of their good right, but together we have a chance to put an end to this,” he said, so earnestly you raised your gaze to him again. You understood then that he truly believed it, and you wanted to laugh in the face of such blatant optimism.

“While the overwhelming advice is that I wed you for the common good, I would not bring an enemy into my bed,” he continued, and the menacing glint in his eyes made you shiver.

“No matter my thoughts on your legitimacy, you now hold the power,” you admitted bitterly.

“As queen, you would have power as well,” Jacaerys assured you, slowly walking the desk until he was standing so close you could see the flickering candles reflecting in his dark eyes. “Convince Lyonel to stand down and bend the knee, and I will grant you my trust. I don’t intend to keep my queen in chains.”

While you had never been an outward romantic, and you had always known you would marry for political gain or alliance, you had never thought you would one day be a pawn to bridge the chasm left by war. It was unfair, in many ways, on both you and Jacaerys, to be sacrificing yourselves for the good of the realm, but you supposed it was the role of both king and queen.

It did not feel right to be called queen when that title belonged to your mother and your departed sister, but Alicent had been right. This was the only way you could take back some authority, yield some political influence and perhaps, restore what had been stolen. You were the way to put Hightower blood back on the throne—Gods willing you would have a son, and then perhaps honor would be restored.

A royal wedding should have been a cause for celebration and rejoicing, instead it was a solemn ceremony held under the eyes of all in the city, nobles and commoners alike, a show of unity and reconciliation. Soon word would spread in the realm and all would know that the two lineages born of Viserys were one, and the conflict was well and truly over, or so Jacaerys seemed to hope.

Tradition was to be upheld, insisted both the Council and the Faith, but Jacaerys asserted that there would be no bedding ceremony of any kind. “I will not have anyone in this room. The Maester may come in once it is done,” he admonished, closing the doors to the king’s quarters in the court’s face once you had been escorted to his chambers. 

“Thank you for that,” you whispered once the two of you were alone. 

“I did it for my sake as well,” he confessed, looking nervous. 

You did not answer and instead walked to the bed, ready to once again lay on your back and allow your husband to claim you as was his right. It would be the second time you would look at the moldings on the ceiling and forget about your own body until a man was done with it.

However, Jacaerys stopped your endeavor. “No,” he called, and you tilted your head in a silent question, confused as to what he expected from you. “I would not share your bed by force. I would not touch you until you wanted me to.”

“It is your right as husband and king,” you reminded him, a mirthless laugh on your lips.

Jacaerys went to his desk where a pitcher and cups sat, and swallowed a mouthful of wine, desperate for composure, loath to be in such a vulnerable position. “I have never been with a woman, and I would not have the first night I am to be a forceful occasion,” he confessed, and you could hardly understand how it was relevant. 

“I am your wife, to do with as you see fit, you cannot force yourself upon me,” you replied, and it made him nauseous.

“We shall disagree on this, then,” he said, setting the wine aside, the sweet taste of grape turning sour in his mouth. “It will not be our last disagreement.”

Fear struck you then, as you remembered your mother’s words vividly. Your position would not be safe until you truly were the wife to the king, the rightful queen. The future of your blood rested in your hands, and no matter how honorable he was, you could not allow him to compromise your position. 

Without a word you came to him and reached for the clasps of his doublet, undoing them swiftly, but he stopped you once more, grabbing both your wrists gently. “Please, your hands are shaking,” he said gently. “Is this what you truly want?”

You hated to admit it, but he had been honest towards you since the beginning, and thus you could not find it in yourself to lie. “No,” you said quietly, your eyes still fixed on the dragon brooch at his shoulder.

“Then you shall not lay a hand on me nor I on you,” he said firmly, letting go of you. 

Your arms fell to your sides, defeated. “The Maester will know and our marriage will be invalid,” you protested. 

“Leave that with me,” he said, gesturing to the armchairs in front of the fire. Uneasy, you still complied and sat where he wished, staring at the flames and wondering what other foolish ideas he had, if you had put yourself in danger by complying, if instead you should be the one to force his hand—he seemed unsure of himself at times, perhaps you could convince him.

You heard the sounds of a belt coming undone, then the ruffle of fabric and a sharp intake of breath. For a moment too long you sat there, listening to the rhythmic ruffles and short breaths, and it took you a minute to realize what was occurring, and when you did, you felt yourself flush in embarrassment.

Time stretched and his panting grew more frantic, until Jacaerys cursed under his breath. “Should I help?” you asked, biting your lip.

“No,” came the sharp answer. Finally, after a minute more, another sharp intake of breath pierced the air, a bitten groan that reminded you too well of your first wedding night. 

You heard him undress, then wash his hands in the basin. “It is done,” he said. When you rose again, his doublet was discarded and his shirt as well. He had put on a robe over his bare chest—he looked flushed, his high cheekbones tainted with red. His hair looked as though he had raked his fingers through his curls, giving them an unruly look.

Jacaerys felt your eyes on him as he picked up a small knife from his desk, a seal opener, and cut the inside of his arm near the crease of his elbow. It would be easily hidden by a sleeve, and none would be the wiser. He smeared some of the blood on his palm, then wiped it on the mattress where the evidence of his solitary act laid. 

“What is it?” you asked when he went back to staring at you. 

“Your hair,” he answered, almost embarrassed. “It is too… tidy.”

“Oh,” you breathed, then reached for the braid and undid it, raking a hand through your mane. You were obviously embarrassed as well, and he thought it served him well.

As Jacaerys opened the doors to his chambers once more, and both the Septon and the Maester came into the room, you were reminded of the night of your first marriage. For the second time your humiliation was to be witnessed, your virtue publicly claimed by a man you did not love ; tears came to your eyes and you wished that Jacaerys would send you away soon, to pray for guidance and plan your revenge.

Now you had been queen twice, and yet you felt as powerless as you ever had without the crown.

Author's Note ✢ Dividers by @zaldritzosrose. Thank you so much for the amazing feedback on the first chapter, it went straight to my heart. Chapter three will be posted next Saturday, July 18th.

Series taglist ✢ @chaotichereticcavern @galactict3a @qtmoonies @multyfangirl @obsidian-gold1239

@thegirlwithoutaname87 @harryssattelitestomper @rtyuy1346 @kplatzman @neenieweenie

@cinnamoonfairy @g0oshtt @orchidsinthesun @darling-darling3 @pookynknowntranger

@cloudyzip @softlittlevigil @at-a-rax-ia @noneedtosearch @darkrion

@tappyj @tojisprincess @strangersunghoon @devil-on-acid @minaridior

  His boots’ noises grow louder as he walks into the royal wing of the Keep, finally finding some solace in the silent halls. He can even hear his own breathing while he counts his steps.

  One. Two. Three. Four.

  He hears the click of a heel ruining his counting; his head whips to the sound, trying to find the person responsible for bothering his peace, but he is met only by the soft ‘whoosh’ that is barely heard in the hallway.

  He shakes his head again, thinking nothing of it before he resumes the path he was taking. Sighing, he looks around the place; the candelights are brightening the hallways enough but not too much, moonlight seeps through the cracks, and suddenly he aches for a breath of fresh air.

  He strides toward the balcony — his unnamed balcony — counting his steps again. Five, six, seven, eight. And he stops for a second when he sees the bottom of a skirt sliding against the floor before it disappears in the direction of his destination.

  Curious and cautious, Baelor walks more slowly this time, trying not to make any other sounds that could frighten the person — a woman, he assumes — and lose the chance to talk to someone who is also seeking a quieter spot.

  Nine, ten.

  He freezes. 

  Wow. 

  Beautiful is the first word that comes to his mind as his widened eyes take in the way this woman is staring up into the stars with a content look on her face. No smiles, no, but he can sense the peace and ease in her eyebrows.

  He can’t even see her full face, yet he can read her like an open book.

  He is staring, he realizes, he is staring shamefully at a woman who is so unbelievably pretty in a way that steals the air from his lungs. He watches with a heaving chest as the silver moonlight spills over her hair like a shading in one of the paintings hanging in the painting room of the castle. She is perfect.

  There is a sadness to her, he assumes, a pain that lingers in the twitch of her mouth when she notices a shooting star in the pitch-black night. It isn’t even a true smile, but it is more than he could ever ask for.

  “My lady?”

  She gasps softly, turning around with her lips parted and her hand clutching her necklace in surprise. She seems frightened, her chest heaving with each exhale as she stares at him like a deer caught by the hunter with an arrow ready to be shot.

  She seems frightened, Baelor thinks, so he takes a step back and bows his head, his hands clasped behind him. He has a soft expression, a small smile on his lips as he tries to lighten the moment, even for a small moment.

  “I apologize, I did not mean to startle you–”

  “Pardon me, your grace,” she falls into a deep courtesy, her fingers threaded in front of her dress — a black long-sleeved gown adorned by black lace at the neckline, and a very beautiful corset that tantalizingly hugs her bosom — but he is not looking. He is not looking.

  “No need,” he shakes his head softly, his fingers itching to grab her arm and help her straighten her back, “Rise, please. We are not at court; it is not needed for you to be this polite.”

  “You are a Targaryen prince, your grace. Court or not, I shall always respect you,” she replies softly, standing back to her height again, looking at him with a nervous yet curious gaze, “I am deeply sorry for wandering in the castle. I was becoming restless at the feast.”

  “As I said, no need for apologies,” he walks on the balcony, three steps until he is standing side by side with her, “That we have in common. The celebrations can get too intense at times. That is why I am also wandering about. This part of the castle grows quiet at night.”

  “Yes, it seems it does,” she agrees, her eyebrows moving down a little at a thought, “But are you not required to be in the Tower of the Hand?”

  “Ah, yes, true, I spend most of my nights there,” he nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his posture straightening for reasons unknown as he looks at you with tender eyes, “Though I still own my previous chambers in this part of the castle.”

  “The sky must be beautiful from the tower,” she sighs a little dreamily, looking between him and the stars until her stare locks with a flickering star in the pitch-black night, the reflection of it shining on her irises. “Does it not get lonely there?”

  So she is not frightened, he thinks and sighs in relief, letting out a relaxed chuckle as he takes another step closer to look at the gardens from atop the railings.

  “It is hard to sense loneliness when you have many parchments to fill with words.” He looks up at the sky, keeping one hand behind his back whilst the other moves to the railings in front of him, “Being the Hand of the King has its advantages, though you have to pay the price of the power with sleepless nights.”

  “It must be rewarding,” she sighs quietly, glancing at him before looking down at her shoes, “To have everything you could ask for, without even asking; security, respect, peace.”

  “The Targaryen name alone ensures you are never truly safe, My lady. Prince or not, even a bastard with silver hair will never see peace.” He explains, “Many lords wish me death. They might bow, they might smile, they might bring me gifts as a gesture of gratitude, but they stand with a dagger at my back. It does not matter how deep their courtesy is; they will always believe a Targaryen born means madness and unruly chaos for the realm.”

  “But you are not chaos, are you, My prince?” Her tone is as soft as a feather, a ghost of a smile on her features as she watches him, “From what I have heard, you are the calmness that holds the pieces of the Keep together.”

  “I am not as you see me,” he takes a step closer, and he notices the way her breath hitches in her throat, “I am a man before anything else, I have urges and needs. I am ambitious, even though I am told to be the most levelheaded brother,” he gazes down at her, the way her eyelashes crul in the end, “And you, My lady? Who are you?”

  “That… is a mystery for another day,” she bends her knees in a quick courtesy, grabbing the skirt of her gown in her hands before she walks past him, “Have a nice night, your grace.”

  “Goodnight, my lady,” he smiles and watches her leave, his heart beating like a bird, hard and fast and breathtaking. Who is she? 

  With a sigh, he looks back up at the sky, looking for the star she was gazing at earlier, wishing it were his reflection in her eyes instead.

Day two

  “Lady Tyrell?”

  You groan at the sound, already done with the day before it had even begun. Rolling to your back on the bed, you sigh loudly, looking at the ceiling and blinking rapidly to wipe the exhaustion off your face.

  “May we come in–”

“Mama?”

  “Ah, I was wondering where she was,” you whisper and sit up against the headboard with a yawn, the tiredness of yesterday’s feast already drying out your bones. You fear what the rest of the celebrations will do to you. 

  It is not only the feast to be blamed for your exhaustion; your late-night rendezvous is also one of the reasons you are the way you are. You did not mean to slip away, truly, you needed a second to breathe, and got lost in the castle. It was your luck that led you to that balcony, as if the stars were calling your name, as if the pull between you and the Heir had brought you together.

  He was strikingly handsome; tall, yet he used his height to bring safety and not to corner you, mismatched eyes that glimmered under the moonlight — one a very unique shade of blue that was nearly violet, and one a chocolate brown color that reminded you of his Dornish heritage. The beard on his jaw and cheeks made him soft yet authoritative.

  You have never met a man who has made your heart beat this fast. Not even your late lord husband.

  You pull your hair over one shoulder, the soft sleeves of your night shift bringing your attention back to the world surrounding you. With a quiet and resigned exhale, you speak up.

  “Come in.”

  The world is pushed open gently, your chambermaid walking in hand in hand with your daughter, peeking inside the room before she guides the little girl to you.

  “Mama! They have sea!” Little Margery exclaims with a delighted smile, rushing out of the maid’s grasp before running for the bed and crawling on the mattress with a little struggle, huffing and puffing until she is situated under the blankets with her head on your chest, blinking her doe eyes up at you, “It is so blue!”

  “It is the Blackwater Bay, sweet girl,” you kiss her forehead, wrapping your arms around her body tightly as you acknowledge your chambermaid, “Good morrow, Celeste. I apologize, she must have dragged you out of the room at dawn.”

  “It is no problem, Milady! She is the sweetest. I am glad to be of service.” She smiles at the two of you, waiting for a heartbeat before she speaks up again, “What would you like to wear today, Milady? There is to be a hunt for the White Stag in the King’s woods in honor of Lady Kiera.”

  “A hunt–”

  “With a blade?” Margery looks up at you curiously, yet you can see the sadness creeping into her eyes, “Will they hurt the animal?”

  “No, sweetness, the Stag will feel no pain,” you smooth her auburn curly hair out of her face with a gentle caress, tucking a few strands behind her ear, “And you would find great friends there! There must be a tent for the kids, am I correct, Celeste?”

  “Yes, Milady! Little lords and ladies do have their own tent for the hunt! A safe and happy place for Lady Margery, I am sure.”

  “See? All will be well, and we shall have an excellent meal with the rest of the court,” you peck her small nose, pushing the covers off both of you to slowly wiggle out of the bed with her clinging to your chest, small arms wrapped tightly around your neck, “And if anything happens, send word for me, and I will come to you.”

  “Will you really?” She asks, her legs tightening around your waist as you walk with her through your room until Celeste helps you wash your face in the basin in the corner while you hold her up with one arm, drying your face as you walk to your mirror and sit in front of it with Margery on your lap.

  “Of course! Tell Celeste, and I will run to you without a second thought,” you watch as your maid stands behind you, untangling your hair out of your breath, reaching for the brush to gently comb through your strands, bringing oil out to shape the curls with her fingers. You return to your daughter, tipping her chin up, “What do you wish to do with your hair, sweet girl?”

  She thinks for a heartbeat, Aubrun's eyebrows frowning in concentration, before she gasps, “Pearls! I want it the way Grandma used to do it!”

  “I’m sure Celeste can think of something appropriate for today,” you kiss her head, chuckling when she reaches for the box of your hairpieces, waiting patiently for her turn while she observes every pin between her small fingers.

  Your morning goes by in a blink of an eye as you break your fast with Margery and help her get dressed for the day without her causing any trouble. The silence of the room was calming at some point when the little girl fell asleep in your arms as Celeste braided your hair in the fashion of King’s Landing.

  You manage to finally walk out of your chambers, hand in hand with your daughter, as she gawks at the tapestries and the King’s Guards’ shiny helmets. She is a joyful soul, wanting to explore the world around her, talking about everything and nothing until she has tired herself out, having the mischievous glint her Lady grandmother has, the same one her father had.

  Your gown is simple: a black gown with long sleeves and a neckline that even covers your collarbone. There had been designs sewn in green under your bosom and corset, fading into the black as it reached the end of your skirt. Elegant and fitted for a freshly turned widow. Respectful enough to keep the court silent.

  Your beautiful daughter, on the contrary, decided to go with the brightest orange ever seen among the seamstresses, with a long, flowy skirt that bounces with every step she takes. 

  She is so happy, with how she is swinging your hand and jogging next to you as you make your way towards the yard to get inside your carriage and start your short journey to the King’s Woods. 

  “Are you hungry, sweetness? We could ask Celeste to bring you some for the road,” you ask her, bending your knees a little to make sure she looks you in the eyes, “Because if we leave, we would not be able to eat anything till we reach the tents.”

  “I do not think I’m hungry, Mama… but maybe I am?” She is confused due to the fact that every time she is famished, her stomach growls. But now, it does not make any sounds that could potentially alert her, “Maybe an apple for the road?”

  “That sounds amazing,” you smile at her and wait for both your chambermaid and carriage to arrive, watching your daughter rock back and forth on the balls of her feet impatiently, glancing around the yard and the castle with a bit of remorse.

  “Our home is prettier,” she whispers, “But I love it here too! Maybe you would marry a prince, and we would stay!”

  “Shh,” your eyes widen, heart pounding in your chest as an image of a certain prince passes by your vieoon for a second before you crouch down next to her and make sure she is looking you in the eye, “We were invited because of your uncle, we came as Tyrells, besides, sweetness, no prince will like me nor it is appropriate to speculate about such things.”

  “Why not?” She pouts when you pinch her cheek, crossing her small arms over her chest, “I would like to stay here! I love the castle! Please–”

  “I, too, love this place, but it is for the royal family and the people of the court; we are not a part of either of them, my love.” You pull on her fingers until she is holding your hand again, watching as your carriage approaches you, the horse stomping its feet on the ground as it stops in front of you, “Let us go and enjoy the hunt!”

  ****

  To say the lady he met the other night has not been consuming every one of his thoughts would be a lie. And he, Baelor Targaryen, does not lie. He might not say the truth out loud, but he does not twist it and utter words that are a lie.

  He has been thinking, and thinking, and thinking about her. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees her face, the slope of her nose, the curve of her lips, the way her skin glistens under the moonlight, the reflection of the black sky in her orbs. She is all he can see, all he can hear; she has become the only thing Baelor can focus on.

  He focuses on the way wind rustles the leaves of the King’s Woods. The noises of the knights and lords who are drinking and laughing while the maids and servants put up the tents and prepare the fire for the night. And yet, no sign of the mysterious beauty he saw last night.

  Baelor Targaryen is a humble man, confident and kind, ruthless when he ought to be. But his heart has not yet slowed down from his encounter with her, and it truly makes him dizzy, so he decides to help without a care about what his lords might think about him.

  He approaches the young man who is trying his best by carrying a huge wooden box, undoubtedly holding the possessions of his good daughter, Kiera. He truly wishes to help, really hopes he can pick up a thing or two to busy his unsettled mind and ease the pain of a few of his people, but it seems as soon as he starts walking towards the boy, he is causing a lot of problems.

  “My prince!” The boy gasps, dropping the entirety of the wooden box on the mud as he bends down on the low bow, his hands shaking as he waits for Baelor to respond.

  With a long defeated sigh, Baelor smiles and asks the boy to rise, knowing he has caused more trouble than helping anyone, totally the opposite of what he had in mind. 

  “I apologize, it seems I have done nothing but cause unease today,” He smiles down at the boy, reaching to pat his head before he steps back a little, “Make sure you tell the others to clean this up. Lady Kiera won’t be pleased to see dirt on her belongings.”

  “Yes, my prince! At once!” 

  He watches the boy bend down quickly, picking up the box with a groan, before he bows his head at Baelor and dashes toward where Lady Kiera’s tent is awaiting her arrival.

  “Well done,” he shakes his head at his mistreatment of the boy, sighing and puffing out air as he strides across the field, watching everyone closely as some of them hammer the nails into the ground while the others fill the glasses with rich Dornish wine. 

  He stumbles across a large table, covered with different plates: goose, meat, lemon cakes, tarts, and even duck with lots of different little side dishes that will most likely be ravaged by the lords. 

  As soon as he reaches for a tapestry that has caught his eye, a hand comes down for the same dessert he is reaching for. He chuckles before looking up at the person, his laughter dying in his throat as he finds her in front of him.

  She looks equally shocked, her eyes wide and lips parted in surprise as she takes in his features, her gaze landing on his mismatched eyes before she remembers who he is and drops into a courtesy.

  He is quick to reach for her elbow, not letting her bend her knees for him, shaking his head softly and smiling at her gently, “No need, my lady.”

  “Your grace,” he grins at her, his fingers twitching over her covered skin, the heat radiating from her body making him dizzy. You nod and stand next to him with ease after you slowly pull your arm away, looking down at your shoes in embarrassment when he clears his throat and withdraws his touch, straightening his back with his hand behind him. “Good morrow.”

  “Good morrow, my lady. I hope you had a good night,” he says quietly, his eyes memorizing every detail as he watches her closely, “I didn’t get your name before.”

  “And I said that mystery is the only way to survive the court,” she shrugs, a ghost of a smile making its way to her lips, and he feels as his own cheeks pull in a smile as well, “How else am I supposed to keep running into His Grace if he knows who I am?”

  “You would not need to run into me,” he confesses quietly, the words hanging between the two of them, “I would seek you out myself.”

  He hears the small breath falling from her mouth, her hands stopping the fidgeting before she licks her lips and regains her composure. She looks down at the pastries, “Now you have to seek me out more, because you do not know me.”

  “How so?” He steps a tiny bit closer, reaching for the dessert he was looking for before, gazing back at her softly, “You wish for me to run after you?”

  “Maybe,” she breathes out, blinking at him from beneath her eyelashes, “but you would be too busy with the realm’s demands to notice me. And that would be upsetting.”

  “For whom?” He asks, holding up the pastry for her to take, watching as she gently replaces his fingers with hers, their skin brushing against each other, and Baelor has to flex his other hand as the shockwaves rock through his body, “You, my lady?”

  “Hmm,” she brings the dessert up, taking a gentle bite from it, licking her lips as the powdered sugar sticks to her lips, his eyes are immediately drawn to them, and he is sure she is noticing the way his kind eyes are growing darker, “Perhaps. But a prince would never bother with a widowed lady.”

  “You are too beautiful to be a widow, my lady.” his fingers are twitching behind his back as he tries to hold himself from reaching to swipe his thumb over her lips, “Young and beautiful, it is a shame you are wearing black.”

  “It is expected of me, your grace,” she shrugs slightly, finishing the pastry with a soft expression before she reaches for another one, this time, handing it to him, “You did not get to taste the sweetness of this one, my prince.”

  “Is it good?”

  “It was baked by the castle’s best maids, I can only assume this has to be the most delicious pastry one could ever taste,” she says, and for the first time, she smiles at him even with the ever present sadness in her eyes, and his heart leaps into his throat, “I can only imagine his grace, the king, hires the most talented for his kitchens.”

  “Yes, he is very fond of his desserts,” he chuckles, dragging his ringed fingers from her waist up to her knuckles until the pastry is in his palm, the corner of his eyes crinkling with ease, bringing it to his mouth and taking a big bite from it. “Mhmm…”

  “How is it?” She asks with a soft tone, her eyes twinkling, “It seems your Grace hasn’t had one in so long.”

  “I stick to my Dornish wine and salty cheese,” he replies, licking the tip of his fingers with his gaze locked on your face, “Desserts are always present because of our Lord Father, but I am too busy to stay for it. The realm never waits.”

  “Ah, that explains your reaction then, Prince Baelor,” he smiles at the way his name sounds on her tongue, “Hopefully you will not be too busy for the hunt.”

  “I sure hope not–”

  “Lady Tyrell!”

  She turns around toward the sound, watching as — assuring — her maid running to where they are standing, panting with a pitiful yet terrified look on her face.

  “What is it?” His companion asks, taking a step closer to the maid, her brows weaving into a frown, her fingers clasped in front of her, “What’s happened?”

  “Margery, she fell–”

  “Excuse me, my prince,” she — you, he knows who his mysterious woman is now — does a quick bow before turning toward the maid, “Lead the way.”

  He sends you away with a quick nod, his own eyes wide and curious as you grab your skirts in your hands and walk with haste, letting your maid lead you to Margery, whoever she might be.

  ****

  “We seem to run into each other every hour and then,” you reach him, Baelor Targaryen, near the huge bonfire, throwing the end of your shawl on your shoulder as you approach him slowly, a goblet of wine in your hand.

  He turns around at the sound of your voice, his eyes softening at your familiar face while he raises his chin to look at you. “It seems so, my lady. I see you are out again under the sky.”

  “What can I say, I love the stars,” she replies, standing shoulder to shoulder with him as they both look at the edge of the flames soaring into the midnight sky, “It is too beautiful to miss, especially when the city is far away. There is no unnecessary noise, only calmness and peace.”

  “It is a hunt, my lady,” he says, taking a sip of his drink while his gaze turns from the fire to your face, taking in the way the flames shine in your eyes and lighten up your skin, “This must be the only peaceful thing about it.”

  “Will you be the one to push the lance into the white stag’s heart?” You blink at the fire, sighing when he does not respond immediately, “I am of a softer nature. I despise violence, but I know it is the way the world goes day by day.”

  “What would you wish me to do then, Lady Tyrell?” His voice is soft, his eyes even softer as he looks at you fully, watching you closely as you frown a little, even biting your cheek, and he is delighted to notice those small movements.

  “Nothing, your grace, I…” you shake your head, a small chuckle leaving your mouth before you find the courage to look him in his very breathtaking eyes, “I spoke things that were irrelevant to our conversation–”

  “No, please, I have only learned of your identity for a few hours, my lady. I do wish to know more about you,” he watches you swallow your wine, not breaking eye contact as you bring the goblet to your lips, “Tell me about your life.”

  “I am from the Reach,” you start, tightening your shawl around your shoulders as a cold breeze hits your body, “A Hightower, to be exact. I grew up with four brothers. I was taught how to use a crossbow, how to wield a sword, and to mount a stallion. That is why I detest violence.”

  “What is it that you like to do?” He points to the chairs scattered around the bonfire near his tents, where he was sitting an hour ago with Valarr and Kiera, “Please, take a seat. I would hate myself for a lifetime if I were the reason your feet ache the next morrow.”

  “Thank you, my prince,” with a smile, you walk to the chairs, choosing one that is placed the closest to his, the corner of your lips pulling up in a bashful smile, but you are quick to shake it away, “Well…” he rests his chin on the palm of his hand, “I like to… bake. It is unbecoming of a lady, I know, we are not supposed to get our fingers dirty, but after my husband’s sudden passing… it has been of great help.”

  “What do you bake, my lady?” He asks, his gaze unwavering as he keeps his irises locked on your face.

  He is so handsome, you think. His short hair makes his eyes stand out more; his beard, long and soft-looking, you wish to run your fingers through it, caress his defined jaw, and watch him lose his focus. 

  Unfortunately, it is you who is losing her focus at this point.

  With a not-so-subtle shake of your head, you look down at your goblet, the warmth of the fire kissing your cheeks, heating your body, adding to the tension hanging between the two of you.

  You met him last night for the Seven’s sake. You must not enjoy how one looks in your direction, which is enough to send your heart racing.

  “Berry tarts,” you sigh, smiling a little, “My daughter helps too. She eats more than she helps, but it is good to have us… occupied so we do not wallow in grief.”

  “You have a daughter…” Baelor hums in amusement before he raises his eyebrows in surprise, “Margery?”

  “Yes, I am impressed,” you look at him just as shocked, his cheeks pulling into a wide smile, and you have to hide your flustered amile behind your drink, sipping gently before continuing, “Did you seek out information about us?”

  “No,” he chuckles, moving away a little to lean on the back of his chair, looking up at the sky for a heartbeat before his gaze finds you again, “I put the pieces together.” 

  “Hmm, you seem to like a good riddle, my prince.” You mimic his pose and look at the side of his face, noticing the sharp ridge of his nose, “And scenery.”

  “True,” he meets your gaze, smiling at you softly, and you notice the beautiful shade of red on his cheeks; you do not know whether it is from the flames or the wine, “You seem to like a black night sky as well.”

  “We used to have a telescope to watch the stars from the highest tower of the castle,” you explain in a hushed tone, “My brothers did not enjoy it as much as I did, especially when I would drag the Maester up there to help me look at the stars. It was a beautiful time, sometimes I miss being a child; away from grief and motherhood.”

  “That is a beautiful memory,” he replies, blinking at you with a curious yet empathetic look, “Did you love your lord husband?”

  “Ah,” you laugh in a gentle manner, looking at the stick closest to you as it burns at the other end, the fire coating the length of it slowly, “I did not at first, though. We weren’t a love match, but we grew closer; he was the second son, and I was the eldest child and the only daughter. Shared troubles were the reason we grew to love each other. And then came Margery in our second year of marriage. Seven years is a long time,” you suck in a sharp breath as you finish before looking at Baelor, “What about you? I’ve heard quite the tales about you and your lady wife.”

  “The tales are pretty dramatic compared to what we had,” he starts, finishing his wine, putting the goblet down on the ground before he combs his fingers and closes his eyes, a small smile growing on his face, “Just as you, our marriage was not as pleasant as a lady would like. Heir to the throne, Hand of the king from a young age… it was a lot of responsibility for us. But we got closer as the time passed, Valarr was born, and we were happier than ever. It did not take us long to fall in love.”

  “It is a lovely thing, to love another,” you whisper, smiling when his misty eyes meet your own, “To create a human and give them life. I wish Margery had more time with her father. The Seven took him from us too soon.”

  “You will find love again,” he mutters, and you notice how he fiddles with his rings, maybe to ground himself, maybe to stop himself from touching you. “You are a young and beautiful lady.”

  “Maybe,” you nod, squeezing your own fist before you bite your lip, “Maybe.”

Day Three

  “I like eating,” Margery says as she sits at the Tyrell table with you, swinging her legs and eating the meat they have brought from the hunt for lunch, “I like eating with you, Mama!”

  “I can tell, sweetness,” you kiss the top of her head, burying your nose in her beautiful curls as you smell the petals Celeste had dropped last night in her bath, “I like eating with you too.”

  “Can we have cake later?” She asks, looking around the tent to find the cake she saw earlier, huffing when she sees it on the high table where the royal family is sitting, “So far away!”

  “I do not know, maybe. We have to wait and see what plans the court has for us,” you reply, pushing her hair out of her face when she groans and pouts, busying herself with her food. You laugh softly, kissing the crown of her head again, “If you are good and eat all your meal, they might give us a huge piece!”

  “Truly?” Her big eyes shine with happiness as she looks at you, “A big piece with looots of cream?”

  “Yes,” you nod, then point at her plate, “Eat, and I shall think of a way to get you a piece, sweetness.”

  “Thank you, Mama!”

  You are about to respond when you see Prince Valarr stand up as soon as Lady Kiera walks into the tent, kissing her hand when she reaches him and easing her into her seat. That is when you notice Baelor.

  He is looking at you in a way that could set fire to your skin; unshakable, soft, with undivided attention as if he is memorizing you, carving the shape of your face in his mind until you are all he sees in his waking moments and dreams.

  A smile threatens to pull on your face, but you are quick to notice your good sister looking at you with a curious expression on her face. And you have to try to keep a mask on as long as you need to so she does not notice anything out of the ordinary.

  It is not that something has happened, nothing is going on, but the idea of anyone finding out you have drunk with the Heir, you have stargazed together, makes your heart beat against your ribs like a rabbit being chased.

  You do not wish for anyone to find out.

  You glance at your good sister, making sure she is happy and distracted with Margery before your eyes find Baelor’s mismatched ones; truly a wonder, a dark-haired Targaryen set to rule over the kingdom with orbs lovelier than the sea itself.

  Watching with bated breath as he stands up, he raises his cup to his son and future good daughter, “It is an honor to be the host of a lovely event held for my son and Lady Kiera. I have watched you grow into a handsome capable young man, and now, you have found compassion in a loving lady who will help you become the best man and knight you can be.” He smiles, looking around the room before his eyes catch your gaze for a brief moment, “You will become a strong and fair king one day.”

  “Thank you, father,” Valarr says, smiling broadly, “May we see you happy once more.”

  “Let us thank our guests as well for joining us in this week’s beautiful celebration!” Baelor sits down after that, and your eyes are magically pulled towards him, and you notice him whisper I hope so too in response to Baelor’s words.

  ****

  He does not realize how the time passes; from riding his horse back into the castle walls to the beginning of the feast at sunset. He is already changed into a black and red doublet, sitting at the high table with the King present next to him, sipping on his wine.

  People are dancing, and the King’s guard is standing nearby as they search the hall for any threat. There sit the big houses of the realm; Starks, Hightowers, Martells, Arryns, and Tyrells have all attended, and are placed closest to the high table.

  That gives him a good look at you and your little girl, whom you are caring for. He is reminded of Jena; she took care of Valarr and Matarys fussings, fed them herself as long as she had to. She would pat their heads and kiss them goodnight. He never had the chance to have his own little girl, a princess to spoil because his wife was taken too soon from him. Just as your husband was taken so hurriedly by the Seven.

  He watches the way yet another black gown is laced across your back, too beautiful yet soulless for a woman like you. He wishes to see you in your house’s colors; Tyrell and Hightower. But more than anything, he wants to see you in the bloodiest and finest silk in the entire Westeros. In his colors. In the Targaryen colors.

  Baelo Targaryen is a man of class, a man of patience, which is why his father has bestowed the position of his Hand on him. But even the mightiest men must have one weakness, and shockingly, his newest one is you. 

  He watches you talk with an enthusiasm that could become the sole source of his heart pumping blood. He can not help but smile broadly as he sees Margery jump out of her seat and twirl at the music, showing off her green gown to everyone.

  But then, he sees it. He sees the lord approaching your table. At first, he thinks nothing of it, the lord could have many reasons to come to the Tyrells, he could have a business plan, a trade deal, something, anything. 

  Apparently, it is none of them as he stops right next to your chair, extending his hand and smiling at you sweetly. Sickeningly sweet. Baelor has to stop himself from rolling his eyes, but he can not stop the grimace on his face when you laugh and look down at your plate.

  “Are you well, son?” The king asks, his old body resting against his chair as he looks at Baelor with curious eyes, “You have been silent for far too long.”

  “Of course, why would I not be?” He tries to mask his emotions, but his emotions are too strong to handle, and his frown deepens even more when he sees you stand up with your hand in the Lord’s palm, your skirt sweeping behind you as the guy leads you to the dance floor.

  “Maybe you would like to dance…?” He has to stop the urge to grunt at his father, but he is not entirely wrong. He is not very good at dancing, the last time was with Jena at Matarys’ name day, the exact day he was born, in their chambers as she clung to him in pain, but she was happy and safe in his arms. 

  He thinks about the last time you danced. Was it at Margery’s name day perhaps? Or at your wedding? Could it be at a feast in the castles of Highgarden, or maybe in the garden of roses surrounding your home? Did you enjoy it? Are you enjoying it now?

  The lord is respectful, keeping his hands where Baelor can see; one on your back and the other holding yours as he slowly moves you across the floor among the other couples. 

  His body moves before he has the chance to rethink his decisions. The song is near its ending, his footsteps follow the rhythm of the music as he walks around the high table, passing the Tyrells and glancing at Margery watching you with a beautiful smile. 

  He nears the end of the dance floor where you and the lord stop, bowing as the song ends. You smile at the lord before you notice a familiar shape of dragon embroidery and turn your face to where Baelor is standing.

  “My prince,” you drop in a courtsey, ignoring as the guy bows deeply before he is dismissed with a single nod from Baelor. That was easy, he thinks, much easier than expected as he offers you his hand.

  “Please, Lady Tyrell,” he whispers, his fingers closing around yours when you place your hand gently in his palm, allowing him to pull you closer, “May I have your next dance?”

  “You may,” you reply, placing your hand on his shoulder, looking at him with wide eyes, your fingers trembling in his hold, but he is steady and will be more steady for you. “I did not take you for a dancer, your Grace.”

  “Nor did I take you as one,” he loses his head until his lips are closer to your ear, “Though you are a beautiful dancer, a delicate one too. I had to sit and watch you brighten the entire room.”

  “You flatter me, my prince,” you breathe out, your chest heaving, your skirt brushing his boots as he twirls you once, pulling you even closer than before yet still making sure it is an appropriate distance. 

  He looks at you, wide-eyed and smiling, the glee in your eyes making this experience more joyful than it already was for you. 

  As soon as the song ends, everyone stops, and for the first time, he lets his most suppressed feeling become known in his eyes; you notice his pupils are blown that the blue and violet hue of his iris is invisible, his lips are a few shades darker, and his cheeks are tinted with red.

  You are the same with how you inhale harshly, your hands getting clammy and a longing look in your eyes. He wishes to devour you if he could right here, but the king is present, the court will whisper and worse, your reputation will be tainted because he could not resist his urges.

  “Meet me at our terrace?”

  “Yes.”

  ****

  You remember the first time you walked through these hallways, needing an escape from the feast, away from the noises of the boots stomping on the ground. The dark pathway led you to the balcony, where you met the Heir to the Iron Throne. 

  That fateful night had changed something in you both; something that started to pull you to each other whenever you were next to each other. As if you were tied together with invisible strings.

  You jog through the hallways as if you were born here, turning right by a memory and grabbing your skirt in your hands as you near the end of the pathway.

  There he is, standing with his back to you. His posture is straight, hands locked against his waist as he looks up at the sky. For a brief second, you wait and watch him; his shoulders are a little tight, his fingers fiddling together, the red of his doublet as red as human blood.

  He turns around, and you move without thinking as soon as his eyes meet yours. It takes three strides to meet him, cupping his cheeks before crashing your lips into his.

  Sparks fly across your skin, his lips are soft and warm, and the realization makes you nearly melt. He is everything you have been missing, something good, something alive. 

  His hands are unbelievably warm when he places one on your waist and the other on the back of your head, his lips moving against yours in a heated rhythm, stealing the breath out of your lungs feverishly.

  You grab the short hair strands on the nape of his neck, whether to tug on them or pull him closer you do not know, but you know that you do not wish for him to ever be parted from you, today or any other day to come.

  You gasp when one of his hands slips downward, grabbing your buttocks and squeezing harshly, making you gasp into his mouth, clutching him harder. His beard rubs across your skin – so unbelievably soft – as you scratch his jaw and kiss him with an open mouth.

  He pushes his tongue past your lips, pressing you to the stone wall as he pushes his knee between your legs when he feels you begin to go soft in his arms, holding you up and straight as he tastes the wine on your tongue.

  “You are so fucking beautiful,” he groans against your lips before he trails his kisses down your neck, making sure to pull down your neckline to attach his mouth to the soft flesh above your bosoms, his beard burning your skin as he kisses and nibbles across your skin.

  “My prince–”

  “Baelor,” he sinks his teeth into your collarbone a little as a warning, “It is Baelor to you, my dear.”

  “Baelor,” you whine, beginning to rock a little against his thigh, the amount of layers of your gown and his pants does not allow you to take your pleasure, “I need more.”

  “Tomorrow night,” he whispers, he kisses you again, “After the ceremony, come to my chambers. The tower of the Hand,” he licks your bottom lip and it makes you moan, “Shh, I will have you tomorrow night just the way you deserve.”

  “After the ceremony?” You rest your forehead on his, gazing into his eyes with a small smile on your swollen lips.

  “Yes,” he kisses you one last time before he steps away from you, and you notice the pained look he sends your way as soon as he loses your touch, “I will tell the guards to let you in without hesitation.”

  “I will see you then, Baelor.”

  He laughs softly at the way his name sounds this breathless and in awe, “Yes, tomorrow night.”

Day four

  His day started with the image of you, the memory of last night and the taste of your lips against his tongue, and a smile as big as his face as he got dressed. 

  Last night was magical, it had been so long since he had felt such a strong emotion swirling inside him. The last time was with his late wife, and he remembers that night the best; it was a few months after Matarys’s second name day, he was exhausted but she was very much lively and in need and they spent the rest of the night curled up together under their sheets.

  Baelor thinks of the two memories, side by side. He feels guilty for being alive after his late wife, he feels as if he is betraying her trust and love, but you… He has not felt so warm in such a long time, and you are making him feel like a person once more.

  He walks through the hallways of the Keep, passing ladies and lords as they greet him briefly, trying to keep his grin to himself but he is barely managing to hold his posture as a prince should.

  Until something, or someone small collides with his legs.

  “Save me!” Oh. Margery. She is pulling on his sleeves as she giggles and looks behind her before she tugs on him again, “She is coming after me!”

  “Who is?” He crouches in front of her, a small smile on his face as he notices the disheveled look on her; dark red curls in different directions, her white night shift large enough to cover her entire small body.

  “Mama!” She gasps when she hears the knocking of the boots against the hard floor, looking at him with wide eyes before she throws herself into his arms. “Save me from the beast!”

  He catches her effortlessly, already used to his boys tackling him down. She is far too gentler than he is used to, and he loves how she clings to him, arms wrapped around his neck.

  “Your mother is no beast,” he corrects her gently, picking her up with his forearm keeping her weight against his body as he pushes a few unruly strands out of her face, “She is a lovely woman who wants the best for you.”

  “She wants me to take a bath and wear a gown so tight it hurts my chest!” She huffs out, pouting a little and he is so close to crying because she looks so much like you, it feels him with so much endearment it nearly spills out of his ears.

  “I could save you from a gown but not a bath, little flower,” he kisses her forehead, walking slowly with her in his arms, “You should be clean, always. I took a bath this very morrow too!”

  “Did your maid scrub your arms–”

  “Margery!” You round the corner, heaving as you stare at her, eyes widening when you notice him holding her, dropping into a quick courtesy, “My prince.”

  “You are a prince?” Margery asks, tilting her head to the side, blinking her huge hazel eyes at him, “You did not tell me!”

  “I am,” he chuckles, glancing at you for a brief second, finding you smiling and looking all flustered at your daughter’s antics, “You did not give me a moment to introduce myself. I am Baelor.”

  “My prince, put her down,” You take a step closer, rubbing Margery’s back slowly, but she only hugs his neck tighter, placing her head on his shoulder, “Come on, please. We have a wedding to be ready for.”

  “Your lady mother is right,” he bites his cheek to stop from laughing when she huffs out in annoyance, “I want to see you dancing with beautiful hair at my son’s wedding.”

  “He is your son? He did not give me cake yesterday–”

  “Get down, little lady. I am not going to repeat myself, let the prince be.” Your tone changes into a stern one, making both Baelor and Margery look at each other before he kisses her forehead again before he puts her down. 

  “She was not being rude,” he states gently, taking another step closer, smiling down at Margery who grabs your hand and waves shyly at him, “I shall see you at the wedding. Would you save me a dance, little flower?”

  “Will you marry Mama if I dance with you?”

  “Margery!” You gasp, squeezing her hand in warning but she shrugs and hugs your arm closer, you close your eyes, trying not to melt when Baelor laughs softly, “I sincerely apologize, your grace. She is a child and–”

  “No need,” he shakes his head, reaching to hold your hand gently in his, the small contact between your fingers tinting his cheek in red, “I do not know about marriage, but I would like to see you in something other than black, my lady.”

  “What do you have in mind, your grace?” You ask, breathless and panting as he brings your knuckles to his lips, his beard brushing the back of your hand as he plants a kiss there, his thumb caressing your pulse point.

  “Red!” Margery squeals, pulling on your other hand as she jumps up and down, “You must wear red!”

  “I–”

  “Great choice,” he winks at Margery before kissing your hand one more time and letting go, his gentle eyes filled with an unknown warmth, “Targaryen red would be more than I could ask for.”

  “I do not believe it would be appropriate,” you whisper, clenching and unclenching your fingers, “The court will talk…”

  “They always do,” he replies, “Let them talk about your beauty, not grief.”

  “I… I will think about it,” you bend your knees in another courtesy before beginning to lead your daughter away, “Tonight…”

  “Tonight.”

  ****

  The gasp your good sister let out was truly worth it when you walked inside the Sept with Margery holding your hand. Red. A red so deep it looked as if you were draped in blood, Targaryen Red as it was requested.

  You watched the young couple get married in the eyes of the Seven, watched how Valarr’s cloak wrapped around Kiera’s body as she belonged to this house; the face of a beautiful queen to be.

  Baelor, as handsome as always, stood next to the King as he watched his son get married to the woman he so loved, but during the ceremony, his eyes would find yours. His attention, although mostly on his son and good daughter, would drift to you and Margery every moment or so.

  “Why is Prince Baelor looking your way?” Your good sister asks, her sharp judgmental eyes narrowing as she glances between you and the prince, “He seems to be shocked by your… appearance as well. You are grieving, that is an awfully inconvenient gown for a widow.”

  “I lost my husband almost a year ago,” you say, helping Margery climb into the seat next to yours as you wait for the married couple to arrive at the throne room, “I am young, I deserve to be happy.”

  “Yes, well, it seems you have lost all etiquette of the court after my lord husband’s brother died,” she smiles at you, her teeth sharp and his tongue poisonous, “At least for the sake of your daughter… do not tarnish her future.”

  “Mama, look!” She waves at Baelor, grinning when he sends a small wave back in her direction, “Prince Baelor promised me a dance!”

  “We shall wait and see, sweetness,” you run a hand over her curls, filling her plate to feed her enough if he decides to make good on his promise, “Let us have supper for now.”

  “I wish to dance! I will go to him myself!”

  “No, sit–”

  “Lady Tyrell.”

  “My prince!” Your good sister and Lord Tyrell stand up immediately, you though, can not because he is standing behind your chair, looking down at you with a gentle gaze that makes your heart palpitate so fast.

  “Your grace–”

  “Prince Baelor!” Margery squeals and wiggles in her chair, “We shall dance!”

  “Of course, my lady,” he chuckles and offers his hand to her, giving you a little room to help Margery down and hold his hand, “If it is alright with your mother…”

  “Absolutely, please,” you stand up as well, which seems to be the wrong move given how close you end up to him, having to look up at him as he towers over you, his eyes falling to your lips. You clear your throat and look down at Margery who is clutching Baelor’s fingers tightly in her small hand, “Be good for our prince, okay?”

  “I am always good!”

  “True, my lady,” he cocks his head to the side, smiling reassuringly, “We will have the best dance, and we shall show it to the court.”

  “I would not hold you back then,” you reply, bending your knees in respect and he bows his head a little before leading Margery to the middle of the room where the rest of the ladies and lords are gathering – Valarr and Kiera included – and he kneels in front of her, bringing her hand to his lips, relishing the small giggle she lets out.

  “Will you hold my hand?”

  “Dancing is all about holding hands, little flower,” he straightens his back, pulling her a little closer until she is standing on his boots with her flat boots, “Ready?”

  “Yes!”

  You watch them dance, ignoring the way some heads turn in your way, watching you then at your daughter and the Heir to the throne. You ignore them, as you always do, and watch your daughter giggle as Baelor spins her around. She looks so happy, her eyes shine as they did with her father when he was alive, and her smile makes your body warm.

  He picks her up when they have to move across the room, keeping her close and laughing when she says something, his eyes crinkling in joy.

  The dance ends sooner than you notice. Margery is fast on her feet as she bolts toward you with a big smile on her face, Prince Baelor in tow.

  “Mama! Did you see me?” She makes grabby hands at you, and you pick her up with ease, “Prince Baelor was so kind! He helped me a lot!”

  “I did! He is a prince, of course, he would help, sweetness!” You kiss her flushed cheek before meeting Baelor’s overwhelming gaze, “Thank you, your grace. You… you made her entire night.”

  “That was the least I could do for the most beautiful lady in the realm,” he pinches her cheek before withdrawing himself from your space completely, “I am very glad that I could be the cause of her happiness even for a brief moment.”

  “Thank you, your grace,” you smile, dropping in a small courtesy with Margery still in your eyes, ignoring the burning glare of your good sister against your back.

  “Have a great night, my lady.”

  ****

  Your heart is beating so fast against your chest as you walk through the hallway that you know ends at Baelor’s chambers. The guards are already standing there, white cloaks and shiny armor glinting under the soft candelight. You give them a small smile as you approach them, one of them ignoring you as the other nods, scanning you from head to toe in order to find something amiss.

  You nod in reply when they push the door open gently, slowly walking inside like a scared cat, taking in your surroundings before you find Baelor sitting behind his desk.

  His chambers are spacious; a large bed on your left, a terrace close to his work desk, a dining table close by, and even a small set of furniture gathered around a table. Lived in, dark, warm, and him. 

  You find a bathtub close to the hearth, and the steam of the water dampens the air in the room. With a curious yet shy smile, you stride in his direction, and he stands up as well, meeting you halfway.

  “Hello,” you whisper, placing your palms on his chest, his hands finding home on your waist just as quickly, pulling you closer until you are pressed against his body, “I was not aware we were going to take a bath.”

  “Neither did I, dear,” he brushes his nose along yours, “A change of plans that will only lead to me worshiping you.”

  “You are as tempting as sin,” your palm moving up slowly, cupping the side of his neck, your thumb caressing his bearded jaw softly, “It is… unbelievable, the way you make me feel.”

  “You do not give enough appreciation for your own beauty,” he bends down a little, placing a kiss on your cheek, “I believe you are the most alluring person I have ever met. Beautifully crafted by the old gods, new, and the doomed gods of the Valyria.”

  “I feel so strong about you,” you cradle his face in your hands, your lips only a breath away, “Undress me, Baelor.”

  “With pleasure,” he closes the distance, kissing you with an enthusiasm that makes you gasp into his mouth.

  His fingers reach for the laces of your gown, deliberate fingers, pulling on each knot until the red gown is pooling around your ankles, his lips moving with yours in sync.

  “Allow me,” he pecks your lips before he pulls back a little, “raise your arms,” you do and he pulls your shift up until you are only left in your small clothes, bare breasts falling into his line of vision, “Fuck me…”

  “It is unfair,” you reach to undo his doublets, dropping fabric after another until he is standing with his own white shifts until you are tugging at it, making him chuckle as he pulls it off, showing his toned chest and abdomen. “Oh…”

  “I have grown old–”

  “Do not say that,” you shake your head, “You are perfect for your age. Truly… a body sculped by the gods.”

  “You are sweet,” he kisses you again until you are breathless before he lowers himself on one of his knees, dragging your underwear down slowly, mouthing at your belly as he drops the fabric away as if it had offended him, “beautiful.”

  He grabs your hand, making sure you are secure as he helps you inside the tub with a steady hand after he kisses your thigh. His own desires made their presence known by making a tent in his underwear.

  “Join me,” you lean over the edge of the tub, resting your cheek on your forearm as you watch him stand up and pull the last piece of clothing off until he is as nude as the day he was born. 

  Your eyes are immediately drawn to his cock, noticing the soft blush that runs from the top of his stomach to his neck and cheeks, moving to make room behind your body, ignoring the way your body calls for him. Not now.

  He sits behind you, his knees bracketing yours as he pulls you flushed against his body, arms wrapped around your middle and his nose buried in the soft braids you have not bothered to undo.

  He kisses your shoulder, his fingers caressing the skin under your breasts as the warm water surrounds your bodies. He is gentle and caring in a way you have never experienced before – not even your late husband was this careful with you – and he makes you feel as if you are made of the most fragile and exquisite glass in the entire Westeros.

  “Beautiful,” he whispers, one of his hands moving to cup your breast, squeezing the flesh, making you gasp and throw your head back. He smiles, nipping on the shell of your ear, “I would pour us wine, but I am already drunk on your scent.”

  “Sweet talker,” you let out a breathless laugh, wrapping one arm around his neck before turning around a little to look him in the eyes, finding his gaze already dark and wanting, “Do you always invite noble ladies to your room?”

  “Never,” he brushes the tip of his nose against yours, the hand on your chest moving up to hold you by his fingers on the side of your neck, drawing you closer until his lips brush yours, not in a kiss but a promise of one soon, “You are the only woman I have found myself being smitten with.”

  You kiss him then, pulling him in by the back of his head, moving your lips against his forcefully, moaning in his mouth when one of his hands drops between your legs, fingers finding your pearl with ease.

  He is enjoying the way you melt in his arms, head resting on his shoulder as you let him feast on your tongue, sucking and pulling on the flesh of your lips as if they belong to him. They do, though it is too soon to admit.

  “Baelor…” you gasp when one motion of his fingers along the sensitive nerves sets your skin ablaze, “I need you.”

  “And I you–”

  You detangle yourself from him, pushing him back until his back hits the bathtub, a gush of water spilling out of the tub because of his movements.

  He is stunned, you can see it in his eyes as he spreads his arms over the edge of the tub and leans back with a surprised smile, watching with hooded eyes as you crawl into his lap, finding home on his body before kissing him again feverishly.

  You do not wish to waste any more time. You want him, here and now, and for many days as you can have with him. As you moan and gasp into his mouth, he helps you line up his cock with your winking hole, holding you against him by one hand wrapped around your back and the other on the back of your head.

  “Fuck– Fuck, Baelor.”

  “I know, dear,” he says through a choked breath, “Slow and gentle.”

  You nod but when you take him inside you finally, you slump forward on his body, your breasts rubbing against his hairy chest as you adjust to his girth. He is big; bigger than your late husband as it is only him you can compare Baelor to. 

  He groans, holding you close as he stretches your walls deliciously, enjoying the warmth of your walls as they hug him close. He tucks your face into his neck, the hand on your back moving to your buttocks, squeezing the flesh while he tries his best to resist the urge to fuck you.

  “Gods be good,” he throws his head back when you roll your hips down, using his shoulders to hold yourself up as you begin to move, leaning down enough to kiss his throat, smiling at the vibration that is felt over his skin as he groans.

  “You feel so good,” you whisper, trailing your lips up to his jaw, then cheeks, “Gods, you feel so fucking good–”

  “You were made for me,” you moan at his words, sinking your teeth into his thin bottom lip as you begin to move faster, the water around you crashing into your bodies in hurried waves. 

  He squeezes your ass, fingers digging into your flesh as he bends his knees to thrust up inside you, slotting his tongue with yours in a desperate kiss as he takes his pleasure and brings yours to the edge of yours.

  Your noises fill the room, the sound of the water hitting the bathtub over and over again, adding even more noise to your coupling.

  He kisses you like you are air, he holds you as if you are a dream and he does not wish to wake up from it. He wants you more than ever, more than yesterday, more than the first time he met you. 

  Baelor tugs in your hair until you are gazing into his eyes – misty orbs meeting each other in the throes of pleasure – and you have to try to hard not to break the contact but his cock nudges the spot inside you that has your vision going white.

  You climax with a broken cry, fingers leaving half-moons on his broad strong shoulders, cunt clenching around his length for life. You do not wish to let go of him, you want him inside you for as long as possible.

  Your legs shake around him uncontrollably until he pulls you down and holds your limp body against his while he hammers his cock inside you. You can feel his body contracting for a second before he buries himself inside you to the hilt, filling you up with his warm seed as he whimpers your name into your hair.

  He is trembling slightly from the pleasure. You are sure he has had his share of women since his wife passed, but you do not believe any of them to be this intense.

  “So good,” he whispers, caressing your bare back and holding you close with a soft kiss to the curve of your shoulder, “You were so good, my darling.”

  “So were you,” You wrap your arms around his neck, clinging to him as the heat leaves your bodies, “It had been so long since I experienced… such a pleasant moment.”

  “I shall give you more if you allow me,” he tightens his embrace, afraid you would leave even if he is the one shielding you from the toxic reality of the court, “The night is young…”

  “I have to leave before dawn,” you whisper, but do not push him away, “But I suppose I have earned the right to join you in your bed,” he smiles at your words, pecking your lips, “And this water has grown cold and disgusting. We must get out of this instant.”

  And when his chest rumbles, you are sure of the decision you made.

Day Five

  “Look at the flowers!” Margery whines, stomping her feet as she stands in front of the bushes of the royal gardens, “They look so dead!”

  “Sweetness, they are just fine–”

  “They are not! Mama, look, the petals are turning down!” She almost starts crying, looking frantically across the field to find someone, anyone to come and listen to her, “They are not getting enough water.”

  “We shall find a way to tell the gardeners, is that alright, Marg?” You ask, turning her so you could look her in the eye, “Besides, these are not ours to mend–”

  “I miss my flowers,” she pouts, but does not pull away when you kiss her cheek and chuckle, “I love to stay but their gardens are bad, Mama! Can we tell–” she is distracted again, this time, by noticing three shadows walking in the same path as you, “PRINCE BAELOR!”

  “Margery!”

  You know the whispers will start to fly off soon with the way every head turns to the little girl running to where the Heir is standing with his son and good daughter.

  Baelor is quick to notice her, finding her panting as she reaches the three of them, frowning so deeply that a small crease forms between her light brown eyebrows. 

  “Hello, Lady Tyrell,” he says gently, leaning down a little to be less intimidating, “How can I help you on this fine morning?”

  “I am very displeased by your gardens!” She huffs, crossing her small arms across her chest, looking at him with a deadly glare that makes his heart burst through his chest, “Your flowers are dying!”

  “Oh, no,” he crouches down in front of her, his thumb moving to untangle her eyebrows. He has to stop the endearing teasing smile that threatens to overtake his features so he does not upset her further, “What shall we do, little flower?”

  “Our roses bloom when they get enough water. Yours are dying because you do not help them! If I don’t eat, I will die. Flowers are the same!” 

  “Best we start feeding them, then!” Valarr jumps in, clearly interested in the little fiery girl in front of him, and he notices you finally approaching them with a tired look, “My lady.”

  “My prince, princess,” you courtesy to the married couple before looking at Baelor, “Your grace, I apologize–”

  “No need,” he shakes his head, looking at Margery with a small smile, “Would you like to stroll with Prince Valarr and Princess Kiera?”

  “He did not give me cake!”

  “Margery, please don’t be rude–”

  “Please, my lady,” Kiera laughs softly, extending her hand to Margery, “We should remedy that! There is cake on the table at the end of the path, we could share some.”

  “Truly?” Margery asks, turning around to look at you for permission, “Mama, can I go? Please please please–”

  “If it is alright with Prince Valarr–”

  “Absolutely,” the young prince says, offering his arm to his wife as they begin to walk with Margery holding tightly on Kiera’s fingers. You can hear how Margery immediately starts talking.

  “I like your hair!” She says excitedly, making Kiera smile at her when she starts swinging their arms, “I like pink! I also like red! Like roses!”

  “Would you join me for a walk, my lady?” Baelor waits for your response, holding his elbow out for you to take, “We could stay behind them if it eases your mind.”

  “Oh, thank you,” you weave your arms through his, leaning a little of your weight on him as he guides you through the path, “She is going to talk their heads off.”

  “Good practice for when they would become parents of their own,” he replies quietly, resting his free hand on top of yours over his forearm, “Last might was…”

  “Magical,” you finish his sentence, smiling at him with a glimmer in your eyes. He chuckles and nods, remembering the vivid memories of last night with you tangled beneath his sheets, “I wish we could stay in those moments. You and me, hidden from the world.”

  “I wish you could stay,” he whispers, the words making your breath hitch, heart bursting inside your ribcage, “In the court, with me. Margery already loves this place, perhaps you could… find a position among our court.”

  “What exactly, Baelor?” You ask softly, shaking your head but smiling when you see Valarr pick Margery up, “As Princess Kiera’s lady in waiting? I am a widowed mother, no one would ever look twice my way.”

  “I would,” he stops, his grip on the back of your hand tightening slightly, “I would look more than twice. I wish I could look at you every day, my lady. Stay, I promise I will find a way to make it worth your while.”

  “We should not dwell on the unfortunate circumstances we are facing, instead,” you look around to make sure no one is actually paying you two any mind before leaning up to press a quick kiss to his cheek, gazing at him with a small grin, “We should find joy in the remaining moments we have.”

  “Would you want to… go somewhere less crowded?” He does not wait for an answer as he slowly leads you to a hallway that reaches the lower levels of the castle, crowding you against the wall as soon as you are out of sight.

  He kisses you without a second thought, only wishing to taste the fine morning tea you shared with the rest of your family. And taste he does with how passionately he licks and nibbles on your tongue, pushing his knee between your legs and pulling one thigh around his hips, caressing the exposed skin of your leg until it teases your garments.

  You moan and kiss him back, one hand fisting his clothes and the other clawing at the back of his neck to hold him closer. It is insanity how much you need him, the prince of the realm, the heir to the iron throne, but more than any of his titles, you need Baelor.

  His lips fall to your neck, sucking on the exposed skin and grinning against you as he notices the eye-catching green of your gown – the color of the Hightowers – you are wearing. Colors, not those black doomed dresses you would wear the first few days.

  You hear the clutter of the plates against the ground close, making you gasp and push him away with a force that nearly knocks him to the opposite wall of the hallway as you both pant and look at the servant who is visibly shaking and crying as she stares at the two of you.

  “Stay where you are,” Baelor commands gently, not a hint of anger in his voice as he approaches the maid slowly, “Do not be frightened.”

  “M-my prince! I- I…”

  “This shall stay between us, do you not think so?” He stands closer to her, clasping his hands behind his back as he looms over her a little, “There is no reason to fear me. If words do not get out, you can stay and keep your job in the Red Keep.”

  “I will not tell a soul, my prince!” She drops to her knees in front of him, clutching his boots, “I beg of you, please have mercy on me–”

  You do not wait to find out what he wants to say, instead, you flee from their company with a hand to your chest, tears burning your vision as you try to find the path ong the sea of flowers to go back inside.

  You can only hope the words do not find their way into the gossip of the court, or The Seven forbid, to the ears of your good sister.”

  ****

  What we hope for does not usually come true. What we love always comes with a price, and loving the prince of Westeros is the hardest of all. 

  You knew from the moment you set your eyes on him he would become the sun in your rainy days. He became so dear to you in the shortest time possible, not just someone you liked but someone you loved. 

  Baelor Targaryen is a maddening man with the most beautiful eyes someone can possess; a blue so rich you could paint the sky with it and a brown so pigmented you would think they have built the mountains of the hue of his iris.

  He is whole-consuming, humble, soft, kind, and he can make your heart explode if he touches you. He is everywhere in your dreams and thoughts, he was all over you the night prior, and now, he is nowhere to be found.

  It is not his fault that your good sister is yelling at you with her husband, Lord Leo Tyrell shaking his head in disbelief, Margery still clinging to Kiera and Valarr. For the best to keep her away until the issue is resolved.

  “How could you jeopardize our name!” She screams again, pacing around your chambers as you have personally offended her. “They will now write songs about your stupidity! What were you thinking? Getting involved with a prince, and not just any of them but the one who will become King?!”

  “Clearly she was not thinking–”

  “Would you two stop berating me like I’m a child?” You hiss at them, looking out of your window and at the calm water that slides over the sands, “I knew what I was doing. A mistake but I do not regret it–”

  “You should,” she grabs you by the elbow, pulling you closer by a harsh tug, “You have ruined our reputation. We are the most important vessel of the crown and you and your careless actions have put us in a tight position.”

  “The court is already talking,” Leo sighs, clearly less agitated than his wife, “They have seen you. The prince has danced with Margery, with you, you have been caught in a compromising… way. It is not looking good, sister. We were planning to wed you to a Lannister to ensure you have a good life but now… I doubt anyone would want to cross paths with you.”

  “You wanted to wed me without my consent? I have a child, a Tyrell child who belongs to Highgarden, you can not take that away from her, from me!” You pull your arm out of her grasp and walk past her, “I would rather die than marry someone I do not hold affection for again.”

  “The prince – who it seems, you like, will not marry you, get that into your head,” she scoffs and throws her hands up in surrender, “He has his hands full with responsibility. He has an heir, he would not care to marry another.”

  “You shall leave then,” Leo stands up, glaring at you, “At noon, with the first carriage you could find. Leave for Highgarden, we will decide your fate when we come back.”

  “You can not send me away–”

  “You have caused enough trouble, do not make me rethink my decision and marry you off to avoid the scandal you caused,” and with that, he leaves, his wife – burning with fury – follows after.

  You drop on the chaise in defeat, slapping your hand to your mouth to muffle the sobs that wreck your body. You are going to leave before you make your prince’s life hell.

  You do not know how long you cry, only that one second, your chest stops heaving and you fall into a dreamless slumber.

Day six

  “I have not seen her all morning, brother.”

  “Who the fuck are we talking about?” Maekar drops his weight on one of the small council’s chairs, propping his feet up on the stone table.

  “Lady Tyrell,” Baelor sighs deeply, staring into the distance from the balcony, trying to get his mind to cooperate and help him remember where he could possibly find you, “She… she has disappeared since yesterday. I saw her at the feast last night for a moment but she vanished again.”

  “Why are you looking for a Tyrell anyway?” Maekar scoffs, drinking his wine while he looks at his Baelor’s face with disdain, “I have never seen you interested in any woman that walks inside this fucking castle.”

  “Yes, because none of them were interesting to begin with,” Baelor rolls his eyes, exhaling so loud it makes Maekar snort, “If you don’t have anything remarkable to say, then get out of this room.”

  “I believe your lady has been suffering from the court gossip, your grace,” his brother laughs, and the words draw Baelor’s attention immediately, “I heard Keira talking last night. The ladies have seen her with someone inappropriately–”

  “Fuck,” Baelor’s eyes widen in panic, his palms finding the back of the King’s chair as he holds himself up, “It was me… I- I am the reason she did not attend the feast.”

  “It was you? Fuck me, I thought you had lost your charm,” another snort leaves Maekar, groaning as he sits upright before drowning the rest of his wine, “They saw her with a lord’s hand up in her skirts, unbeknownst to them it was the Heir himself. Instead of these games of cat and mouse, you could have just courted her.”

  “It was not my intention to fall for her!” Baelor’s calm tone finally breaks as the gravity of the situation dawns on him, “I have not felt such an intense desire for anyone since Jena, and now I am about to lose her because of my selfishness.”

  “You could go and ask about her whereabouts if you are truly so concerned about her,” Maekar shrugs, approaching his brother with a pointed look, “But if you do, that means you are turning the rumors into the truth. Do what you deem best.”

  “I have to find her,” Baelor shakes his head and skips his way into the room, ignoring Maekar’s voice calling for him. He must find you, he must.

  He goes for your chambers first, finding no guard stationed at the doors. He bursts through the door in hopes of finding you and Margery there, but he finds the place empty of you and your belongings.

  The bed is made, the closets already empty, the desk void of any tea glasses, no sign of toys or small clothes that could be Margery’s. 

  “No,” he exhales sharply before turning around to move and find someone, anyone, he can help him. “No, no, no…”

  He runs down the stairs, ignoring the questioning looks of the lords and the sound of his assigned guards’ armor as they follow him. He must find Lord Tyrell this very second, or he will go mad.

  And he is very successful in his hunt, as he finds him standing with his wife in a corner of a distant hallway, talking in anger and hushed whispers.

  “You,” he approaches them, grabbing the lord by the collar before he slams him to the closest wall. This is not him, this is not the calm and collected Prince Baelor, this is Baelor Breakspear who is angered and distraught. “Where is she?”

  “W-who, your grace?” Lord Tyrell swallows harshly as he utters the words and Baelor feels the bump in the lord’s throat moving against his knuckles.

  “Lady Tyrell and Margery,” he hisses, tightening his fists on the lord’s clothing, “Speak before I tell my guards to go and search for her. If they do not find her, you will pay the price–”

  “Please, my prince, let go of him–”

  “Where the fuck is she?” He yells, and he can see the fear in Leo Tyrell’s eyes for the first time, “Tell me instantly if you wish to have a place in my court–”

  “She has left!” Lady Tyrell cries out, grabbing Baelor’s sleeves to stop him even though he has not raised a finger on her husband yet, “She was told to leave at noon.”

  “You sent her away,” the realization breaks his heart as he lets go of the lord to look at the lady, his attention completely on hers, “When?”

  “An hour or so, your grace–”

  “May the Seven give me patience,” he leaves the couple without a glance as he marches downstairs and to the courtyard, grabbing the reins of the first stallion he sees before he puts one foot in the saddle and swings his body over the horse, “Hey!”

  He rides out of the gates with the King’s guard behind him, following the path that he is sure you and Margery must be on. He is not thinking clearly, his head is foggy and his hands are shaking.

  He needs you to be alright, he needs you to be close so he can get to you and bring you back. He can not, and shall never leave you again.

  He does not know how long he rides until he sees a lonely carriage on the dusty road, he only knows he has to stop it before it leaves his sight.

  His stallion gallops up to the carriage until he stands several feet away, forcing the boy behind the reins to pull a sudden stop to the horses. He waits patiently for his guards to come and take control before he jumps down and walks to the door of the carriage.

  “Prince Baelor!” Margery is the first to gasp his name, “You came for us!”

  You look at him then, with a soft pout and misty eyes. He is as equally teary as you are, body shaking with worry and agony as he stares at you. 

  There seems to be years of longing between the two of you, months of departure and pain, but it has only been a few hours. It feels as if they have chained you in a room on opposite sides without letting you speak to each other, as if you have lost him altogether in a terrible nightmare.

  “Baelor…”

  “My dear,” he holds his hand for you to take, a pleading look sent your way, “Come outside, let us talk.”

  “I have to go back–”

  “You will not go anywhere,” his tone is clipped, he is not responding to argue, “You will stay by my side, here, in King’s Landing.”

  “I can’t,” you breathe out a broken sigh before placing your palm in his, stepping out of the carriage with small steps, looking back at Margery who waits eagerly for a moment to speak, “stay inside, alright, sweetness? I will be back in no time.”

  “I wanna hear!”

  “After we’ll talk, I will let you ride with me back to the castle, alright?”

  “Do not promise her something that you will not be able to do–”

  “She will ride with me back to the Keep,” he cups your cheeks in his hands, pulling you close until his forehead rests on yours, “I am a man of my words.”

  “Baelor, this was… we did not think this through,” you whisper, placing your palms on the back of his hand, lips wobbling as you try to hold back your tears, “I have caused you too much trouble already. Allow me to leave so you can live in peace–”

  “I can not find peace if you are not with me,” he kisses the tip of your nose, letting his tears fall on his cheeks finally, “I did not get a lick of sleep last night. You are occupying every thought I have; what you are wearing, what you are eating, how your eyes crinkle when you smile, how you touch your neck when you are nervous. There is no mistake in loving you, it never was.”

  “People will talk, they already do! They think I have corrupted you, they believe I am manipulating you into taking my hand in marriage–”

  “Then you are very good at it,” he lets out a water chuckle before placing a gentle kiss on your lips, not even drawing back to talk, he allows his lips to brush against yours as he speaks, “I want your hand in marriage. I want you to become my queen when I take the throne one day, I want you by my side even more in the days ahead. Margery will become a legitimate princess if I ask my father–”

  “You can not say these things,” you shake your head tasting his salty tears on his mouth as you peck him once more, “You will find someone who is better suited for this role. I am already spoiled…”

  “Spoiled?” He forced your neck back a little to look you in the eyes, “You are the most perfect woman I have met since my wife’s passing. You are kind, generous, and gentle, how could I seek someone more loving than you when you exceed all expectations?”

  “You are a charmer,” you smile at him a little, and he sighs in contempt, “How would we do this? How would you be able to tame the people–”

  “That is my burden to bear,” he kisses you again, this time a little harder to make his point known thoroughly, “I will request an audience with the King this evening. I need you to have some faith in me, and I will make both of you the happiest women in the realm.”

  “Can I come out now?” Margery peeks at you from inside the carriage, “Please? I am hungry, I wish to eat lunchen soon!”

  “You heard the lady, dear,” he kisses the side of your head as he tucks you into his side, wrapping one arm around your waist as he helps Margery onto the ground slowly with his free hand, “Have you ever ridden a horse?”

  “No, Mama never lets me get close to the stable,” she pouts, “Can I go with the prince, Mama?”

  “If you promise to listen to him and follow–”

  “YES!” She grabs Baelor’s hands and tries to drag him to his stallion, “We will see you at the castle! Bye!”

  “Have a safe trip,” you manage to steal one more kiss from Baelor before he is entirely focused on your little girl, picking her up and placing her on his shoulder as he walks to where they are keeping his horse.

  With one last look at them, you sit inside the carriage on your way back to the Red Keep.

  ****

  Baelor’s head is pounding. The audience with the king went surprisingly well, but he had to be careful about the way he talked to him, even if the king was his father. It did not matter if they were related in those moments, he had to make sure every step was carefully planned to achieve what he desired.

  He pushes the door open to his chambers slowly, walking inside and finding you and Margery under the covers, sleeping soundly without a care in the world. He smiles at the sight, warmth spreading through his body as he gazes at the two of you until his feet begin to protest.

  He strips, carefully placing the clothes on his chair, peeling layers of the day off until he is standing in only his breeches. He has even discarded the white linen shirt he wears.

  Walking quietly to the basin in the corner of the room, he washes his face and hands, letting the cool water flow over his lashes and lips. With a towel that has been placed nearby, he dries himself before approaching the bed.

  “Baelor?” You whisper into the dark, slowly sitting up and searching for him, mindful of the little body sleeping next to you. You reach for him when he slides behind you under the sheets, his warm chest solid against your back, “How was the king?”

  “Well and healthy,” he replies, kissing your shoulder over your nightshift, “I told him everything, from the first night to today, I do not remember the last time I have been this detailed about something.”

  “You were nervous,” you smile craning your neck to look at him and he takes the opportunity to kiss you softly on the lips, “What else?”

  “We agreed to postpone the wedding to a fortnight from now,” he rests his head on the hollow of your neck, “It was a little tricky to tell him I wished to get married again, but my brother helped and strengthened my argument.”

  “That is good, I was worried you were alone in the dragon’s den.”

  “No, my brother couldn’t lose this chance to see me beg our father for something,” he scoffs, wrapping his arm around you while the other one stretches over your body to caress Margery’s head, “He wishes to meet you, both of you.”

  “Really?” You sigh softly, already tensing at the thought of talking to none other than the King himself, “Whatever will we say?”

  “That I am unable to predict,” he kisses your shoulder again, settling beside you with a soft smile, “Sleep, my dear. No one is going to need us on the morrow, I have made sure of that.”

  “Thank you,” you squeeze his forearm, “For coming for us, for fighting for us…”

  “I will do it a thousand times more, never think otherwise.”

Day Seven

  Baelor Targaryen spends the entire day from today to his last breath cherishing the life he has gained after years of loneliness. 

Tagging: @sylasthegrim @venmondiese <3

The first thing I am aware of is that the ceiling is bright. But it is clear, not blurry, and it is not a dream or memory - it is real. Then, I feel it. My body is not aching. It does not feel weighed down. I try to lift up one of my fingers. When I see it lift, a small smile takes place on my lips. A breath escapes me and the sound is raspy and it scratches my throat.

My eyes scan the room, the morning light cascading in through the window. Then I see him. I see him sitting there , sleeping upright with a book in his hand. I can barely register the fact of him sitting there next to me before the door opens and one of the Maesters steps in and sees me awake. 

He walks with heavy steps to my side to check on me. His steps echoing off the walls, thus waking Baelor up. He shifts to sit upright and then our eyes meet. His gaze is wide but then softens - the way eyes can only do when one exhales a breath they have been holding for a long time.

The Maester continues his check up and speaks about my health. The thing he underlines and insists on is me needing to eat more. I only nod at everything he tells me. Behind him I see Baelor, listening to everything the Maester is saying. Each time the Maester mentions how frail my body had become I could see his jaw clench ever so slightly.

The Maester leaves and assures me that he will be back shortly to make sure I am stable - and to give me some actual food along with the broth.

As the door closes behind him, the room falls silent. My eyes fall to my hands in my lap. Still feeling an unreasonable amount of pride each time I was able to move my fingers.

“You worried me.” His words are careful, his voice strained as if it pained him to hold them on his lips. “For a moment there when you collapsed I- I thought that the worse had happened.” The words land in my chest. Something between shame, guilt and yet somehow also frustration.

“I did not think you would care” The words make him let out a small gasp - as if I had struck him. 

“How could you think that?” His words make me let out a rough laugh. Not one born out of joy, but one born out of pain and resentment.

“How could I think that? Because you made it clear that you only saw me as a young girl tricking you. Because you said I was, how did you put it, a woman with no prospects of a betrothal. Because you and everyone else made plans for my betrothal ceremony and my future without ever checking to see if I had an opinion. I am not wanted here. At least not by you. So don’t you dare stand there acting surprised when I tell you I did not think you cared for me. Not when you have made it perfectly clear that you do not.”

My lips tremble around the last words. Behind my eyes I feel tears begging to fall. I do not let them. I do not wish to cry in front of him.

“I have been a fool” His voice cracks and he shakes his head. “I should have talked with you after that evening in the rain. I should have talked with you when I noticed you were not well.” He pauses to look at me and it is then I see the deep and dark bags under his eyes.  “There are many things I wish that I could have handled differently when it comes to you. But the one thing I desperately wish that I could change - the thing I regret with each passing breath- is making you feel unwanted.”

I let out a sound and I do not know if it is a sob, a laugh or a breath. I just shake my head as I try to make sense of his words. Before either of us can speak again a knock is heard.

Of all the people I expected to see in the doorway, Prince Maekar was not one of them. He looks between me and Baelor. He clears his voice and adjusts his stance, an uncomfortable shift one only does when having interrupted an emotionally charged conversation.  

“I am sorry, my lady. He was already bothering his septa and then he heard the maesters discussing you being awake. Which made him insufferable and I thought it would not hurt to bring him here.”

Before either me or Baelor can ask whom it is Maekar is referring to, Matarys comes into the room. He stops when he sees me sitting up, awake. He does not speak, he only stares at me. He stares as if he stops looking - I will vanish.

“I am alright” I reassure him. He takes a few steps closer, still not speaking. It is only when he has reached the side of the bed that he lets out a small whisper. 

“I missed you” As soon as his words land in the space between us, I open my arms. 

“Come here, little prince”  He wastes no time before letting me embrace him. “I missed you too” I say into his hair.

I look up from his locks and see how Maekar and Baelor are looking at each other. Speaking in a silent language that develops when you grow up beside one another, learning what each glance means. 

“I was really scared” Matarys voice, barely even that of a whisper. The weight of his words break something in me. 

“I know. I am sorry. But I am alright now” It is not entirely true, yet not entirely false. My body did not feel the same exhaustion it had before. Most likely to them feeding me while I was sedated. 

He is the one to break away from the hug, he sniffles while wiping his nose. 

“They said you need to eat more.”

“Yes.”

“I will make the kitchens bake honeycakes, or lemon tarts or anything else you wish.” His solution was naive - it was after all, a child’s solution to an adult issue. In his world if one needed to eat more, one could simply indulge in sweet treats and good food. The real issues were far more complicated than that. However, I would not be the one to teach him that. Not yet. The world would teach its cruelty and complexity to him soon enough, it did not need me to further hurry along the process.

“That sounds good.”

“Matarys.” Baelor’s voice makes the two of us look up at him. “Your septa will be waiting. Your history lesson cannot be delayed even more than it already has been.” 

A frown forms between Matarys’ brow. Before he voices his protest I speak. 

“You should go, Matarys.” While gently fixing his auburn locks into place. “History is one of the more interesting subjects. Besides, I will still be here after your lesson. I am not leaving.”  

As the last four words are said, his frown disappears. He agrees to go and Baelor follows him out. Baelor, however, stops before closing the door. He turns toward me and as he does I turn my gaze away. I did not wish to see him any more. 

The door closes behind them. But I am not left alone, Prince Maekar is standing by one of the windows and looking out at the grounds beneath us. He is watching it while letting one of his hands drag back and forth through his silver beard.

“My prince?” He turns away from the window and instead looks at me while pursing his lips - words trying to form on them.

“I wanted to apologize” He sighs after he says them. It is clear that those words were not often used by the prince. Which is why I felt slightly ashamed when I did not know why he apologized to me.

“For what?” I ask him and my question makes him sigh once again while closing his eyes.

“For…” he inhales a long breath. “For giving the deadly blow to your brother. However I assure you, it was in the name of the trial. At that moment we were not men - we were knights fighting on a battlefield.”

Oh.

I had blamed my father, myself, the Gods and plenty of others for Roman’s death. Yet, I had never even thought of blaming Maekar. It seemed unreasonable. Prince Maekar did what he did to support his son. He and Roman were knights on the battlefield - pawns on the board, not the makers of the games.

“I accept your apology” I had never spoken quite so stiff and plainly when apologized to. Yet, Prince Maekar seemed like a man that would appreciate the practicality of it - that the whole matter would be approached in a more tactical sense than that of an emotional one. 

“Good.” He says and nods. I expect him to leave after that, but he stays. Eyes wandering around the entire room - except for me. 

“Was there anything else you wished to discuss, your grace?” 

He looks at me again, violet eyes seemingly assessing the moment. He waves one hand toward the door. 

“The boy - Matarys - he cares for you.” 

“I care for him too. He’s a good boy.”

“Valarr cares for you as well” He states.

“I care for him as well” A smile graces my lips for i had never seen Prince Maekar -The Anvil-  Targaryen look quite so stiff and unsure. 

“My brother cares for you.”

The smile falls and along with it my gaze. His words leave a bitter taste in my mouth. 

“He has a peculiar way of showing it” The words, said through gritted teeth for I did not have the energy - or the motivation - to hide my irritation.

“Pec-” He interrupts himself and pinches the bridge of his nose while taking a deep breath. “My brother - your betrothed - spent every day at your side while you recovered from - “He does not finish his sentence.  “You made them all worried, my lady, and I need to know you will not make them worry again.” 

His face is stern as he makes his statement. Beneath his frowns and continuous insistence of being a cold and firm man - Prince Maekar cared deeply for his family. 

“I did not mean to worry them.”

“And yet you did”

His words make me feel  younger than I am. Like I was not  a woman sitting in that bed, but a child that had been caught misbehaving and was now being scolded for it. 

I had not meant for my own suffering to cause anyone else pain. Let alone the people I cared for - not even those where I believed my care was unrequited. 

“I will try not to make them worry like that again, my prince.” Soft yet certain words. Seeing Matarys that evening by the pond, terrified as I stood in the water, was enough to make me want to try and keep that promise. 

“And you will consider speaking with my brother?”

That made me scoff at him. “What business is that of yours?”

The words seem to completely erase the cautious man that had stood before me mere minutes ago. The one who had carefully picked out the words for an apology to his brother's betrothed. Instead, his usual frown came back as he rolled his eyes at me. 

“Oh fuck me, you’re just as stubborn as he is.” 

With that he shakes his head and mutters out a goodbye as he leaves the room. 

…

There are no quick-fixes in life. That was something that became increasingly clear the next few days that came. There is no easy solution to settle the pain that does not come from a skin deep wound.  No, when the pain is from somewhere deeper it does not simply go away.

I still felt exhausted at times. Sleeping far more than I had ever done. Sometimes when Matarys or Valarr visited me and I laughed, it was later followed by a pang of guilt. Because I realized I had forgotten that Roman was gone - all while I was laughing and feeling joy. 

Food and eating was harder and more frightening than I would ever admit to anyone. However, Lyonel - who was still here until the wedding - often came to eat with me. He never made any comments about the food - his or mine. If I ate less or more than the day before. He simply sat next to me, discussing things as if nothing had changed. Each time we ate together there was a gratefulness I felt that made me sure I would always make space for him in my life.

There was also a noticeable difference when it came to planning my future. The betrothal ceremony had been entirely done without my insight. Now, I had people asking for my opinion on flowers, food and seating arrangements - everything and anything that involved the day of mine and Baelors wedding. Sometimes it all felt too much, but then I simply had to ask someone else to take over and they handled it. It made the wedding seem less daunting and caging than the betrothal ceremony. It made the future feel less like something happening to me and more like something I had a part in.

Then there were the things that I tried to ignore. It started small. The wine I had once complimented was now the only wine I was served - without even having to ask for it. The maids no longer drew me warm baths - only cold, just the way I liked it.

One day I walked into my chambers and found that on the small writing table there was now a pile of books. I did not recognize some of them but there was one I was all too familiar with - the one with the shepherd prince. At first I did not read any of them. I had planned to let them collect dust. Then curiosity won and I read them all - devoured them, actually. They were brilliant books. Some tales, some histories. All enchanting me completely - in the way that only books handpicked for you could.

 Then came the day when I was in the gardens again. Walking around aimlessly when Matarys came running out. At first he discussed all of his insects again, the one he cared most for at the minute was a caterpillar he claimed could understand him. Then in the middle of discussing his profound bond with said caterpillar his face lit up. 

“You have not seen it!” He then took my hand and I followed, a caterpillar that had bonded with a prince must be something to see.

When I felt the scent of citrus, I wanted to turn around. But then I felt the other smell that accompanied it - one far more floral and familiar. Next to the lemon tree, which I had avoided ever since arriving at King's landing, was a cherry tree. 

Matarys did not seem to notice that I dropped his hand. That I stood there silently watching the tree that was far more than a tree. He simply went up to it and on one of the blossoms he took down the caterpillar to show me.

“When did they put this here?” I ask him.

“The tree?” He shrugs his shoulders. “A day or two after you woke up.” Then he went into explaining his bond with this caterpillar - whom he had named Vhagar since ‘ that is the name she responded the most to’.

It was a silly thing to become so affected by a mere tree. But it was not just a tree. I knew that. Baelor knew that - despite me not wanting to reckon with that fact.

…

After a night of dreaming of cherries and lemon tarts I head toward the trees again - this time alone, with a book in my hand. When I arrive I stop in my tracks, as the bench is already occupied. Not by any prince but by Miria, my sister whom I had almost forgotten was here along with my parents.

“Sister” I say and sit on the far end of the bench. She greets me by my name, her eyes looking at the tree in front of us.

“It reminds me of the cherry tree back home.” She says, her voice not carrying its usual sharpness whenever she spoke to me. 

“You remember it?” The tree and its fruit had always been mine and Romans - at least that is how I remembered it.

“Remember it? I was the one who showed it to you and Roman” she rolled her eyes at me before turning back toward the tree. “I simply obeyed father when he told me not to go back to it - unlike the two of you.”

I do not know how to respond to that. Her words did rekindle the memory of her showing me the tree. Of her later refusing to join us since father had told us not to go to it. Still, I did not know how to answer her. To be quite frank I never did know how to speak with my sister unless we threw sharp comments toward one another. So, I let silence speak for me.

The silence settles between us, as the breeze runs through the trees’ branches carrying with it the fragrance of its fruits and blossoms. We sat like that for a while, me reading my book and her simply enjoying the garden. It dawned on me then that I had not seen her in the garden before this.

“What brought you out here then, sister?” I ask her while gently closing the book, but not without letting a finger lay on the page I was on. 

“Mother is tired.” She always was. “Father is busy.” He always was. “And since my own betrothal arrangements are put on hold since you are getting married to Prince Baelor. I am left to fend for myself” 

“I am sorry” At my apology she turns her head sharply toward me and narrows her eyes - seeing if I am joking or not. I wasn’t. I knew that she had dreamed of getting betrothed and married ever since we were little girls. At the tourney it was close to happening. Then I kissed a prince by a lake in my shift and her life had to be put on hold.

“Well,” she rolls her eyes, and turns her head away from me. “It does not help that you also tried to drown yourself. A real inconvenience for the rest of us.” Her voice carries that of her usual judgemental tone. However, I see her jaw clenched and her eyes blinking away tears that seemed to form in them.

“I apologize for that” , my voice being soft and gentle. “Although I think I have been an inconvenience for you since the day I was born” This makes her laugh. It is short and shallow, but it is there.

In another life we would be able to sit there and speak plainly about the care we felt for each other. We would embrace and call each other “dear sister” without a sliver of irony. We would know how to speak to each other without thinking twice about it. But that was not the sisters we were. That is not the relationship we had. I was not the sister she wanted - she had made it clear many years ago. We were different. If we were not sisters we would most likely never speak to each other. But, with being born into the same family. Having to grow up next to each other and growing familiar with the same surroundings. It creates something there that cannot be denied. Even when you do not get along. Even if you would never be friends or even allies, you would be sisters - in this life and beyond it.

“I have not seen you and the prince together since you woke. I thought a betrothal meant courting each other.” Underneath her tone I could hear the curiosity. 

“It does mean that.” That is all I say. Hoping she can hear the things I do not say. That it was complicated. That I had put my entire heart in his hands and he had let it fall from his fingers easily.

She looks at me for a few seconds before speaking. “I heard that he was the one who proposed the cherry tree to the gardener.” I stay silent. This was not news to me. I was too smart for it to be. “A prince does not plant the tree for just anyone, sister.” She says while sighing and standing up. “But if you’d rather believe that he would do just that. I cannot stop you from doing so” She says and leaves me alone with my book and the trees.

She was stating something I had already known. It started to become clear with the wine, the books, the sudden interest of my involvement in wedding plans and at last with the tree that now spread its branches in the gardens. However, I did not know what I wanted to do with it all. Or rather, I did not know what he wanted me to do with it all.

…

I did not seek him out. I did not ask for anyone to tell him that I now spend at least an hour each day sitting by the two fruit trees with a book. I did not wish to force his hand yet again. If he wished to come, to seek me out, I wanted him to do so on his own accord. It would not be difficult for him to find me. The fruit trees were not hidden. Besides, word traveled fast in the keep. If one sought after someone it was not difficult to follow the whispers straight to them. 

So I am not surprised when on the third day, while I am reading about the Riverlands, he approaches me. Somehow, without looking up from my page I know it is him. He does not need to say anything or even come closer because I feel the shift around me. The light changing into a warmer shade and the breeze turning calmer around me.

“That is an excellent book, my lady” He says while clearing his throat. “It gets a bit slow in the middle, but then it finds its way back and it is all worth it.”

I close the book and look at him. Standing with his hands at his sides. They are not still - because his hands rarely were. He let his fingers move against his own palms in a repeating pattern, although he was most likely not conscious of this fact.

“You have not spoken to me in a fortnight, and that is what you lead with, your grace?” I surprise myself with the calm manner of which I speak the words. Not letting the nerves of seeing him again affect me.

“It was worth a shot” He says and offers me a small smile. “And it has been longer than a fortnight. Sixteen days and four hours I believe.” That makes my brows shoot up while I feel my pulse quicken. 

“You have counted?”

“Yes.” His answer is quick, bearing no shame at all that he had counted - not only the days but the hours - since he last spoke to me.

“Why?” My voice is quiet, no longer carrying the calmness that it did mere seconds ago.

“Because I love you” He looks at me then, his mismatching eyes softened as they gaze upon me. “Because I cannot pretend any longer that I do not.” He falls silent before stepping closer to me, but stopping himself when he is still a few metres away.

“I thought it was a passing infatuation, something that would keep me warm for a day or two, and then disappear. I thought that nothing would come of it. But the more I know of you, the more I learn about you - the stronger my affection toward you has become.” He shakes his head as his voice cracks on the last syllable that passes his lips.

“I love you and I cannot deny it any longer. I cannot deny that you have occupied every thought and dream that takes place in my mind.” I see him try to move closer, but he does not. He looks at me, seeking permission to be nearer. I do not give it to him. Not when my eyes are stinging and a lump forms in my throat. Not yet.

“I know what I said. I know that I hurt you. I know that no words can mend that wound. I only wish for you to know that I do want you here - that I want more than that. However, if you do not love me back, or if you cannot forgive me…” He trails off slightly and shakes his head before continuing. “If you cannot be with me in the manner that I dream of…I will love you from a distance. If that is what you wish, my lady.”

Tears are running slowly down my cheeks, and my fingers are desperately holding on to the book in my lap - as if pressing onto it will give me the words to say to him. Like it would be able to guide me in what to do. 

“I love you, Baelor.” I say and I can see him try to step forward but I put my hand up, stopping him. “ But love is not enough. Not anymore. Not after everything you said to me. ” When I look at him now, my vision is blurred. I can feel the weight of everything I have carried since Ashford come rushing back as I sat there on the bench.

“You reduced me and the moments we shared to nothing. The consequences of your words are not erased simply because you loved me while uttering them” 

“I know” he closes his eyes while he says it in an exhale.

My eyes traveled from him to the tree that stood before me. Blossoms dancing in the wind while small red berries had started to grow.

I will love you from a distance

His words echo in my head. While I still feel the sting of the words he had said to me in the rain all  those evening ago. How he had shattered me while I stood there soaking and shivering in the rain. A tree and piles of books does not dull the pain that I still feel from that day. But I would be lying to myself and the gods if I claimed it did not help.

“We cannot change the past, what has transpired is now written in the histories. Still,” I turn back to look at him while standing up from the bench. “We do have a hand in how the future plays out. Which  means I am giving you a chance to make it right.” He lets out a sound, and I see his crooked teeth slightly before he quickly tries to regain his composure when he sees I am not finished. “ I am not saying I forgive you. I am not promising you that the wound can heal and that I can ever love you fully again.” I inhale deeply before continuing. “I am simply giving you a chance and, mayhaps more importantly, time.”

He mumbles my name and smiles at me while a tear escapes his brown eye. “It is all I ask for.”

Part 8 pending

Monty arrives from the buffet and drops his metal tray on the table loud enough to startle you. You are yanked back into the present, bleak and diminishing, only six days until the Games.

“You good?” he asks you as he sits down. His plates are piled high with exotic sandwiches from the midday lunch spread: lobster rolls, tuna melts, grilled pimento cheeses, pastrami on ryes, Cubans, capreses, muffulettas, cheesesteaks, Reubens. His tall glass is full of pineapple juice, good for reducing inflammation, people keep insisting. You haven’t noticed. Your muscles still ache from a morning in the gymnasium, getting lapped by Brookie and Roosevelt on the obstacle course, getting bruised in hand-to-hand combat with the trainers as Aemond frowns from his bench and makes his pitch-black notes.

You look around the table, curious, slightly bashful. “Have you guys ever liked someone so much you can’t stop thinking about them?”

“Yeah,” Monty says morosely.

“Yeah,” Pluto agrees, then starts coughing until his chest rattles. “Sorry,” he says. “Coal dust.” Almost everyone else at the table—Brookie, Isla, Monty, you—gives him a sympathetic glance. He has the height and the muscles to go far in the arena, but not the lungs. Roosevelt smirks to himself as he sips his pineapple juice, beads of condensation snaking down the glass. Then he resumes gnawing on his beef jerky.

“Aww, you have a crush,” Isla says, beaming at you. This is a pleasant distraction from the impending carnage.

“No, I mean, I’ve had crushes before. But I didn’t think about them, like…all the time.”

Isla chuckles, nibbling on some bizarre yellow fruit called a pawpaw. “Then it wasn’t a real crush.”

“Who’s the guy?” Brookie asks.

“It’s me,” Roosevelt jokes.

Isla says: “She only likes humans.”

“Guys, come on, you know who it is.” Monty flicks his thumb towards where Aemond is lurking by the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, grim scarred face, mint green suit with faint seashells stitched into the jacket with silvery thread. He is talking to Mags and Beetee, low voices, kind conspiracies, trying to figure out how to make these kids forget they’re about to be butchered, beaten, baked, broken, bound, burned, bullet-ridden. What a way to spend two weeks each year.

And that’s the reward for winning the Games. You get to paint your hands with blood all over again, you get to become yet another lethal instrument of the machine, a gear that turns, a hammer that smashes.

You haven’t been alone with Aemond since he came to you in the pod. You can feel the blood in your face beginning to scald; you redirect your attention to your sandwich, a perplexing invention called a tuna melt, flakes of fish made rich and creamy somehow, sharp cheddar, buttery toast. It’s good, and your appetite is awake like a shark’s, primal, bottomless.

Isla, Monty, and Pluto stare at Aemond and then glance at each other uneasily. It’s scandalous. “Is that even allowed?” Brookie says. Her blonde hair is arranged in two small, tight buns. The District 1 sweatsuits are maroon with gold trim.

Isla shrugs. “Who knows. It probably doesn’t happen that often.”

“If it makes for a better show, they’ll tolerate it,” Roosevelt says, still gazing at Aemond, chewing meditatively on his strip of beef jerky, his sneakers up on the table. He flips his shaggy red hair off his forehead, his dark eyes glinting, watchful, cunning. “It won’t matter in a week anyway.”

When the Games have begun. When I’m dead.

There is an awkward pause as people try to think of what to say next. At other cafeteria tables, tributes are eating with their own factions. The girls from Districts 7, 8, and 9—Oakellen, Calico, and Gotha—are taking turns braiding each other’s hair into styles that remind you of Misty’s knot tying. Kista and Tendo from District 3 are playing a game that involves sorting and re-sorting cherry pits into small piles. Hawk, Saratoga, and Commodore are getting some kind of pep talk from Jackline Humboldt; he makes stabbing motions with a fork, and they nod along attentively. The littlest kids—Babylon from District 5, Marble from District 10, and Jet from District 12—are grimacing as they try to pick all the red pepper pieces out of their grilled pimento cheeses. Jet is a waifish rough-and-tumble girl who looks like Pluto in miniature, not just a passing resemblance but the exact same brown hair, the same almond-shaped eyes, the same ailing complexion. Roosevelt seems to catch what you’re thinking. He mouths to you: Inbreeding.

“You know, Sara doesn’t even want to be here,” Brookie says, meaning Saratoga from District 2: short dark curls, ponytail, a black sweatsuit just like Roosevelt’s. She is presently asking Jack a question at their table across the cafeteria.

You are surprised. “Isn’t she a Career?”

“Yeah, but she’s only sixteen. Her name got picked and some other girl was supposed to volunteer and go instead this year, but she chickened out at the last second and now Sara is stuck in the Games. She’s trying not to let on so the sponsors don’t abandon her, but she’s terrified.”

“Damn,” Monty says soberly. Roosevelt just smiles, still chewing on his beef jerky.

Not even all the tributes from the Career Districts want to fight, you think dismally. Hawk only volunteered so the Capitol will get him new kidneys if he wins. Sara didn’t volunteer at all. And I never would have, not in a million years.

But once, a decade ago, Aemond volunteered when he was only fifteen.

Why?

“How do you know all that?” Isla asks Brookie.

“Sara’s mentor told my mentor. Sherman is a drunk, he yaps too much.”

“He’s useless,” Roosevelt agrees.

Isla and Monty share an anxious look. Maybe their mentor drinks a lot too; it seems to be a common affliction. Maybe whoever wins this year—Commodore, if the odds remain as they are now, or Roosevelt, or Brookie—will learn to do the same, and burn out the memories and the guilt with clear scorching poison, and try to scrub the blood from their palms until they realize it’s red all the way down, and if you keep up you’ll just find yourself scouring bones.

“Well I guess Sara’s smarter than I thought,” Pluto says. “Only an idiot would sign up for this.” Then he laughs when Brookie hurls a fatty pink piece of pastrami at him, which makes him start coughing again.

“My mom cried when I volunteered,” Roosevelt says.

Brookie wrinkles her nose, like this is a weakness, a humiliation. “Really?”

“She knew I was in training to be a Career, obviously, but she never thought I’d actually go through with it. She was screaming and begging for me to take it back, as if that was an option. Once you volunteer, there’s no rescinding it.”

“Wish I had a choice in the matter,” Monty murmurs, swigging his pineapple juice. Briefly, Isla rests her head on his shoulder, and he smiles.

Roosevelt starts whistling a song, the one about a train called The City of New Orleans, chugging across the land as the red sun sets and the rail lines rust away. You exclaim: “You guys have that song in District 2?!”

“We have it in 12 too,” Pluto says.

“And 11,” Isla adds. “My grandma taught it to me. We sing it if we’re still out in the fields when dusk falls.” Then she amends, soft and wistful: “We used to, I mean.”

“That’s wild,” Brookie marvels. “My sister sings it to get her twins to sleep.”

“What’s New Orleans, anyway?” you say. “Does anyone know?”

“It’s a place, but it doesn’t really exist,” Roosevelt says. “It’s made up, like Atlantis or Detroit.”

“No, it’s real,” Monty says.

“Yeah right.”

“Seriously. It’s in District 11. Or it would be, I guess it’s underwater now. But every once in a while someone digs up an old green road sign and it’ll say fifty miles to New Orleans, or a hundred miles to New Orleans, or whatever.”

“Huh.” Roosevelt is gnawing on his beef jerky thoughtfully. “Montgomery is a place too, isn’t it?”

Monty nods. “It was important, but no one can remember why.”

Roosevelt turns to Pluto. “Is Pluto a place?”

“No, not that I’m aware of.”

“So your parents just hated you?”

Pluto chuckles placidly. “A lot of guys are named Pluto where I come from. Not sure what it means, though.”

“He’s the god of the dead,” Aemond says, and everyone startles and whirls to see that he’s standing behind you, his arms still crossed over his chest, his silver hair braided, his sapphire glinting under the harsh artificial light, the eye he has left steely. Tributes are ogling from other tables. No one speaks, so Aemond elaborates: “Pluto was the caretaker of souls and lived in the underworld. Coal miners work long hours down in the darkness and the dust. It’s not difficult to see where the association might have originated.”

Pluto gazes up at him, still thunderstruck. “Right,” he says eventually.

“God of the dead,” Roosevelt snickers. “Big shoes to fill, Pluto my man.”

Pluto titters nervously and coughs into his elbow. They all wait for Aemond to leave: another district’s mentor, an ill-wisher, a killer, a threat. But he doesn’t. He looks down at your plate, as if to make sure you’re eating. He is pleased to observe the toast crumbs that litter the white bone china. You smile up at him, and Aemond—although he doesn’t seem to have intended to—thaws a bit and smiles back.

“I’m…going to go get another pawpaw,” Isla says, rising from her chair.

“Yeah, totally, me too,” Brookie says as she hurries after her. Pluto and Monty mutter some pretexts and escape as well. Now only you and Roosevelt are left, and he shows no signs of retreat. He still has his shoes up on the table; he has at last finished his leathery strip of beef jerky and is licking his fingertips as he ponders Aemond. Aemond glares at him. Roosevelt blows him a kiss.

“Everything’s fine,” you assure Aemond.

Still, he doesn’t leave for a while, and when he finally does he does he stalks to the wall and glowers at Roosevelt from there. The mentor from District 10, Kerry, tries to strike up a conversation and Aemond ignores her. From the buffet, Isla, Brookie, Monty, and Pluto peer over at him like skittish deer, wondering whether it’s safe to return to the table.

“It’s not fair, you know,” Roosevelt says, although he doesn’t sound serious. “My mentor doesn’t want to fuck me, so he won’t try as hard.”

You hide your face behind a gulp of pineapple juice. “We haven’t done anything.”

“Of course you haven’t. Aemond is cold, and weird, and inanimate. Can you imagine him out of a suit? I bet he has another one on underneath. And another one after that.”

He’s more corporeal than you’d imagine, you think, recalling his red phone and feeling sick. “Do you remember his Games?”

“Definitely. You don’t?”

Vague echoing recollections: panes of glass, rippling blue light. “Most people in District 4 try to ignore the broadcasts as much as we can. If I saw anything from his year, I’ve since forgotten it.”

“The arena was incredible,” Roosevelt says, hushed, reverent. “They’ve been playing reruns of it on the news here, it was one of the best Games ever. They made this huge aquarium, maybe ten stories tall, with a walkway that spiraled down to the ground. So tributes claimed different parts of the path and then tried to defend their territory. But every once in a while a section of the floor would drop out from under a kid’s feet and they’d get dunked in a tank. Sometimes it was just sea turtles or fish, and they’d be able to claw their way back up onto the main walkway. But then in other tanks there were sharks or electric eels or barracudas. Once a floor panel fell away, it was never replaced, so the livable space gradually got smaller and smaller, with tributes scrapping over the islands. By the end of the Games, the tanks were so full of blood that the water was red instead of blue.”

You picture it, even though you don’t want to: Aemond at fifteen and bathed in scarlet light, dripping with saltwater, tacky with blood, stalking and savage.

Roosevelt plucks his butter knife off the table and starts twirling it absentmindedly. He’s a little slower than you are with a blade, you notice; but he’s quicker everywhere else. How could I kill him? How could I want to? “Aemond was a good swimmer, so that helped.”

“What weapon did he use?”

“He had a spear, but he ended up losing it in a shark tank. It sank to the bottom and he couldn’t get it back. He snapped a spine off a lionfish, and that’s what he used to stab that girl Sapphire to death.”

You flinch, a palpable and mortifying weakness. Why can’t I go home?

Roosevelt grins; it stretches slowly across his face until it is broad and toothy. “He wanted to live. That’s a big part of what makes someone a victor. You can’t cling to honor or decency. You can’t get tired, you can’t get soft. You have to want to live more than you want anything else.”

You watch him as he spins the butter knife: between his fingers, over his knuckles, back into his palm. “Roosevelt, can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“What?”

“That means go ahead. Ask your question.”

“Why did you volunteer?”

You expect him to laugh or to smirk, but he does neither. Instead he puts down the butter knife and glances to the buffet to make sure your friends are still at a distance. “Promise you won’t tell anybody?”

“Sure,” you say, puzzled.

He sighs and looks at you, dark eyes, constellations of freckles. “I like guys.”

At first you don’t know what he means. “Okay…?”

Roosevelt smiles. “No, I like guys the way you like guys.”

“Oh.” You stare at him, abruptly grateful that for all your hardships, that isn’t one of them.

“I mean, I like girls too. But I like guys more.”

“I get it,” you say, keeping your voice low so no one will overhear.

“Do you have people like me in District 4?”

“A few. They can’t get married or live together, but as long as they’re discrete they usually get left alone.”

“That’s not too bad.”

“No, it isn’t, I guess.”

“In District 2…we’re a military district, you know? We make weapons, we train Peacekeepers, we have more Careers than all the rest of Panem put together. There’s a very specific expectation of what it means to be a man, and if you deviate from that, there’s nothing for you there. But it’s different in the Capitol.” His dark eyes are suddenly alight, not with mischief or subterfuge but something so much worse: hope. “Nobody cares about who you sleep with or who you love. There are people like me who are generals and architects and Gamemakers and stylists and advisors to President Snow, even. I could have stayed where I was, but I’d be settling for only ever experiencing a tiny sliver of what the world has to offer. When I win, I can do anything.”

That’s not true, you think with despair. The Capitol won’t give you many choices. No victor has ever truly won. But what’s the point in telling him that now? It’s not as if he can go back and un-volunteer. And you don’t want to hurt him. You have no stomach at all for hurting people, which is inauspicious given the circumstances.

“I do miss my mom, though,” Roosevelt says, gazing down at the table, and for a second you think he might actually cry. Then he rakes his red hair back with his fingers and is dauntless again. “But I’ll see her soon. During my Victory Tour.”

“If you don’t want anyone to know why you volunteered, why did you tell me?”

“I figured you wouldn’t judge. And I don’t really expect you to last that long. No offense.”

“None taken. I think a lot of people agree.”

“I’m sorry you got mixed up in all this. You seem nice, you seem normal. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Thanks.” What is it like to have that sort of confidence? What is it like to look at these other kids and know in your bones that you can kill them? “Do you really think you’re going to win?”

“Process of elimination,” Roosevelt says brightly, then begins pointing around the cafeteria. “Hawk has bum kidneys. Sara is petrified. Brookie is good, but not as good as she thinks she is. You know your way around a knife, but you can’t fight, and as much as he’d like to Aemond can’t fix that in the next six days. I just had to figure out what to do about that monster from your district.”

You steal a glimpse of him: broad shoulders, shorn flaxen hair, bent across his table to listen closely to Jack’s lethal counsel. His royal blue sweatsuit matches yours, but you can’t call yourself teammates. You rarely speak at all. “How are you going to beat Commodore?”

“I’m going to let the arena kill him,” Roosevelt says. “He’s slow, but I can’t risk getting close. If he ever got a grip on me, he could break my arm or my leg or my neck, and then I’d be out of luck. But whatever the Gamemakers have cooked up will have traps. Weather, wildlife, terrain. He’s a big stupid ogre, I’ll just stay out of his way until he gets sucked into quicksand or skewered on pikes. Commodore-kebab.” He cackles, but you don’t get the reference.

“No one has any idea what the arena could be this year?”

“Oh, I’m sure there are some hints floating around. But I haven’t heard them. Anybody with an inkling knows that if the Capitol catches them sharing it, they’ll never do any talking again. If they get to live at all, they’ll be an Avox, tongue cut out and spending the rest of their life scrubbing floors and toilets.”

One of the trainers comes into the cafeteria and blows a whistle, and it’s time to go back to the gymnasium for the afternoon session. You expect Aemond to direct you to one of the stations like he usually does, throwing axes, turning potatoes into batteries, starting fires, making shelters, lifting weights, swinging swords. But he leads you to a treadmill instead.

“Because you’ve given up on me learning how to do anything else?”

“So that when the time comes, you can run,” he says, and then goes to take notes from his usual metal bench.

When the work for the day is done, Charm arrives to fetch Commodore. She’s made an appointment for him with his Prep Team, she insists he needs his skin exfoliated and moisturized again, that the arid climate here doesn’t agree with him. Charm is wearing a short red dress covered in tassels that resemble the tentacles of a sea anemone and crimson heels to match. Her earrings are fishhooks, and from each hangs a live bloodworm, wriggling and writhing, raining blood drops down onto her collarbones until tiny red lagoons form in the dips there. Charm and Commodore depart while you’re still saying goodbye to your friends, leaving you and Aemond to take the elevator back up to your suite alone.

In the metallic box that rises swiftly, Aemond stands as far away from you as he can. He gazes straight ahead at the closed doors as you keep glancing over at him, his hands in his suit pockets, his face stoic. You think of what he did for you yesterday—unexpected, unasked for, spectacular, selfless—and you can’t stop, even if he’s not touching you now, even if he won’t even look at you, even if the only sound is the mechanical hum of the elevator.

Are we really never going to talk about it? you think, deflated, dejected. Did I do something wrong? Did I repulse him, does he regret it?

Suddenly, Aemond reaches out and hits the red Emergency Stop! button on the panel, and the elevator lurches to a halt. Your eyes skate across Aemond’s left hand. A faint bruise still inks his ring finger, blood trapped by the pressure of your teeth. Now you’re remembering what it felt like, and your face and throat are ablaze beneath paper-thin skin, and your muscles are shifting as if he’s already offered to do it again, but that’s not what he does. “You can figure it out for yourself from now on, I assume,” Aemond says.

“You knew exactly what to do.”

“It’s a skill I’ve had to learn.” He taps his suit jacket, where you know there is a hidden pocket sewn into the lining for his red phone.

You are instantly nauseous, you sink like an anchor. “Now I feel terrible.”

“No, I didn’t mean...” At last, Aemond looks at you, and now his eye is not icy but kind, and familiar, and wanting to be understood. “I did that for you because I wanted to. It didn’t feel forced. It’s the only time I’ve ever had the luxury of choosing what would happen next.”

“That’s a relief,” you say softly, still wondering if you can touch him, if he would let you take his hand or if he would pull away, if it was only a gift or an act of mercy, or if it was a desire too.

“You said you’d never experienced it before, and I thought I could help.”

“Thank you, Aemond.”

“I’m sorry there’s not much I can do about the rest.”

Never getting married, never having children, never having… “That’s alright. I don’t think I’m ready for the…the whole thing.” It seems pretty impossible to fathom, actually; it’s not something you’ve been anywhere close to. You recall pushing in tampons before swimming and tentative probing in the dark of night, neither of which were ever even remotely pleasurable. Would it be different with a man? Depends on the man, probably, you think gloomily. If you live to find out, you won’t get to choose. “I really appreciate your…thoughtfulness.”

“I did it because I wanted to,” Aemond says again.

You peek at his left hand, no ring except for the bruise you left on him. He notices and hides both hands in his pockets once more. “Aemond, you aren’t married, are you?”

“No.”

“No girlfriend or anything?”

“I don’t think it’s easy for someone like me to maintain a genuine relationship. Who could love me and sit at home knowing I’m fucking other people? Who could be kind and gentle and understand what I did in the arena, what I do every single year when the Games come back around again?”

“It does sound difficult,” you admit feebly. You twist the knife that hangs from your neck, skim the whirls of your fingerprints over the silver sheath Aemond had made. He’s always helping me. Is that because it’s his job, or because he cares more than a mentor should?

“Some victors have families of their own. Mags does, Beetee does, and they do a decent job of keeping that part of their lives separate from the Games. It’s different for me.”

Because the Capitol wants him in a different way. The way they wanted Sirena, the way they already want me.

Aemond pivots. “Have you ever butchered a goliath grouper before?”

You raise your eyebrows. They’re enormous, they’re beasts. They’re like the dinosaurs kids in District 12 don’t learn about. “Once, a long time ago. Not alone. I helped Daddy.”

“Could you do it by yourself now?”

“I think so.” You reconsider. “Yes, I could do it. If you want me to.”

“Great. I’m going to get you one for your private training session where the Gamemakers will assign you a score. I want you to break down the carcass as fast as you can.” He smacks the Emergency Stop! button and the elevator resumes its ascent.

“Okay. I will.”

“And throw in a little something extra too.”

“Like what?”

“I trust you,” Aemond says. “You have good instincts.”

At first you don’t know what he means. What have you done so far besides prove hopeless at combat and wrath? You’ve smiled and waved to the crowds, you’ve blown kisses, you’ve sparkled when they were watching. But maybe that’s what the Capitol wants most from you.

So two days later, you are expecting it when you enter the gymnasium to find an eight-hundred pound goliath grouper suspended on a hook. As the Gamemakers observe from behind glass, you unsheathe your blade and cut with inborn speed, with innate surety. You dismantle the beast that’s bigger than a man: trimming the fins, gutting the cavity, following the lines of the ribs and the spine to slice away neat fillets until only the head and the skeleton remain, and then you decapitate the creature, sawing between the vertebrae until the bones clatter to the floor and the discorporate head gawps lifelessly, the hook impaled through its lower jaw.

Aemond has already drawn halfmoons of silver glitter beneath your eyes as you were coming down in the elevator. You remember Charm’s bloodworms and the gloss of crimson on her skin, and you wet your fingers with the grouper’s gore and paint your mouth with it, eyes that shine, lips that bleed.

Still clutching the mother of pearl handle of your knife, you flash a smile, blow a red kiss, sweep a low bow to the Gamemakers. They stand from their seats and applaud.

Charm is dressed for comfort, or at least as comfortable as she ever gets. She is curled up on the couch beside Commodore, her short golden hair secured in a silk scarf patterned with frothy turquoise waves, her dainty feet tucked into matching slippers. She is wearing a very fuzzy housecoat and her face slathered with a thick layer of transluscent green gel that smells like mint. In her lap is a large bowl of popcorn and little multicolored chocolate candies called Mars Morsels.

“Here, sea monster,” Charm says, and tosses a black Mars Morsel at Commodore. He catches it in his mouth and she claps in delight.

You and Aemond are on the other side of the couch, very quiet, very rigid, trying not to touch each other. You tell yourself not to think about him as you breathe his cologne and feel his warmth creeping towards you through the darkness, the only luminance coming from the television screen. Aemond accidentally relaxes for a moment and his knee bumps into yours; he promptly snatches it away and lights himself a cigarette with his cylindrical crystal lighter.

“Aemond, stop,” Charm scolds him, waving the smoke away with a hand that shimmers with rings. “You’ll give me wrinkles.”

The new hour arrives, and coverage on the television shifts from weather to the announcement of the training scores. All four of you sit up straighter, gazing into the pixelated glow. There is a panel arranged around a semicircular table: Caesar Flickerman, the host of the Games, and two victors to act as commentators, a very glamorous middle-aged woman from District 1 named Ruby Cervelt and the notorious Jackline Humboldt from District 4. Commodore perks up when he sees Jack; Aemond only frowns. He puts out his cigarette in an ashtray built into the armrest of the couch.

Caesar is making brief introductory small talk with his colleagues. “With only four days left until the 47th Hunger Games officially begin, do you think we’re getting a feel for this particular group of tributes?”

“Oh, it’s a great group, a great group!” Ruby trills with a frozen, plastic smile.

Jack grins, white teeth, flat reptilian eyes. “Yeah Caesar, you know, every year there are different personalities and a different chemistry, but I think this is shaping up to be a really interesting Games. We have some obvious favorites, but I think there will be more than a few surprises too.”

“Yes, absolutely,” Ruby coos banally. “You’re so right, Jack.”

“Is she drugged or what?” Charm says to Aemond.

He murmurs back: “You’d know.”

Caesar chuckles, holding a sealed red envelope aloft. “Speaking of surprises, should we see if there are any tonight?” Both Jack and Ruby cheer as he dramatically rips open the envelope. “We’ll go in numerical order as always, beginning with District 1.”

“And ladies first!” Ruby says.

“Yes, of course, we aren’t barbarians, are we? Ladies must always go first.” More laughter from the panel. You think morosely: If it had been ladies first on Reaping Day in District 4, I wouldn’t be here. Some other girl would have volunteered, and she wouldn’t have known she’d be traveling to the Capitol with Commodore until it was too late. “And our exceptionally lovely lady from District 1 this year is Brookite Barker…”

Each tribute is scored by the Gamemakers on a scale of 1 to 12, in honor of the number of districts that serve the Capitol. The only way to get a 1 is to be just north of a corpse. The only way to get a 12 is to be perfect. Functionally, an 11 is considered the highest score one can aspire to, and it is rarely bestowed upon a tribute, sometimes less than once per year. A lofty score can help attract sponsors, but it can also put a target on your back; if other tributes and their mentors think you’re the one to beat, they’ll often conspire to take you out of the running before turning against each other.

Brookie receives a score of 9, which you know she’ll be annoyed about. Ruby waxes on at great length about how beautiful Brookie is, and at last Caesar manages to corral her back on track. Hawk gets a 7, you assume because although he’s a Career, the Gamemakers know about the fact that his genetically condemned kidneys could decide to quit at any minute. Jack speaks highly of him and says he’s a nice guy.

But nice doesn’t win the Games, you think, watching the screen. Wanting to live does. Wanting to live more than being a good person, or being truthful, or being in possession of your own future and body and soul.

Next up is District 2. Sara gets an 8. Roosevelt gets a 10. Brookie is fuming for sure.

The girl from District 3, Kista, receives a score of 6. Tendo gets a 5. Jack cautions the audience not to overlook the technological prowess of District 3 tributes, and reminds them that Beetee won the 34th Games not so long ago.

Now it’s your turn, and there is a brief diversion as Caesar makes a comment about how brightly you sparkled during the Tribute Parade and the party hosted at Aemond’s house of glass. Ruby oohs and aahs as a few clips are shown. Jack just smiles tightly; if he has a favorite this year, it must be Commodore. Then Caesar reads your score from the Gamemakers: a 7.

Aemond exhales in relief; only now do you realize he’d been holding his breath. “That’s fine,” he tells you. “Top half. We can make it work.”

Charm agrees as she chomps on popcorn: “Not low enough to be hopeless, not high enough to attract negative attention. Well done.”

Caesar Flickerman continues: “And for the male tribute from District 4, Commodore, we have…oh my, what a development, the strapping lad Commodore has scored an 11!”

Charm yelps with joy and leaps up from the couch. “Fantastic! Incredible! Wonderful job, you whale shark of a boy!”

“Congratulations, Commodore,” Aemond says, but it sounds hollow.

Charm asks Aemond: “When was the last time District 4 had an 11?!”

“I don’t know.” He’s staring vacantly at the television screen, blue-white light on his scarred face, reflections strobing in his sapphire. “Not my year.”

“No, everyone underestimated you, didn’t they?” Charm grins. “And Jack only got a 10.”

On the screen, the aforementioned Jack is saying: “Now Caesar, at the risk of sounding hyperbolic, I must confess that this Commodore is a truly singular specimen. I’ve spent a lot of time training with him over the past week, and I think he’s the best tribute we’ve seen in years from any district. I think he’s more impressive than Aemond ever was. I think he might even have a brighter future than me.”

Beside you, Aemond makes a noise, halfway between a scoff and a sigh.

“You think you’re better than Jack?” Commodore says, glaring at Aemond from across the length of the couch. “You’re both victors, you’ve both killed people.”

Charm pats his arm, a mild reprimand. “Commodore, please—”

“I never enjoyed it,” Aemond says.

“What does it matter?” Commodore’s dark, deep-set eyes shine with clandestine intelligence, with needle-sharp betrayal. “If he can help me win, why would I care what his motivations are or if he’s a good person? Do you think I have the luxury of the moral high ground? I know you’d like to see me lying dead in that arena in four days, but I don’t plan to go out that way.”

Aemond stands and says to you: “Tell me about the rest of the scores tomorrow.” Then he crosses the ocean of shadows to his bedroom and slams the door as he disappears inside.

“You had to do that?” Charm says to Commodore, exasperated. “He’s been fair to you. He still has the power to help you. Don’t rattle him, he’s stressed enough!” She groans and then goes after Aemond, muttering about scores and arenas. She vanishes into the bedroom too and you can hear them talking in there, muffled voices, Aemond forceful and Charm accommodating.

You and Commodore watch the television in awkward silence. The rest of the scores are announced, with few noteworthy revelations. No one else gets above a 7 except Isla, who receives an 8, and you wonder what talents she’s been hiding. The lowest score goes to little Babylon from District 5, only twelve years old. You hope he’s not watching right now. You hope his mentor and escort are keeping him distracted, and he will sleep easily tonight, and he will dream of home, and he will wake believing it is possible to return there.

“Commodore,” you say softly, not knowing if he’ll answer. “Why did you volunteer?”

He stares straight ahead at the television and doesn’t speak for so long that you assume he never will. Then he looks at you and says: “I’ve always been big. I’ve always been ugly. People have always assumed that because I’m quiet, I’m stupid. I figured that if I’m going to be a freak anyway, I should have something to show for it. I can take the place of some other District 4 boy who would have gotten slaughtered in the arena. And I can have a life where people appreciate what I am.”

Oh God, you think, horrified, heartbroken. None of them know what winning really means.

“I don’t hate you or anything,” Commodore says. “I don’t really know you. I just…only one of us can win, right? And a lot of these other tributes…I could kill them if I had to, I think. But you’re from home. It just seems wrong. It seems like something people from our district would have a hard time forgiving. So when I keep my distance, that’s why.”

“I completely understand. No worries.”

Commodore offers you his hand, like you’re making a deal. When you shake it, he’s gentle, but your flesh and bones are eclipsed by his.

There are three days left until the Games.

The revelry is spiking like a fever here in the Capitol, and one last party is being held before the death march to the final hours: physical inspections to ensure all tributes are in the best possible condition, rest to make them fresh for the massacre in the arena, televised interviews with Caesar Flickerman.

When the car stops in front of President Snow’s mansion—rambling and white and surrounded by an extravagant garden illuminated by fairy lights, cold and colorless like stars—Charm and Commodore get out first. You stay in your seat thinking of home, your family, your house, your boat, your shoreline that you can never revisit. You reflexively twirl the knife that hangs from your throat by a long silver chain.

Aemond notices and says: “Are you doing that on purpose?”

You jolt back to reality and your hand goes still. “What? No, I’m just nervous.”

“Well don’t stop.” He gives you a smile and then climbs out of the car. You follow, out of the metal cage, into cool night air and clamoring crowds of Capitol elites with their faces powered white like ghosts, their claws long and polished, their hair arranged in impractical designs and dyed impossible colors.

You are immediately encircled by journalists, photographers, bright-eyed manic party guests. You beam and wave, because you need them to love you so they won’t let you get butchered in the arena. You are wearing a black ballgown, voluminous and difficult to walk in. Your exposed skin—blessedly, not too exposed tonight—is misted with silver glitter, your neck, your shoulders, your collarbones, your arms. The last step is always the same: Aemond draws glistening semicircles under your eyes with his thumbs, and you could do it yourself but you like that he does it. It makes you feel like you aren’t alone in this. It reminds you that to survive here, you must camouflage who you truly are and keep it secret, sacred.

“Oh, look how you sparkle!” a woman is sighing romantically, and then she reaches out to touch you, to scratch at the shimmering metallic flecks on your shoulder to see if she can dislodge them. You try to keep smiling as you flee from her. Through the crowd, you can see Commodore being manhandled as well, his colossal arms pinched and squeezed. He wears a roomy suit patterned with sequined orcas. Charm is beside him attempting to divert the assailants; she is dressed like a sea urchin, long dark spines stabbing in every direction, false eyelashes like black daggers.

“Aren’t you lovely?” grinning men keep saying as you try to pass by them, fumbling with the skirt of your gown and your high heels, always smiling, always sparkling. “Aren’t you lovely? Aren’t you lovely?”

Then you catch them hissing to each other: “The fruit is already ripe, no need to wait for this one.”

“There’s just something about a District 4 girl, I don’t know if it’s the sun or the ocean air or what…”

“Isn’t she perfect? Dangerous enough to keep things interesting. Fragile enough to still be a damsel in distress.”

“Always smiling like that and blowing kisses, she’s a total tease.”

“Every time they show her on the tv, I get hard as a fucking rock…”

You think to yourself as loudly as possible as you stumble across the cobblestones and towards the grand entranceway: They aren’t looking at me. They’re looking at the sparkles. They don’t know me, they can’t see me, they can’t touch me—

Except that they can, and people are raking their fingernails through your hair, and laughing as they try to scour the glitter from your skin, and grabbing your waist, and even though you know you can’t you’re about to break your composure when Aemond finds you in the tumultuous sea and replaces their hungry hands, presses a palm into the small of your back, smiles and nods diplomatically to the hoard as he gradually leads you away.

Aemond takes you not up the front steps into the mansion but across the yard towards the garden, and by the halfway point your lungs and heart are beginning to slow from a frenzy to a murmur. Sprinklers are watering the lawn, fine mist and kaleidoscopic fogbows, light in dark places. Aemond is wearing a black suit, simple but precisely tailored. Half of his moonshine hair is pulled back from his face while the rest flows freely; his sapphire glints under the twinkle lights.

A woman in a magenta dress approaches, and Aemond stops and removes his hand from you. You stand there on the lush damp grass, mystified, as the woman cups his face and strokes his scar, her clawlike pink fingernails lustrous.

She grins and says: “I remember watching you get this.”

Aemond’s voice is like you’ve never heard it before, purring and servile. “It was worth it, if it led me to you.”

“Call me.”

“I will. I’ve wanted to. I’ve been so busy, you know, this time of year…”

Now the woman turns to you, no jealousy, only curiosity…and maybe a dash of pity too. “You really want to save this one.”

“She’s too kind,” Aemond says, and he sounds like himself again. He sounds like he’s telling the truth. “She shouldn’t be here. Still eligible for the Games by less than twenty-four hours, terrible luck. It feels intolerably cruel.”

“I can help.”

“I knew you would. You’re a saint.”

She chuckles, genuine fondness glowing in her eyes. “Oh, Aemond. You and your saints and your gods and your ruins.” Then she sashays away and into the mansion, pausing twice to glance back at Aemond before she is gone, and each time he waves. But as soon as she’s out of sight his whole demeanor changes, his shoulders collapse and his face falls, and he trudges onwards until you reach a towering marble fountain at the edge of the garden.

Aemond sits on the rim and lights a cigarette, smoke drifting skyward to vanish into the indigo and the stars. You join him, and it’s hard to see the plants that surround you in the darkness, thorny knots of roses and vast unfurled orchids. You gaze up at the statue in the center of the fountain, a naked man wielding a trident and encircled by horses.

“Who is that?” you ask.

“Neptune. The god of the sea.”

“How many gods are there?”

He smiles tiredly. “Depends on who you ask, I guess.”

You don’t want to know. You have to know. “Aemond, what happens if I win?”

“Right afterwards?” he says, taking a drag. “They’ll take a few days to scrub you clean and treat any injuries, let you eat, let you sleep. They’ll put you under constant surveillance to make sure you don’t do anything to damage the merchandise. Then there will be an auction.”

“What?” You gape at him, certain you’ve misheard. “An auction? People bidding on me?”

Aemond gazes down into the dark rippling water, unable to look at you. “Just for the first time. You aren’t involved, it takes place over the phone and brokers handle it. You just show up once it’s over.”

“Once someone has paid to sleep with me.”

Softly, like it pains him: “Yes.”

“And…this person…are they…?” The very first time? With some stranger, with someone like those men who paw and leer? “Will they be gentle?”

Aemond flicks ashes away and says nothing.

“Aemond?”

He hesitates. “There’s an adage. ‘Victor’s blood.’ The sort of men who participate in those auctions, they say that, and there’s…a measure of pride associated with it.”

“Blood, like, my blood?” That can’t be right. At some point, the nightmare has to end. “They’re going to try to hurt me on purpose so they can tell people they made a killer bleed?”

Aemond nods, still not looking at you, rubbing his scarred forehead as embers burn at the end of his cigarette. “But it’s only the first time. Then you’re given a red phone like mine, and you settle into a routine, and it gets a little easier.”

“And these men who buy me…will I have to have their children?”

“You might. If you conceive, then yes.”

“Do you have children?”

He flinches, exhales a low moan. “Why would you want to talk about this?”

“Because I thought you wanted me to know what winning means, I thought we didn’t have any secrets, so I’m just trying to understand!”

“Yes, I have children,” Aemond confesses, like extracting a molar with deep gory roots.

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve seen them playing at parks and walking to school, little kids who look like me, and I’ve recognized their mothers, and I…”

You start sobbing, not just from misery, not just from fear, but from the inescapable horror of everything here, even worse than people think it is, even worse than you could have imagined, and there is no other world for you, you have to make the best of this one, but what is the best you can hope for? To die swiftly and painlessly in the arena? To survive to be bought and violated and forced to train tributes to torture each other year after year?

“Don’t,” Aemond whispers, and turns your face so he can whisk your tears away. “You can’t let them see you upset.”

“I’m sorry,” you sob, unable to stop.

“You’re going to fuck up your makeup.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat helplessly.

“I would do anything to change the way all of this works,” Aemond says, and his words are desperate, and his pale blue eye is begging you to forgive him for something he didn’t do. “But I can’t. I can’t change the Games, and I can’t change what happens afterwards. But I swear that I will stay with you through all of it, and I will help you as much as I can. I know you want to live. I want you to live too. So please let me help, and don’t forget how badly you wanted a chance to survive when I met you.”

“Okay,” you whimper. “Can we go to your house?”

“What?”

“I just want to go there for a while. Someplace quiet. Someplace safe.” Someplace that’s yours.

“We can go there,” Aemond says, a bit bewildered. “But we have to talk to the people here first, alright?”

“Alright.”

Aemond offers you his cigarette, and at first you don’t understand why. He smiles. “Give it a try. Can’t hurt at this point.”

He’s just trying to distract you, but it works. You grab the cigarette, burned nearly all the way down, and take an uncertain drag with a shaking hand. It’s awful, dark and bitter, and you cough and gasp for air, but it makes you start laughing. Aemond laughs too.

“You looked very cool there for about two seconds,” he says.

You toss the end of the cigarette into the churning water of the fountain. “How the hell do you smoke those?”

“You get used to it.” He stands and holds out a hand, his left, still discolored by the bruise on his ring finger. “You can get used to just about anything.” You take his hand and walk with him into the mansion.

Aemond stays with you like a shadow, and now the party guests don’t touch you quite so much, and they don’t just comment on the training score you received from the Gamemakers or the knife swinging at your breastbone or how brightly you sparkle. They also keep saying how good you and Aemond look together, and like wolves their eyes gleam and their incisors drip with saliva, men fantasizing about taking you from him, women scheming to drag him away from you, journalists scribbling notes and cameras flashing. You see the other tributes enduring their own trials—Brookie suffering the caresses of old men, Roosevelt being commanded to do tricks like an animal—but it isn’t so bad for them, because they believe that once they win the Games they’ll be free.

When you and Aemond get in a car to leave, he gives the driver an address that isn’t the Tribute Center where you’ve been living since you arrived in the Capitol, every day full of new hopes and new terrors. His house is just as you remember it, empty and echoing, transparent walls; only the bathrooms and bedrooms have misted glass so they can’t be so easily spied into.

Is that to discourage people from touching him? you think as you wander from room to room, clicking along in your heels, going slowly so you won’t trip on your gown. Aemond follows you, his hands in his suit pockets, not entirely sure what you’re doing here. His strange skinny dogs pad alongside him. So guests won’t try to undress him in the kitchen or the dining room or in front of his case of treasures?

You enter a room that is bare except for a single pink couch. You settle into the cushions as the dogs gaze up at you, long solemn faces and scrutinizing eyes. “Sit with me,” you say.

Aemond does, mystified but intrigued. He’s close enough that he’s touching the voluminous skirt of your black gown.

“Why are your dogs so weird looking?”

He laughs, and you think: Why couldn’t we have met in District 4? “They’re Salukis, they’re one of the oldest dog breeds in the world.”

“Did they live in Ancient Egypt?” you say, remembering what he told you about mummies and pharaohs and pyramids.

“They very well might have, yes.”

“Tell me more about this place Ancient Egypt.”

So he does, but you don’t listen as much as you watch him, the way he smiles like the Games don’t exist, the way his eye is blue like the desert sky, or the Nile River, or turquoise mined from the Sinai Peninsula. Why did we have to meet here? Why must we both be trapped in our own tombs?

“Aemond, why did you volunteer?”

“You’ll know soon. You’ll meet him.”

Him? “I’ll meet who?”

But Aemond doesn’t respond. He pets one of his skeletal dogs instead, scratching the silky fur of its ears. He doesn’t want to talk about it.

You look around the sparse room, the barren house. “You could make this homey, you know.”

Aemond smiles, just a phantom of one. “What would you do with it?”

“Well…my sister Misty ties sailing knots, and she arranges them into all these marvelous shapes. Dolphins, manta rays, sea horses, lobsters. So I’d hang some on the walls. Misty makes rugs too, you could use a few of those. And we could get vases and fill them with seashells from District 4, and make windchimes for the front porch and the backyard. And we could go fishing on Daddy’s boat and keep our best catches, sailfish and sharks, have them preserved and mounted. And I would go to the market, or…whatever you have here in the Capitol.”

“A Megamart. You’d love it, a hundred different kinds of fish.”

“Right. I’d try out all sorts of recipes and I’d learn what your favorites are. And we’d have dinner together every night, just like my family does. And when you had to leave…” When the red phone rings, and you have to answer. “I’d never ask about where you’d been. I’d just tell you, whenever you came back, that I’m glad you’re home.”

Aemond shakes his head, and his eye is slick and horrorstruck as the mirage shines so vividly and then dissolves away, and his voice is only a whisper. “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

You cross the empty air to him, drape your arms around his neck, and as you fold into his chest he catches you, thunderous heartbeat, careful hands. “Aemond, do you want me to win because I’m from your district?”

“No.”

“Or because I remind you of Sirena?”

“No.”

“I guess we should go back to the Tribute Center soon.”

You were younger, only slightly older this his eldest. You were in the prime of your life. Fun was all you knew. For some reason you had set your sights on Maekar. He had been the one to keep it casual. Then slowly over time, it began to not be so.

And like most thing that involved an emotion outside anger or frustration it scared him. You scared him.

So he broke it off. It was easier he told himself. To live in the sadness and emptiness of life without you. It was for the best for him. For you, because Gods you deserved so so much better.

You deserved someone youn—You. You?

He could hear your voice, your laughter, and for a moment he thought it was his mind playing tricks on him. It would mot be the first time. Sometimes he swore he could still feel you next to him or hear your laughter as you made coffee in the morning.

But this was real. You were real, and you were here. You walked in on Valarr's arm. His nephew. You were here. With. His. Nephew.

His fists bawled slightly, watching as his mother moved to greet you, and you did not look at him. Purposefully he would assume. He knew this was all an act. To get under his skin, and he knew he should not be playing into it. He would remain, calm, collected, not giving you what you wanted.

And then he was on his feet. Myriah turned from you to her youngest son, "Maekar?" she questioned, confusion filling her features.

You raised a brow as if you were daring him to cause a scene, "This is my Uncle Maekar," Valarr then introduced ever the gentleman.

He turned toward you, and you nodded holding his mismatched gaze, a fond smile pulling at your lips which further caused Maekar's blood to boil. You then turned back to the man, "I don't believe we've had the pleasure to meet," you lied.

Valarr's hands were on you, and you were smiling. You were the vision the perfect girl for his brother's golden boy. You were radiant. You were polite. You were charming. Which was something he already knew.

And you were successfully getting deeper under his skin as the clock ticked another second.

You listed to Baelor's stories as if he held your entire attention. Trying to impress your new boyfriend's father. But Maekar knew better. Your eyes kept glancing to him, gauging his reaction that he was trying to remain as neutral as possible, but he was failing.

During this horrid dinner he had learned things about yours and Valarr's new blossoming relationship. Everything entirely against his own will.

You had been together almost two months. Two days after Maekar had called things off. You had met through friends. Your first date was absolutely perfect, because of course anything Valarr planned would be.

Baelor though you were perfect together. Though he had not said the words directly, his youngest brother could tell solely based off the way he kept looking at the pair of you.

He talked about you as if you were the love of his love, and you kept gushed about him with a bright smile on your face that almost seemed real. He would have believed it more if he had not seen the real things so many times before.

You leaned forward whispering something into Valarr's ear, his hand moving to run up and down your back causing Maekar's vision to momentarily go white. You stood, with a polite smile. He did not hear what Valarr said, instead watching you closely watching you disappear.

Less than a full. minute later he was moving before he could stop himself.

He pushed the bathroom door open, which was not locked. You had been expecting him. You had been waiting for him. You were against the counter pretending to fix your makeup when you turned to him.

"Do I know you?" you asked, raising a brow, an innocent smile on your lips.

Maekar stood there for less than a second. He reached forward wrapping his hand around your throat, forcing you to strain your neck to meet his gaze. His palm pressed against the center, and he did not squeeze. Not yet.

"Don't be a brat," he hissed at you, his head dipping at an attempt to be eye level.

You let out a laugh, holding his gaze, "You like when I am a brat if memory serves."

"Fuck you," he grit out, his face hovering over yours, his fingers digging further into your neck. He wanted them imprint into your skin, a reminder of that you would never belong to Valarr the way you did him.

"You already did," you reminded him as if he needed it. As if you both didn't already know it was on constant replay in his mind all night.

He pushed you back into th encounter, and neither of you moved. Simply staring at the other your ragged breaths filled the air. "I bet you are soaked right now," he whispered, not moving his hand from your throat.

You said nothing in reply.

Maekar nodded, his eyes trailing down taking in the black dress you wore that had started to bunch around your thighs, "Take your panties off," he instructed.

You held his gaze, "No," you answered firmly, but your lips gave you away. They turned up slightly showing just what you were doing. You were playing him. You were pushing his buttons further as if he was some game.

He squeezed a little harder drawing a small moan from your lips, but neither of you moved, "Take them off," he said again, voice sterner. He removed his fingers from your throat.

You hesitated, only a second before reaching down and dragging the red lace down your legs, slipping them over your shoes. You threw them at him, landing in his face. He did mt moved them right away instead inhaling your arousal from them.

After a moment he reached up pulling them from his face as he tucked them into his pocket. Both your gazes met as his hand moved trailing down your belly. You opened your legs. Out of want. Or perhaps reflex, and he was met with the glory he had spent far too many nights missing.

"Just as I said. You are soaked. You fucking whore."

You chuckled, your lips turning up in a smug smile, "For Valarr. I am thinking about all the things he is going to do to me tonight."

He clicked his tongue, "How many lies have you told tonight?"

"None." Another.

He brought his hand back before having it collide with your soaking cunt. You recoiled slightly from the feeling, letting out a sound you did not even know you could make, "What do you want?"

He leaned his head down resting against your neck, just sitting there allowing his breath to meet your flushed skin, "If you be good and tell me exactly what you want I will give it to you…You know I will," he whispered, moving forward to press a kiss to your pulse point.

Your body trembled in anticipation, "Cock. I want your cock, Maekar," you said, your voice low, but not quiet allowing him to hear the shakiness in every word.

"As you wish. Turn around," he instructed, lifting his head.

You turned around, your hands wrapped around the counter top of the sink. Your head dipped no longer looking at yourself in the mirror. Maekar wondered if it was shame, but you never had seemed to show that emotion.

He freed his hardened cock, stroking himself lazily with one hand as the other bunched your dress up around your hips. He leaned forward running his tips through your folds as his head dropped near your ear.

He notched his cock at you drooling hole, "Are you so wet you can take me without any prep?" he asked. You nodded eagerly causing his lips to turn up slightly, "Good," he whispered, in approval.

He bit your bottom lobe, before pushing himself in fully. He let out a groan as your hands tried to brace yourself, but gave out entering. You were flush against the cool counter, his large hands finding home on your sides.

"You are so fucking perfect," he muttered, feeling your cunt stretch around him, "Made just for me."

He began to move, thrusting into you, and the sound was immediate. It was beautiful. It was music to his ears. It was the glorious sounds that kept on repeat in his mind when away from you.

He could not believe he had given this up.

He could not even fathom the fact of a life without you.

With the gaping whole in his chest.

The fact that you had tried to move on. Or at least pretended to.

With Valarr. His nephew. He would have been forced to watch you for the rest of his life.

Miserable. Alone. A hole in his chest that was the shape of you.

You with Valarr. Happy. In love. A life without him.

You had done it to get under his skin. It was the only explanation, and of course you had succeeded.

He angled his hips, grinding into you harder, causing you to cry out, "Be a little louder. I want everyone to hear just who is making you feel this good."

"Maekar," you cried out, your brain seemed to be fuzzy, as if you forgot where you were.

He did not care. He wanted everyone to know. He wanted to be caught buried into you. To let everyone in the Gods forsaken house to know you were his. That Valarr could never, even imagine to give you what he had. What he would.

He fucked into you harder, faster, your hips bones driving into the counter top, more than likely going to bruise by morning.

Good. More marks. More reminders. More proof.

You clenched around him, your breathing getting more ragged by the minute.

His hand wrapped around your throat forcing you to look into the mirror. Your eyes met your own reflection, your mouth half open with drool trailing down your chin, make up smudged around your eyes,"Look at how wrecked you look. Such a good little whore taking my cock."

You opened your mouth to reply, but you could not piece the words together you wished to utter. You looked drunk on his cock. You were beautiful. A ruined masterpiece of his making.

"I want to see your face when I finish inside you," he commanded, and awaited some protest, but you gave none. He wished he could hear what was going through your pretty head. To hear the thoughts your sharp mind seemed to conjure knowing you did not always share everything.

He pulled you back into him, his hands trailing down your stomach meeting your clit. He drew circles around them causing your eyes to immediate clamp shut. He knew that face. He loved that face. You were trying to hold on. To push off the orgasm a little longer to prolong your moment together.

It never worked. Your body always gave in one way or another. Whether it was from want or need he never asked.

"Open your eyes," you did as you were told, and once you had it came crashing down against you even though you wished it had not.

He was soon to follow, toppling over the edge as he painted your walls with him. More proof.

Your ragged breaths filled the air and he did not pull out, merely staying inside you even as his cock softened slightly. It was a few breaths later when he finally pulled out. Your hands moved forward resting against the sink trying to steady yourself.

Maekar heard the water run as he placed his cock back into his trousers.

His mind was a mess as he stared blankly at the back of you trying to make sense and search the sea of thoughts for something that would make sense. A way to organize his words to not sound like a fool, "Leave with me," he then declared, his voice firm, as if it was a declaration rather then a question.

"What?" you asked, laughing, as you smoothed your dress out, straightening your hair and make up, before stepping out into the hallway.

He followed after you, not fixing his appearance in the slightest. He wanted to be caught. He wanted for someone to take one glance a the pair of you and put the pieces together. "Leave with me instead of Valarr," he repeated.

"You are fucking mad," you laughed once more, shaking your head.

"I know. I never—" his words were cut off by the calling of your name, and your lips turned up slightly causing his stomach to drop.

"Ready to go?" Valarr asked, he approached hesitantly, his eyes flickering between the pair of you as if he was trying to figure out what he had stumbled across.

Maekar's eyes were on you, ready for you to turn the younger man down. "Of course, my love," you instead replied, lacing your arms through his and letting him guide you out. All while ignoring his uncle's burning gaze, as if his spent wasn't still running down your thighs. He could not see the grin of your face, nor hear the burning thoughts inside your head.

You were even now. He had left you once, and now you had done the same.

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Instead the Stranger had taken her in her prime, through dragon fire that had burned her flesh and rotted her core until she had eventually succumbed to it. Or perhaps it was the grief of losing another son, that in the end had been too much to bear. Many in the Red Keep suspected that the loss of Queen Helaena and their youngest son had been what had driven Aegon to madness, until his own men had taken pity. 

Only the Gods knew the truth of it, now all there was for Jacaerys to understand was that the two rulers, legitimate and usurping, who had sat the throne after Viserys were now dead, and the crown had landed on his head. 

Under the looming presence of the Iron Throne, Jacaerys paced the marble floors, attempting to make sense of the utter devastation around him. The high ceilings now felt suffocating, as though the very sky was crumbling over his head. 

“I should not be there,” he said outloud, almost to himself, or perhaps to the Gods, but his faithful friend Cregan Stark still answered his call of anguish. 

Wrists resting atop the pommel of Ice, which he carried at his waist these days, the young lord was watching over him as Kingsguard would, with the sort of silent presence that reminded Jacaerys that he was not alone in carrying his grief. 

“This is your rightful place, my prince,” he reminded him with the steadfastness he had come to expect from the northerner. 

“No it is not. It shouldn’t be, not by decades at least,” he resisted, and Cregan knew him to be right. 

Upon answering the call of the Dragon Queen, never would he have imagined that he would see a great dynasty fall to its knees in such a short time. Dragon riders had risen and fallen as quickly as the tide and as unpredictably, and he feared that it was only through sheer fate that one legitimate heir remained.

While it was not in his character to contemplate potential ruin, he knew the face of the crown could have been a child not even a decade old, would Jacaerys have drowned along with his dragon at the Gullet.

“Why have the Gods allowed it? Why allow my mother to die but me to survive?” Jacaerys lamented, the healed wound in his shoulder throbbing then, a pulsing burn from an arrow that had scarcely missed his heart—in that instant he almost wished it had not, and had allowed him to rest at the bottom of the sea with Vermax, instead of standing to inherit ruins.

“It is not for us to know,” Cregan replied, knowing it was no comfort. Then he cleared his throat, meaning to lead the young king to where he was expected. “They are waiting for you.”

Jacaerys turned to him then, his eyes rimmed with red and his face gaunter than a man of his age should be, the face of a man who had seen the Stranger many a time. “I cannot rule.”

Cregan stepped forward and put a heavy hand on his shoulder—still, the touch felt like the comfort of a brother, the sort Jacaerys sorely missed, and he leaned into it for support. “Then allow me to counsel you. We have been friends, haven’t we?”

Jacaerys nodded, swallowing heavily—the battlefield forged strong friendships, bonds of brotherhood the like he would have never imagined beforehand. “We have,” he confirmed. “There is no one else I trust.”

“Then believe me when I say, you will be a fine king,” Cregan replied, and it planted the seed of an idea in him, that perhaps not all of it was a curse—perhaps this was the call of destiny, no matter how painful, and he only had to answer it. “One I will gladly bend the knee to.”

The Red Keep had been your birth place, and now you were certain it would be your resting place. It had now been a fortnight since Rhaenyra had taken the Iron Throne once more, returning to King’s Landing with an army several thousands strong, made of Rivermen and Northerners, only to find that the revenge she sought had already been taken from her. Aegon laid cold in his bed, and she followed mere days later. 

You had been confined to Maegor's Holdfast, kept under close watch in your rooms most days, as though you were more than you were, more than a woman and instead a danger to the unlikely king now wearing the crown. You had never had to think of yourself as a political pawn until your brother Aegon, having taken the throne once more, had summoned you to the capital. You had obeyed your king, but in the span of a few weeks, he had perished and left you and your mother to face the consequences of his actions.

You loathed him as much as you loathed Rhaenyra and her brood. It was a cruel turn of fate, almost a cruel sort of poetry, that both pretenders to the throne had perished in the pursuit of it, leaving their heirs to scrub their blood from the stone floors and rebuild the dynasty they had destroyed, or pay the price of their pride in their own blood. 

All those that had betrayed Rhaenyra’s faction were now facing justice, and you feared you were only waiting for the executioner’s blade. You wondered whether your nephew’s own sword would do it, or if he would entrust the task to his most loyal man, Cregan Stark. Perhaps they would show mercy and send you into exile, to become a Silent Sister. 

Death or eternal silence,you knew what you would rather endure. 

Thus you waited for the Stranger in the room that had seen your childhood and little else, as you had been sent to Oldtown for your education once the first spring of your womanhood had bloomed. The Faith of the Seven now rooted you and guided you, and you clung to prayers as not to fall into madness.

On the third night of his reign, it was not the hand nor the blade of justice that came to you, but Jacaerys himself, and you wondered whether the following morrow would be the last dawn you would see. 

You stood abruptly as he entered, glancing towards the guard at the door with dread. “Rest easy, you have nothing to fear from me,” Jacaerys assured you. He was dressed in regal clothing made of black, the velvet layer on the inside of his cape a deep red. His hair fell to his shoulders in dark curls, nearly black in the low light of the candles. 

“Don’t I?” you asked, openly weary and hostile. “Where are my niece, and my mother?”

“Confined to their own rooms,” the young man replied with what seemed to you as regret. 

You noticed that he was not wearing the crown, but his head was bowed as though it was weighing on his neck, a constant presence. “Might I see them?” you inquired, but it sounded more like an order you were giving him.

“Your niece, yes,” Jacaerys conceded. 

“She’s a motherless child. Surely you would not have her be confined alone,” you insisted, and it seemed to convince him.

“You will be escorted to see her,” he offered, but it did little to appease you.

You approached him in careful steps until he could see the unshed tears glimmer in your eyes, your brow furrowed in concealed anger. You were trembling, ever so slightly, and when he searched your face for any familiar flicker, he found none—you were his blood, and yet nothing tied the two of you together but hatred.

“What will happen to us, now?” you inquired, gauging him. Standing face to face, you were reminded then of the years of your childhood, and you wondered whether the boy you had known then was still within reach, or if he had perished alongside his kin, replaced by a man you did not know.

“Nothing, for the time being. You are to be confined until trials have been run,” he explained.

Hope burst in your chest then, a starving dragon freed from its chains taking to the skies, ready to burn the lands around it. “And after that?”

Jacaerys looked pained then, a frown between his brows. “I do not know,” was all he answered, and he looked like a child, frightened by his own crown and unable to yield the power he possessed, and you hated him for it. 

“Why have you come, then, if you do not know of my fate?” you accused, your burning tears pearling at the corners of your eyes, your simmering rage like a silent sob caught in your chest, and he did not have any more answers for you.

Once Jacaerys had left, leaving more doubts and fears behind, you realized you had only addressed him in questions. There was a rage inside of you, and a primal fear that was no doubt similar to that of a beast caught in a trap, forced to eat through its own leg to free itself. 

You only had blunt teeth, but you still hoped you could sharpen them in due time.

Over the last pair of years, Jacaerys had sat at many a council of war, at the Painted Table in Dragonstone, but always as a councilor himself, advising his mother—it was only now that he realized how comfortable such a position was, making the decisions without having to enforce them, or without having to consider their consequences.

Now he was the one standing at the head of the table, leading men that sat in front of their marble ball as though they had paid a price for it and ought to claim them with pride, when in truth they had been named because they were alive and breathing. 

Corlys Velaryon was still abed from his wounds, but the men who had advised his mother during her last days were now serving him, waiting for him to name his council as he wished. All of them were taking their orders from a king young enough to be their son or grandson, one or two failing to conceal their contempt for that fact, and Jace wondered if such was the fate of all the kings that had preceded him. 

However what Jace lacked in years lived, he made up for in the devastation he had seen. In many ways grief was his experience, more so than strategy and governance, and he supposed it forged a man just as well.

Before the war he had never realized what came with being king—the grief, knowing the crown had only been passed on because the previous monarch had perished. It was all the more burdensome knowing his mother had barely reigned, and never over peace.

Since Cregan’s declaration of devotion, he had had the time to contemplate the sort of king he would want to be, the sort of legacy he would want to leave behind, whether his reign would be long or short. What mattered to him most was not to assert his authority or to be admired—he needed to rebuild and to leave the crown strong for his heirs. His reign would not be for himself, but for those who come after. 

With such a conclusion he sat before his council that morning, Cregan at his right where the Hand would usually be.

Roland Westerling, an older man with a calm disposition, handed a roll of parchment to Jacaerys, the seal of which had already been broken, a golden stag. “Lady Elenda Baratheon has accepted your terms of peace,” he informed the council as soon as they were all seated. 

“Nearly half of the great houses in the land are now ruled by babes and their mothers as regents,” Unwin Peake commented, as though this simple fact held an inherent flaw.

“I will gladly deal with these women. They might make wiser rulers than their husbands, who took to arm against my mother,” he said, unrolling the parchment and reading it over quickly before passing it along to Cregan. “Lord Roland, your daughter Joanna now rules House Lannister, does she not?”

“Indeed,” Roland answered with a slight smile of pride. “Loreon is a boy of barely five.”

Once great, powerful houses with proud men at their helm, the Lannisters and the Baratheons were now led by women, mothers of their heirs who would now lead the very men that had marched to war refusing to bow to a queen, and Jacaerys would laugh at their fate if he could summon the mirth. 

“There is still unrest in the Reach, I’m afraid,” Thaddeus Rowan said. “Those who remain loyal to the Greens are loath to settle, however the Hightowers are now ruled by a boy of seven and ten. He might easily be reasoned with.”

“Summon him to King’s Landing. I will receive him,” Jacaerys decided, to which Roland took note.

“He has made a rather unusual request to the High Septon,” Thaddeus continued with an appalled expression on his face. “He has asked for permission to wed his own father’s second wife, Lady Samantha Tarly.”

Jacaerys frowned—while there was no blood between a boy and his step-mother, it was still highly unusual and perhaps distasteful, especially since Oldtown was the cradle of the Faith. “How do you know of this, my lord?”

“Lady Sam is my niece, by my sister,” Thaddeus supplied. 

Without a word, Cregan gave Jacaerys a slow tilt of his head. “The Tarlys supported my mother, as did your house, did they not?” Jacaerys asked Lord Roland. “Did Lady Sam’s loyalties lie with my mother?”

Thaddeus observed Jacaerys for a moment. “Indeed.”

“Write to the High Septon in my name,” Jacaerys then decided. “Have him grant the marriage.”

As soon had he given the order, barely breathing after his words, that Unwin Peake cleared his throat. “While we are speaking of marriage, your grace, there is a matter we must discuss,” the man said, sharing a look with the other lords that spoke of a preceding agreement. “I loathe to be the one to say it, but a young king shall need a queen and heirs.”

“My brothers are my heirs,” Jacaerys protested. 

“The future of the realm partly rests on you securing a long-lasting peace,” Roland said. “While we have come to understand that an informal betrothal was made in childhood between yourself and Lady Baela Velaryon, she might not be the wisest match.”

Baela and himself had been children together, and while the expectation had been for them to marry, he cherished her friendship and had rarely considered the prospect. “A marriage is an alliance, a political calculation,” he continued.

Cregan crossed his hands atop the table and leaned forward. “What do you suggest?” he asked, but Jace could tell he already knew what point they were about to make, and he braced himself.

“The breach between the two branches of House Targaryen may be mended,” Thaddeus offered carefully. “Were his grace to wed the remaining child of King Viserys and Alicent Hightower.”

Horror rose from the pit of his stomach, settled only when he caught eyes with Cregan, whose gaze was calm and direct—without a word needed between them, the northerner gave him a slow nod, and with that, his fate was sealed.

Evening was falling, a heavy veil over the Red Keep, made of darkness and cold wind. Winter was settling and the days were darker and shorter, plunging the castle in a grim atmosphere that lasted from the end of the afternoon to the late morrow.

Supper was still an hour away when you were summoned to the king’s quarters. The room was brightly lit with candles and a fire, perhaps even more than was comfortable, as though Jacaerys was attempting to keep the darkness at bay. You stood near the threshold while he remained further into the room, arms clasped behind his back like a soldier at attention.

“I have asked you here to present to you a proposal I hope you will agree to,” he announced, the words sounding rehearsed, empty of all sincerity. “The realm is shattered and House Targaryen is in ruins, but together we might unite it.”

As soon as the words had left his mouth, you knew you had come to hear. “Will you wed me, and put an end to this bloodshed once and for all?”

Your answer came like the crack of a whip. “I may not.”

“I understand that this is not what you would have wanted, however—” Jacaerys prepared his arguments, but you did not let him speak.

With a raised hand, you silenced him. “You misunderstand me. This has nothing to do with what I want, but what I can do,” you explained, your face contorting in anguish.

“I don’t understand,” he said, cutting you off as though he suspected what was coming and desperately wanted to keep it at bay, but he could not have known, you thought.

Rage rose in your throat, acrid and burning, but you swallowed it down. You wanted to curse your brother out for putting you in such a vulnerable position, but damning the dead would do you no good, and you did not wish to betray your king’s memory in front of the man who had replaced him.

“A few days before Aegon died, he took me to wife in a secret ceremony,” you admitted, tears clouding your eyes, and Jace’s heart ached in sudden pity. “Ask the Septon and he shall confirm.”

“Aegon is dead, a widow is permitted to remarry,” he countered, and he could tell from your face how impatient you were becoming with him.

“I have not bled since,” you clarified. It had been two moons now, but the Maester could not say with certainty until the quickening, and your morrows remained without any sickness, yet you doubted, dreading the child that might be inside of you.

Jacaerys blamed his naiveness. “Are you implying—”

You looked upon him severely. “I may be carrying Aegon’s child, yes,” you said, and this simple but devastating truth rang loud in the room—it could be your salvation, as much as your downfall. 

“This changes everything,” Jacaerys whispered, and upon noticing the subtle way you were trembling, once more inhabited by fear in his presence, quickly made his promise. “No harm will come to you, you have my word. I shall keep your secret until you are certain either way.”

You knew you should have been grateful, but you hated the mere thought of owing him any sort of gratitude. It was just as well that he ignored your tears, much as he had done the day prior, as though he sought you out not to converse with you, but to shout into a void that echoed back to him. 

Jacaerys waved you away, crumbling once the doors shut and he was alone once more. He might have been young and uncertain of himself, but he knew what would happen if you were to birth a son.

Aegon’s supporters were still many, and his reign was still too fragile. Power often turned loyal men into self-serving traitors ; he could still easily be toppled, be murdered in this very room as Aegon had, and a babe placed upon the throne in his stead. 

Unable to bear the storm inside of him he took hold of the crown resting atop the mantle of the hearth and threw it at the wall, wailing until his voice broke. 

Grief held him by the throat, an invisible hand that felt like that of the Stranger choking his breath from his very neck. The wounds on his shoulders ached and throbbed anew, as fresh in his mind as the day they had been inflicted.

“What should I do, mother?” he pleaded to the night. “What would you have me do?”

Alone and broken, the young king wept. 

He dismounted as soon as your figure became clearer in the piercing southern sun. Beside him, the other three men of the Kingsguard, silent and discreet, also set foot on the ground.

A few servants approached them, and Maekar placed his jet-black cloak somewhat more forcefully than usual into the arms of a squire whose eyes betrayed a hint of terror at sharing the air with one of King Daeron II’s sons. The boy fled as soon as he heard your footsteps approaching Maekar.

“My prince,” you said in a calm tone, bowing slightly.

He looked at you.

He hadn’t seen you since the last anniversary, almost a year ago now.

A year in which too many things had happened, or perhaps just one that had changed everything.

You were wearing an ivory-coloured silk dress, with a bodice embroidered with small eight-pointed stars. The sleeves were narrow down to the forearm and your waist was adorned with a chiselled silver belt.

You wore a hairpin that held back part of your onyx-coloured hair, allowing the rest to fall in soft waves down your back. Your violet eyes sparkled in the evening light and looked like yet another jewel in your ensemble.

Maekar looked away for a few seconds. He wanted to blame it on tiredness, but he knew he wasn’t to blame for his heart skipping a beat at the sight of that exact shade of eyes, nor for the garments that reminded him so much of her.

“My lady,” his voice sounded rougher than he’d intended. He took your hand and kissed it, his lips brushing against your silver rings and shards of amethyst. “Forgive my unannounced arrival. It was not my intention.”

Maekar took a deep breath after speaking those words and stood still for a few seconds until he could finally meet your violet eyes with his own purple ones.

It was not my intention.

Always the same useless words.

“There’s no need to apologise,” you said as you let your hand fall, looking at Maekar calmly. “Starfall is always open to you.”

“I know,” he nodded slightly, looking away almost imperceptibly. You frowned a little; you didn’t know the prince well enough to interpret his cryptic silences, but the whole visit and those gestures just didn’t seem like him.

You looked over his shoulder, expecting to see that flock of children you called your nephews and nieces, but all you saw were the immaculate, gleaming white cloaks of the three knights escorting him.

“The children aren’t coming with you,” you said, your tone slightly questioning, as if you hadn’t noticed that detail since you’d watched Maekar head for the castle that very morning from your bedchamber.

“No,” replied Maekar, turning to look at you again. “Not this time.”

You held his gaze for a moment, patiently, then nodded, stepping aside to let him pass.

“You must have ridden a long way, haven’t you?” you said, now standing beside him, as you crossed the castle’s white stone threshold and stepped into the coolness of the interior.

“Eighteen days from Summerhall,” Maekar said, glancing at the corridors and halls out of the sides of his eyes. Everything was just as it had been the last time he’d walked on that floor, and that, in a way, comforted him. “We’ve hardly stopped at any of the lesser lords’ castles.”

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye.

“That’s a long time without stopping.”

It took him a few seconds to reply: “I needed the journey.”

You realised he wasn’t talking about the journey itself.

The room you entered was the one Maekar always went into when he visited Starfall: it was made of warm stone, with ochre-coloured tapestries and a large window overlooking the river. Maekar knew it by heart because he’d spent hours there during the anniversary visits, whilst the children ran through the gardens and he and the Daynes held those polite conversations that were neither friendship nor protocol, but an in-between relationship that existed solely because Dyanna had come first.

He looked at the two lilac-upholstered chairs whilst listening, in the background, to the wine being poured into two glasses.

There was nothing special about them: they were simply two chairs situated in one of the corners of the room, next to a bookcase full of books that had been chronically gathering dust ever since you sat in the chair on the right; between the two chairs stood a small table that looked more like a decorative feature than a practical one.

The only thing worth noting might have been the chairs’ appearance. Both featured intertwined constellations carved into the legs and armrests, whilst on the backrests there was a row of purple spinels running across the entire upper surface of the upholstery.

The only detail that set them apart was that on one of the backrests – that of the chair on the right – the figure of a star protruded above the head of whoever sat there, a seat reserved solely for the Lord of Starfall.

Maekar remembered sitting in that chair during the first year, whilst Dyanna’s brother sat in the other, and you—always the third—stood by the bookcase.

The following year, when a vicious blow dealt with steel to your brother proclaimed you the Lady of Starfall, the star now protruded from behind your head, and Maekar contented himself with sitting on the left.

It was not a change that surprised him unduly; he really didn’t care where he had to sit, but he couldn’t help finding that gesture telling.

You handed him his glass of wine and he accepted it, holding it, but without taking a sip.