#asioaf

♣︎ AN: Some protective hubbies coming your way, anon!! I hope this meets your standards. Also IDEK if Storm's End has a garden, but it does now.

'Daughters are a father's rupture while sons are his suture.'

It was a rhyme you'd heard once as a child, though the origin to you was now unknown, forgotten with the mundanity of day-to-day life. It could've been from a fool with his jingling cap and silver tongue. Perhaps, it was from a story a septa had read to you once when sleep evaded you.

Wherever it came from mattered not. What mattered was that it acutely summarized the entirety of you and your father's relationship.

He was a stern man, with hoariness flecking combed locks and a short beard. Age had added plumpness to his gut and his face, but it failed to make him look youthful or jovial in any sort of way. He had strong, sturdy hands with crooked knuckles that set his fingers aslant. In his youth, he'd had a prim look that made him look foreboding in an intellectual sense if one were to challenge him to a duel of wits.

You'd never seen him look anything but dutiful. As a child, you'd wondered if he ever cried, and if the prickliness underlying his voice would give way to pulpy softness through the waves of weepiness.

You also wondered if he was ever happy. You don't think you'd ever seen him beam; stiff crescents, curled slices of a stem were his definitions of smiles. You couldn't recall a time he'd laughed—fully cackled so that his breath bobbed and pooled in every corner of a room.

If your father had been given a son, he probably would.

Alas, your mother had only ever borne him daughters. One after the other came out lacking any inch of boyhood. Your mother tried, desperately like one preventing sickness from spreading, to provide a rightful heir. Yet she'd only given you—the eldest—sisters and your father disappointments.

Consequently, your sire carried a perpetually scorned disposition.

He provided the means for you to blossom and unfurl into a respectable young lady, but anything that went beyond the line of obligation was obsolete. You rarely saw him outside of the required presence side-by-side at feasts and celebrations. Sometimes, he passed you in the hallway, and the scent of paper and sage lingered.

When you still had hopes for paternal affection, you wondered if it'd smell stronger if he hugged you. Reveal an undertone of rosemary, dust, or something medicinal, tickling the inside of your sinuses. Possibly, there would be a sweetness in the crook of his neck like there was in your mother's when she wasn't dull-eyed and distant.

All you had was the garden. You'd go there whenever you had the opportunity to. The bulbous heads of roses, peonies, and daffodils did not shun you away. They had no choice but to accept your presence, and the insects that inhabited the foliage and soil were the closest thing you had to friends. You read about them, learned about their families and lifestyles, but bugs could not speak to you, nor could plants offer you a hand to hold.

It was odd to wonder, to miss, something about someone in the same keep as you. To have concepts of their preferred snacks and favorite haunts, but no certainties. Did all the ladies feel like this? Was this longing, this loneliness, yours and yours alone? You didn't dare to ask your sisters.

They all seemed so close together, while you had the task of paving the way for them. As the oldest child, you had to secure the best of... everything. You had to have the best husband, the best rise in ranking, the best connections, so that your sisters could easily follow suit. There would be no hardship in their futures if you played your part excellently.

Excellently, you played it. You'd managed to be chosen by a man of high standing and great repute only a few years after you'd come of age, and the two of you had married with the appropriate amount of fanfare. It hadn't been an affair of ardor. It had been a negotiation, a trade of sorts.

Your hopes for your husband had not been high. You'd only told yourself keep your head down, stay out of his way, and give him sons.

Yet, after a moon turned into two and then three, you found yourself growing unnervingly comfortable in your new home. People were still people, imperfect and sometimes cruel, but there seemed to be more individuals willing to exchange a pleasant conversation with you in your lord's abode. Your ladies-in-waiting were exceptional, and you suddenly found that you had recipients to write letters to.

Letters! From you, that someone would genuinely read!

It was so different from what you were used to. The chill of isolation was melting away, dew dissolving under streams of sunshine that warmed your corded sinew and bloodied heart.

Your husband himself was different than what you had imagined he would be. He cared for you, taking time out of his day to speak with you, asking if everything was to your liking and if you needed anything. He even shared some of his hobbies with you, detailing stories in the privacy of your apartments that just made him seem so real.

He wasn't a notion, an idea to exist with. Your husband was a person, who had likes and dislikes that you began to learn. There were foods he pushed around on his plate at dinner, colors he avoided because he felt couldn't wear them well, weather he basked in, and a certain positions he thought were the most comfortable to be slept in.

He'd join you in the garden sometimes, and what a garden he had! Plump lilies, slim snapdragons, and wistful forget-me-nots were a vision to you, an intricate window of stained glass. You reveled in it.

It was this enthrallment, peacefulness, that you irresponsibly carried with you as you broke fast with your new husband and visiting parents.

"Honeybees were visiting the asters today when I was taking my stroll," You fiddled mindlessly with your spoon, "They're fond of asters. I read that it's because of the sheer amount of nectar and pollen they have. That's what makes them such a high-quality resource, yes?"

Your husband made a noise of agreement. Your father stared at you with something nearly disapproving, your mother eying a fig on her plate. It was cut masterfully, a delicate display that matched her mien, feeble at the seat beside your sire's.

"We had many more bumblebees at my childhood home in comparison to honeybees," you elaborated to one person who seemed to be paying you some mind. Your lord husband raised his eyes away from his crisped fish to hold your gaze with attentiveness.

"They prefer tubular flowers, did you know that? Foxglove, honeysuckle, and such. They have long tongues to steal the pollen, which reduces their competition. Butterflies as well—"

"Enough." Your father laid a heavy hand down atop the polished wood of the dining table, like a back-handed pop to your mouth.

"Enough with talk of insects. You shouldn't be filling your time with something as impotent as digging in the dirt to watch bugs crawl about. It's unbecoming," he grouses, voice grating like a rusted axe dragged across whetstone, "You'll grow sun-speckled and wrinkled with all that time in the sun, just like a beggar. Is that what you wish? To appear as a simple-minded maid and shame your husband?"

You stared at him.

There was a particular humiliation in being chastised with an audience. You could feel your husband's eyes on your face. They were like talons pressing in to draw pinpricks of blood, and you held your father's stare, rosiness staining your ears and the center of your cheeks.

The septas had taught you to be good. To sit quietly, which script to repeat depending on the lord and lady speaking, eat demurely, and posture straight. Little motions, light voice, don't shame yourself in being boisterous or melancholic. Perfect, in your womanly pursuits indoors and interests only pinpointed on future babes and household chores to preside over.

Yet, here you were, being so disgracefully bad.

Voice growing meek and serious, you whispered, "No. I apologize, Father."

Appetite fleeing from you, sucked into the curdle of shame, you bumped your spoon against the boiled egg held in its porcelain egg cup. The sun shining through the weight veil down to the yellow yolk, creamy and buttery. It looked like poison to you, the shape within a vial wrapped in pale cotton.

There was ash, chalky, against the back of your throat. They became embers when your husband's voice broke through the tension.

Baelor Breakspear

"I have no qualms about my wife's topic of conversation," Baelor supplied. His tone was placating, gentle in its mediation as he leveled your father a wanly polite look.

"You do not?" Your father countered. His intonation was iron-like in its disbelief.

Baelor doubled down tactfully, "The morning is still young. It can be refreshing to hear about small, mundane things before I must tend to my tasks. Even I require respite from work."

"That's ridiculous." Your father raised his wine glass to his lips with a small sneer.

It was so dreadfully in his character to believe himself to always be right. He could never back down, accept defeat, or agree emptily with no actual agreement, even when face-to-face with the future king. It had always been your father's way.

It could be seen in the wilting frame of your mother.

Her downcast eyes remained on her plate as your father proceeded to debate with a tolerant Baelor. Though any kindness that seemed to well beneath the flesh of your husband's face when faced with a seeker of favor was void. In fact, his eyes weren't even on your father.

They stared down at the table where the feast was laid. His gaze was detached, gone somewhere you could not map out. They swept over the table in subtle side-to-sides as he listened. It was a mismatched pendulum, deep in thought with heavy swings.

His hands had come together at some point. His left fingers played with the rings on his right, twisting them around slowly with methodical motions.

"All I mean to say, Your Grace, is that my daughter should conduct herself in a way that befits her station," your sire concluded after a long-winded spiral, his tone almost humored at your daftness.

Baelor merely raised his head again, pausing in turning one of his well-crafted accessories, "As should you."

Your father blinked, and you followed suit. Your mother's face grew a bit squeamish as though something slimy had squished beneath her bare foot.

"I beg your pardon, my prince?"

"You may be her father, but I am her husband. She is now a princess of the realm. She will be the mother of my children, the Queen Consort to Westeros, and a guiding hand to any who seek her input. I see no reason to talk down to her," Baelor spoke.

His voice was not cruel, never cruel, but it was firm. It was the muscles of a farmer's horse carrying behind the picks of the crop alone, the material of a blunt lance, making your head ring like a bell.

The look he held with your father allowed him to fight back if he so wished. Yet, it promised he would lose if he chose to do so. Baelor was not a dim hound eager to roll over and show his belly; your husband was the firstborn son to the king, the Hammer, heir to the Iron Throne, and he rarely knew defeat.

Your sire gaped, red-faced. Finally, he'd shown himself capable of emotion after all these years of righteousness. You almost giggled in delirium.

"I apologize," he murmured. It was a twisted echo of your own apology, masculinity wounded and taut like a rope stretched thin, a frenzied hummingbird darting back and forth between flora.

"Not to me," Baelor's head titled to the side, toward you, as in direction.

Your father's face grew a near concerning shade of purplish-red as, with great effort, he muttered to you like a child spanked and forced to write sentences one after another in punishment.

"I apologize, daughter."

You didn't accept. You didn't need to, soaking in the look that Baelor gave you. It was vaguely smug, you thought airily, like the self-satisfaction of a man whose plan had gone above and beyond with its performance. The elusive personification of the cat who got the cream.

"Thank you," you said to your husband. Baelor inclined his head to you once before resuming in picking apart his breakfast as if he had not done you the greatest of deeds.

You poked at your boiled egg. You ought to kiss him later, you thought.

Maekar Targaryen

"Who do you think you are?" Maekar questioned. His hard voice grew indignant in his disbelief.

It was the stricken inflection that manifested at his sons' havoc, at a servant overstepping, or when his horse occasionally attempted to nibble stealthily at his silver-gold hair. It meant discontentment, a fabric worn through to the seams.

The harsh line of his jaw grew tense with umbrage, a terse curve that looked stretched and painful. Teeth pushing together in a grind. Muscles flexed in his lower cheeks, upper lip rearing up from under the wisps of his beard, a treacherous curve.

Your father's face slackened into what one could only generously describe as startled. His voice was thinning, "What?"

Maekar's response was harsher, "You heard me."

The air was so thick that one could cut it with a dagger. It was the rolling of stormy clouds, smothering in its discomfort, smoke carrying away from burning carcasses.

A vein in your husband's neck was pulsing, bulging out from beneath skin akin to an incensed parasite trying to crawl its way out to an undignified birth.

You'd seen that vein twice in the moons of your marriage. Firstly, when he'd received word that his exiled son Aerion had been seen visiting Lys' pleasure houses quite consistently. Secondly, when his heir Daeron had gotten so sotted that two guards had to carry him back in an ungraceful manner, spit and mucus from overindulgence covering his front.

His neck was craning to the side in a controlled roll; a stretch of ligaments that highlighted the quizzical lay of his brows. Another tell, with that inflamed heartbeat pumping rhythmically.

In the back of your mind, you thought he looked like a disgruntled dragon. You had never seen any beast of the sort. Even so, the nip in his face made him look beastly ancient, silvery lashes narrowing in a suspecting glare.

It caused your father to flounder in a foreign fashion, a meek sheep under the scrutiny of Old Valyria's deadliest of creatures.

"I meant no offense to you, Your Grace, but certainly you understand where I'm coming from. You have two daughters of your own, do you not?" Your father's query was an olive branch. He was searching for a connection, some sort of relatability to use as a crutch to navigate such an unexpected confrontation.

Unfortunately, it did the opposite. Maekar's voice was blatantly miffed, "Do not use my children as an excuse."

Yes, he was morphing into a dragon with scales like fresh snow along a riverbank and eyes of blooming wisteria, guarding his hatchlings amongst his hoard. It was hardly surprising. Your husband was sensitive to all matters involving his blood, and the scorn that had been stewing was now bubbling, foam spilling down the edges.

"You sit here in my fucking home, at my fucking table, and dismally address my wife over something so painless as minibeasts." Maekar twisted his body to loom closer to your father, venous hands splayed flat on the table, "Then, you attempt to utilize my own daughters as tools for reason. So yes, I do ask a mere lord and guest to Summerhall who he thinks he is."

Your mother was a statue. She barely looked alive, the rise and fall of her chest so shallow that you wondered if she was holding in air to try camouflaging into her surroundings. On the other hand, your father's face had contorted tartly.

Birdsong was the only interruption to the atmosphere, thick as the Wall away in the North.

Your father writhed discreetly in his seat. His face was so pinkened it looked sunburnt, making the shade of his eyes and hair stand out, striking against the flush of color. Voice dipping meekly like a mouse, he spoke, "You are right. I should have remained silent."

"Silence suits you best," Maekar stated decisively with a sardonically gleeful twinge to his voice. It was a petty remark, but it sang in your ears like music as your husband raised his glass of pomegranate juice to his lips, wholly done with the morning affair.

You tried to hide your smile, the toe of your foot nudging his as a nonverbal appreciation.

Lyonel Baratheon

"Nonsense!" Lyonel barked out.

It's the shattering of glass, the twang of a crossbow's string releasing in vocal form. It serves to startle you out of your smog of shame.

Your husband's body was animated in his disregard for what your father had instructed you to do. His spine was loose, askew as he crept closer so that the center of his stomach nearly pushed into the table's corner. In your imagination, you could very well see him throwing one leg over the arm of his chair to set his whole form askew in leisure.

One of his ringed hands—calloused, keen to wielding swords and tugging ropes, instead of delicately aristocratic—jerked toward you, "My lady can do as she pleases. This is her home, after all."

Your father's face contorted into a scrunch that was patronizingly skeptical.

It was a favorite mask of his. It came across his face whenever your sisters or you, especially you, did something he found foolish. Silliness in your father's terms meant something far worse, both deplorable and condescendingly pitiful, warped into one.

"Exactly. As your wife, my daughter should act appropriately." He brought a spoonful of supple honeycake to his lips, "Not diminish herself by fawning simplemindedly over pests."

Your sire continued in his elaboration even as your husband's face grew quietly mocking. The odd humor that was seemingly etched into every line of his face was steadily draining, a canvas turning yellowish with age. His smile had vanished into an inchoate suggestion.

It reminded you less of a stag, as so many poets liked to fancy your husband to be, but more of a mutt cornered. His stiffness and whale-eyed stare put you on edge. You were certain that if he were a dog, a resounding growl would be scraping out from his ribs.

Your father's eyes squinted in that smug way as he came to a close, "So, I'm quite sure a man of your birth would rather have a proper woman carrying his legacy instead of a halfwit squawking about anything that flutters in her general direction."

Lyonel did not shift.

Your mother inhaled deeply through her nose as if to gather her bearings. It was a tiny wheeze that echoed in the awkward quietude aside from the clicking-clacking of your father's cutlery against his plate, sunlight refracting off of shaped steel.

"Cunt," Lyonel grunts eloquently.

Your father paused in bringing another bite to his lips, head turning with raised brows, "Excuse me?"

Your husband's hand reached out to poke at the center of your father's broad chest, softened with age. It pressed in, fabric sinking beneath the digit, purposeful and direct. Lyonel reiterated, voice exaggerating each word to promise that no mistakes could be made, "You... are... a... fucking... cunt. Hear me clear enough now?"

Before your sire could react, your husband's fingers crawled up to clutch at the collar of his doublet.

"You sit here, suckling at delicacies, insulting my wife. My wife. I should be the only one concerned with any faults she presents, and her deciding to talk about fucking flowers is no reason for concern," Lyonel rambled.

"You invited us here—" your father spluttered.

"And now I humbly disinvite you," Lyonel laughed, but it was a jarring sound as he ripped the utensils out of your spooked father's grip. His hands were waving in a grand shooing motion as your parents, hesitant, stood up to leave.

"Begone! Fucking cunts, you have no place at my table! Go! My lady wife will fetch for you when she wants to see your miserly mugs again."

Your husband continued on this tirade until the heavy doors shut behind their retreating figures. It was an outlandish scene; a fantasy from your childhood come to life when you were still untamed enough to be bitter, to wish for such things.

Gray-streaked waves lay over Lyonel's brow from where he had strained to banish them out the door. "The Others fucking geld me... how did you live with that dolt for all those years?"

You had no answer. You could only choke out a short, disbelieving laugh, queerly moved at the absurdity.

“And why is that an issue for him? He certainly has the money, seeing as he never allows for you to spend any of it,” Aerion scoffs. The two of you are lounging in the gardens, under the new orange tree. Many others stroll by, but no one bothers to greet either of you beyond a half-hearted nod. Even from a distance, they know that Aerion is angry, and no one wishes to be in his path while he is in such a state.

“He thinks the trip is too much. Too expensive, too decadent, too scandalous. And I must say brother, perhaps he is not entirely wrong. You truly asked father for a hundred gold dragons to spend on whores?” You had flipped through the entirety of Aerion’s requests after your husband had left this morning, and even you could admit that some of his ideas were rather ludicrous. 

“Father knows that I am a man, a man with needs,” he tells you with a wave of his hand. “Surely you will not allow your husband to refuse you this, sister? Why did you not begin crying when he told you no?” A butterfly flies out from the tree, landing on the table. Aerion swats it away quickly, and you frown at him.

“That kind of thing does not work on Valarr, believe me when I say I have tried.” You finish the wine with a long gulp, and reach for the bottle. Your brother notices your empty cup and quickly goes to pour you more. 

“Have you been allowing him to share your bed?” His question is blunt and slightly unexpected, but not without reason. Nonetheless, you flush. 

“On occasion,” you admit. Aerion scowls, kicking his feet up to rest his shiny boots on a stool. You know that your twin does not like hearing about that particular aspect of your marriage, he made that much clear when you came to him with questions after your wedding night.

“Well, start doing so more frequently. You are a woman after all. Valarr wouldn’t dream of denying you after you get down on your knees and suck his cock.” 

You spit out your wine, laughing at the ridiculous statement. Were it any other man you were discussing, then perhaps Aerion would be correct. 

“What are you laughing at? You do know how to do that, don't you?” His tone is accusatory, his eyes darkening as if you have wronged him in one way or another.

“Of course I do! But my efforts in that department failed me as well. Valarr was not convinced by anything I said or did to him.” You reach across the table suddenly, grabbing the dagger that Aerion had been fiddling with moments ago. You flip it, examining the large rubies encrusted to the hilt. “This is nice. When did you get it?” Aerion glides his finger along the edge, pointing out to you the dragon design that has been forged into the steel.

“Yesterday, when I bought you that necklace. Whatever happened to it?” He glances at your bare neck, and you tug at your collar self-consciously. 

“I sent it to be cleaned. You forgot to examine it for dust before you purchased it.” Your brother scowls, but says nothing more about the necklace. 

“Well, if you cannot manage to subdue your husband, then I will be traveling to Lys on my own. Your ladies are still welcome to join me.” You are unsure if he jests, and you shove his shoulder as you grunt in frustration. He laughs at you, grabbing your wrist and holding it in the air. “I jest, sister. You will be joining me in Lys, whether your husband likes it or not.” Although he does not lay out a plan, you know Aerion well enough to know what he intends to do.

“He will not respond well to threats,” you tell your brother. He releases your hand and reaches for his wine, his eyes remaining on you as he drinks deeply. 

“Valarr is not stupid; he knows a threat from you is meaningless. He will learn that I will allow nothing to stand in the way of what I want.” Aerion’s violet eyes have been lit ablaze.

“What if we extend an invitation to him? I am sure that he will feel more in control of things if he came with us,” you offer as you brush your hair behind your shoulders and reach for your wine yet again. You have already had too much to drink; you will be stumbling on the way back into the Keep. Aerion scoffs at you. 

“Valarr is so boring! He would sully all of our fun and likely prevent anything truly interesting from happening.” Aerion is staring at you as if you are meant to know what he means, but all you can focus on is the way that his jaw clenches when he says your husband’s name. You stretch out your arm, squeezing his hand before tracing your fingers along your brother’s forearm. As always, his skin is hot to the touch.

“At the very least will you consider it? If all else fails and Valarr refuses to be persuaded in by other means?” You do not realize it, but your bottom lip quivers slightly and your eyes glisten as you speak to him. A tactic so often employed by you, that you have become practically unaware that you are invoking it. And it works on your brother, who lets out a reluctant sigh.

“Fine, but not before I speak to him. You underestimate my influence, sister.” And with that, he finishes the rest of the wine, his brows furrowing and posture straightening as he devises a plan.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Some time later, Aerion leaves you in order to go bug Daeron about a borrowed chestplate that was never returned. You wait for him in the gardens, sprawled out across the grass and enjoying the feeling of the warm sun across your face as you finish off the second jug of wine. On a normal day, you would not allow yourself the pleasure of indulging so deeply, not when you know that you will have to face Valarr come suppertime. But your husband is out hawking with his father, and it is likely he will not return until late in the evening. Hours pass before you realize that your brother has no intention of returning, and you begrudgingly decide to return to your chambers. 

Your journey back inside is a treacherous one, stumbling and slipping and drawing the attention of several maids, all of whom offer assistance that is quickly refused by you. When you finally reach the hall that leads to your chambers, you hear a voice calling out your name. You spin quickly, and you see that your husband has returned. 

“Are you quite alright, wife?” He rushes to your side, steadying you by grabbing your waist with one arm and offering you the other one. His dark hair has been rustled by the summer winds, and his skin is tinged pink from time spent in the sun. 

“Valarr. My dashing husband.” You sing his name before grabbing at his face, pulling him downwards to meet your lips in a kiss. He allows it for a second, his tongue darting out to taste you before he pulls away, frowning.

“You are drunk. Of course you are, why am I surprised? I have already told you, several times for that matter, that I will not tolerate this sort of behavior. Especially not during the middle of the day.” He steps away from you, causing you to lose your balance momentarily. You pout your lips as you reach for his shoulders to steady yourself. 

“I did not expect you to return for another several hours. Aerion said that we had plenty of time.” Your words slur and your body sways back and forth. You would have been wise not to mention your brother, but you are far too inebriated to think of such things.

“So this is your brother’s doing? You would allow him to manipulate you into such a state?” You reach for Valarr’s hair, wanting to run your fingers through his silver streak, which you have always found rather fascinating. He turns his head, not allowing you the pleasure of doing so. 

“We had nothing better to do! Besides, Aerion said that so long as I sobered up before you returned, then you would be none the wiser.” You giggle as you are reminded of the rather crude joke that your brother had made to go along with that statement, but Valarr does not share in your laughter. “If you were not so serious all of the time, then you would understand.” You begin to hum a tune, twirling around and causing your vision to blur slightly. 

“Get inside before somebody sees you and you shame yourself,” Valarr commands. His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare, yet he does not shout at you. 

“No, I do not wish to do that,” you say, pouting. Your attention has been redirected to the longsword hanging from his hips, and you reach for its pommel. Suddenly, you feel the world turn upside down as Valarr grabs you by your waist and tosses you over his shoulders. He moves quickly toward the door of your chambers, all the while you slam your fists into his back and scream at him to put you down. 

Once you are inside and the door has been slammed shut behind you, Valarr bends down half-way to the ground and positions you back onto your feet. He runs his fingers through his hair, clearly distressed by your antics. 

“Go lay down and sleep this off,” he points toward the bed. “Clearly, I need to have a conversation with Aerion.”

“But Valarr,” you begin to whine.

“No. Get on the bed and go to sleep, before I lose my patience with you entirely,” he tells you sternly. 

“I cannot sleep in this gown, I’ll ruin the fabric!” It was partially true, although you had not been too concerned with the integrity of your dress when you were rolling around in the grass earlier. Valarr lets out a long sigh as he shakes his head.

“Fine. Come here then.” You heed his words and return to where he is standing, expecting him to forget his earlier frustrations and begin kissing you frantically in the way that you wish to kiss him. But instead he spins you by the waist, turning your back towards him as he begins to quickly unlace you. He is careful not to brush his fingers against your skin, especially as he pulls the dress off your shoulders and down past your waist. Valarr mumbles something incoherent, the only word that you catch is your brother’s name. 

“There. Now, go to bed and perhaps try to ponder what has brought about this display of poor decision-making. I will speak to you at suppertime, once you are sober.” He tilts his head toward the bed, and you decide to obey. After all, your head has begun to feel light and your feet ache from the tight shoes you have been wearing. Without so much as another glance, your husband exits the room, locking the door behind him. Right before you fall into sleep, it crosses your mind that he had mentioned something about speaking to your brother….

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When you are awoken by one of your ladies maids hours later, she tells you that tonight’s supper will be a formal one. Your head throbs during the entirety of your bath, the ache not even beginning to dull until you are already dressed and your hair is being braided back into a thick circlet. You have chosen a deep purple gown cinched tightly at your waist by a decadent strand of pearls. Your father had paid a rather large sum for this one; you remembered having to feign a fit of tears in order to get him to open his pocketbook. It was a beautiful gown, your brother would tell you every time you wore it. But you had not worn it since before you had been married, and you were uncertain of what your husband would think of it.

“Would you like the sapphires tonight, Princess?” your maid asked as she presented one of your seven jewelry boxes to you. “They match your eyes quite perfectly.” 

“Yes, and the diamond earrings as well. The ones shaped like raindrops,” you tell her. Those particular earrings had actually been a wedding gift from your husband, they once belonged to his grandmother he had told you. It was a rather extravagant gift, especially coming from Valarr. They were very beautiful, but you didn’t wear them often, seeing as whenever you did Aerion would taunt you for having donned “jewels of an old crone.” 

Your husband had not returned, and you were considering if he was indeed angry enough with you to attend dinner dressed in his hawking outfit rather than returning to your chambers in order to don something more suitable. But you pushed the thought from your mind as you decided which shoes to wear, opting for something that would not pinch your feet in the way that the ones from earlier in the day had. 

You walked to the Tower of the Hand by yourself, seeing as no guard was stationed outside of your chambers. Guards seemed to be sparse in your presence ever since your marriage, which was indeed a rather positive thing. As you turned the corner on the final corridor of your path, you spotted Aerion lingering outside of the door. 

“Sister! What a beauty you are this evening!” He kissed your hand before offering you his arm. “I see that your husband is not with you. I shall escort you in.” You accepted his arm, knowing but not caring that he did not offer it out of chivalry alone. He was correct that Valarr was not with you, and you would much rather enter the room with your brother than do so alone. 

Prince Baelor sat at the head of the table, your father on his right side. Your brother Daeron sat across from Matarys, Valarr’s brother. Daeron was already deep into his cups and did not bother to even glance in your direction as you entered. There were three empty seats remaining, and Aerion took his place on your father’s left, and you the one next to him. Aemon and Aegon were nowhere to be seen, likely they had been excluded due to their ages. 

“Daughter! How wonderful to have you join us!” your father said as he reached past Aerion in order to kiss your hand. “Where is your son?” He turned to Baelor to ask this question, rather than directing it to you.

“Likely just delayed. I am certain he will be joining us shortly,” Baelor responded as he motioned for a servant to set down the pigeon pie she was carrying. “But I am feeling rather famished, so I believe we must begin without him.” 

You took note of the fact that neither of the men bothered asking you where your husband was, but decided to say nothing. The smell of roast goose was rather strong, and you had not eaten anything since much earlier in the day. When you reached to cut yourself a slice, Aerion immediately pushed your hand out of the way and grabbed the carving knife, sawing away at the tender flesh before plating it before you. He reached for a flagon of wine, filling your glass to the brim before you could stop him.

“Thank you brother, but I believe I will stick to water tonight.” A look of shock and betrayal crept across Aerion’s face as you said this.

“Your husband is not here. Drink as much as you would like.” His tone was stern and assertive, causing your father to glance disapprovingly in his direction.

“I am still recovering from the Dornish red this morning,” you tell him under your breath. “Valarr has nothing to do with it.” This is only a partial lie, one that Aerion sees right through. Nonetheless, he chooses not to press the issue and instead pushes the wine towards Daeron, who accepts.

“You must bring me back a flask of Lyseni Red Cuvee,” Daeron tells your other brother. The mention of the Lys trip catches you by surprise, and your first reaction is to glance at your father, who is too engaged in his conversation with Baelor to notice this. You wonder if Valarr has spoken to him since last night. 

“Perhaps, brother. But perhaps you should delegate that task to our sister, seeing as she  has a better mind for such mundane tasks.” You frown at your twin, taken aback by his slight at you that has seemingly come out of nowhere. Aerion pays you no mind, instead choosing to fidget with a carving knife that he has stolen off the goose platter.

“Ah, speaking of Lys, when were you two planning on departing? You should leave sooner rather than later, so you will be back home before Aemon’s nameday. And I will expect to see you in the lists this year Daeron, it is high time you earned yourself a knighthood.” Your father speaks to you at first, before turning to face Daeron for the last bit. Your elder brother forces a smile to his face as he raises his glass in a mock-toast, but you catch the look of disgust that he hides as soon as his face is turned away from your father.

“Father, I believe that my beautiful sister has a question that she means to ask you. Something regarding additional funds for our trip.” You swiftly kick Aerion in the shins, and he responds by grabbing at the outside of your thigh, harshly pinching it. You yelp, but only Daeron seems to notice this, as you bite down on your lip to stifle any further noises as Aerion’s nails dig into your flesh. 

“Yes, father. Aerion and I have decided we want Daeron to come with us. We will require more money,” you put rather bluntly. Both of your brothers turn to you in shock, as that is something that neither of them seem to like the idea of. Your father lets out a long sigh as he presses his palm against his forehead.

“Let us not discuss money during supper, dearest. It is rather improper,”Maekar says as he turns his head toward Baelor with a knowing glance. You take this moment of distraction to reach underneath the table in an attempt to pry Aerion’s hand off of you, but the sudden movement causes your elbow to bump into his wine glass and spill its contents across the table. 

This sets off a chain of events that leads to the carving knife crashing to the floor, inches away from your father’s foot. He begins shouting at Aerion, who is now shouting at Daeron, who is in turn shouting at you. Baleor is shouting at Matarys to move from his seat before spilt wine soaks his sleeve, and the servants are shouting at each other as they attempt to clean up the spills. No one notices that Valarr has entered the room, not until he loudly clears his throat.

“Apologies for my lateness, family. I was rather caught up in my work.” He makes no mention of the chaos that he has walked in on, and instead chooses to ruffle his younger brother’s hair before crossing over to where you are seated. Valarr looks to you, then to Aerion, whose hand has thankfully lost its hold on your thigh during the shouting match.

“Aerion, you are in my seat.” His voice is calm as his eyes trail to you once again, taking in your purple gown that he has yet to see you wear. 

“Is it not a son’s place to sit beside his father?” Aerion counters lightly, although his expression is anything but. 

“It is a husband’s place to sit next to his wife. You appear to be seated next to mine.” Aerion is glaring at Valarr now, but you instead look to Daeron, hopeful that he might say something, anything to ease the tension between the two. He offers you a shrug rather than the words you were hoping for.

“Someone had to keep her company while you were gone,” Aerion states as he cracks open a large walnut with the hilt of his knife. 

“Have you already forgotten the conversation we had just hours ago? The one in which we discussed the extent of which you have been keeping company with my wife?” Valarr’s speech is poised and perfect and only slightly threatening, but you see that Aerion’s jaw has begun to clench in the way it always does right before he does something stupid.

“Brother…” you start, but are interrupted by the loud noise of your brother stabbing his knife into the table. 

“No. I was here first!” He declares loudly. 

“Gods Aerion! Everything must be such a spectacle with you! Go sit with your cousin and brother and relieve me of this headache you are causing!” Your father shouts at him. Aerion falters for a moment but eventually decides to obey, pulling his knife out slowly and causing the wood to splinter. His eyes do not leave yours as he crosses the room to take his place in between Matarys and Daeron. Had he not thrown you under the rug about Lys just moments ago, then you might have actually sided with him in this scenario. Baelor clears the awkward silence by beginning to speak to Daeron about jousting, and Valarr slides into the now-empty seat at your side. He brings his head close to yours and speaks to you in a whisper as he adjusts the tablecloth to cover Aerion’s damage to the mahogany.

“Have you recovered from your indulgent afternoon?” 

“When did you speak to my brother?” You ask him rather than answering. He also chooses not to answer, instead asking Matarys about his studies. You look at Aerion in hopes that his face will reveal something to you, but he is still sulking about being told to move seats. 

The rest of the meal continues rather peacefully, with no more mentions of Lys or loud quarrels between your family members. Only the older men at the table speak directly to you, neither your twin and your husband address you for quite some time. Dessert is served, a rich chocolate cake and glasses of chilled sweet wine. Valarr does not offer you the wine, but he does cut a piece of cake and set it in front of you.

“She doesn’t like that kind. Never has,” Aerion remarks loudly, his mouth full as he speaks. You pull the slice of cake closer to you and take up your dessert fork in response.

“I have grown rather fond of chocolate these last few months,” you tell him as you take a rather large bite. A lie, and Aerion knows it.

“Liar, liar, liar,” he sings as he smacks Daeron’s hand away; they had both reached for the same flute of wine. “You are such a liar sometimes sister. Tell me cousin, does she lie to you with such ease as well?” 

“She has,” Valarr says. ”Usually in an attempt to protect your honor, Aerion. But she won’t be doing that anymore, not after the conversation we had last night. Isn’t that right, my darling?” His callback to what transpired in your bed chambers the night prior makes you flush rather deeply. Aerion is too busy glaring at Valarr to notice this, but Daeron’s uncomfortable expression leads you to believe that he has an inkling as to what your husband references. 

“Hmm, interesting. I have always known my sister to be rather good at getting what she wants. I would imagine that she is a better liar than you think,” Aerion counters. 

“Your dress is quite nice. Rather vibrant color,” Daeron interjects in an attempt to change the conversation. His efforts fall flat in a way that you are sure he did not intend as Valarr speaks up.

“Yes, it is very beautiful. Tell me my love, wherever did you get the funds to have such a dress made? I certainly cannot remember approving such an extravagant purchase,” Valarr questions as he traces his fingers across your sleeve, speaking to you but looking at Aerion. 

“Ah, do not fret, nephew! That one came at the behest of my account, nearly six moons ago if I remember correctly. But you are right in guessing that it was very costly,” your father interjects. You are surprised that he remembers this, but thankful for his interference nonetheless. “Pray that The Seven bless you with many sons; daughters are a great deal more expensive!” He laughs and you smile lovingly at him. You are certain that Aerion’s indulgences are just as, if not more costly than yours, but now does not seem an apt time to mention it. 

“Well, seeing as we are on the topic of expenses…” Aerion starts as you feel his boot suddenly collide with your calf underneath the table. You recoil, and Valarr shoots you a look of concern. 

“Are you feeling quite well?” He asks and you quickly nod your head.

“Supper is over now and we never finished our earlier conversation about…” Aerion speaks over Valarr and it is quite obvious that he means to bring up Lys once again. Your brother has unknowingly offered you a way out of this conversation by kicking you, you realize as you turn to face Valarr.

“Actually, no, I feel very ill. I wish to retire now,” you tell him hurriedly. You figure that if you can leave the room now, Aerion will not ruin your plan of convincing Valarr privately. “Brother, would you escort me back to my chambers?” You ask the question in an attempt to re-direct Aerion, not realizing that you have slighted your husband by doing so.

“That is not necessary,” Valarr says as he quickly stands. “I will go with you.” He says his goodbyes to his father and brother as you look to Aerion once again, who swiftly gets up and crosses to your side of the table. You expect him to do something to push back against Valarr, but it appears that he has another idea in mind. He embraces you, pulling your ear up to his lips.