#baratheon reader

Angering Lyonel Baratheon was certainly a difficult task, yet you had managed it with quiet certainty by in his words behaving like a little brat.

Tourney’s were exceptionally boring, you had never met another woman who gave any amount of care to two grown men poking and prodding each other with glorified sticks. It was futile, and petty and boring. Your role throughout was to maintain appearances, not get visibly intoxicated and socialise with the other ladies. There was nothing wrong with the other ladies, but to put it kindly; you were all sick of one another. Your husbands and fathers all thrust you together to gossip and have cake, because they presumed that was all you were good for, if they got on drinking together then their women would get along suitably. You all had your own interests, your own minds, desires and cares. Your only common clause was being women, you would fiercely defend one another - that had no doubt, but you did not necessarily like one another or enjoy the total company. Yet your father seemed to lack this understanding, providing you at the entrance of Lady Ashford’s pavilion each morning so that you would mingle and socialise.

To put it plainly, you were incredibly bored, hence why you had opted to depart from the back exit of the pavilion, a wink to Lady Ashford and her daughter Gwin, who supplied one in return. You wanted to explore, and you intended to do so regardless of instruction. That was one beneficial thing of being a Lady, you would gossip of the court and the men, but of one another was kept minimal, and if the men need not know then they would not find out.

The road was quiet enough. Well really it was less of a road and more of a side path, it led you in the direction of the true meadows that provided Ashford its name. A beautiful place, stoic and changing with each season, but the early spring had provided a new wave of colour to the grasslands of the Reach.

Truly you had only intended to stay an hour, or two. But the sunset hours were so entirely welcoming you could only sit and admire the vast view before your eyes. It was stunning. The flowers had blossomed an array of pinks all the way to blues and yellows, scattered across one another like a childish finger painting. As the colours clashed you could hear the bird song, watching them dance across the now pinkened sky as the hollow sun begun to hang low beneath the horizon, the last thing on your mind was the time. Time felt futile in a place like this, where you could become so enamoured by your surroundings you felt extraterrestrial - time felt unnaturally mundane to such a foreign feeling. So you did not let it consume you, instead you remained.

Amongst the grassland, the heathers begun to part to your left. A wandering fawn and its mother, brown and speckled you smiled. A childish grin for something so naive. With your knees pulled to your chest and your skirts soddened with dried earth you remained still. You did not wish to unnerve such a beautiful creation, they were so easily startled. Despite being the sigil of your house, your home led so close to the coast combined with horrific storms you rarely got such a sight of wildlife, even that of your house sigil. It was a refreshing memory to see one so close again. You had not since you were merely a girl. You admired quietly, contented. It was peaceful, peace you had brought and provided yourself that days in that stuffy tent could have never. It was the footfall of a horse that startled the poor creatures, fleeing back the path they came in a hurry. You frowned in annoyance, turning to see a large white stallion pausing a short distance from you, a pale hardened prince upon its back.

Maekar watched in confusion, undoubtedly you were Baratheon, he could see that a mile off by your black and gold attire - even then if he were in doubt the small stag antlers at the back of your head gave him all the message he needed. Yet the fact you were a woman alone in a field concerned him nonetheless. He lowered from his horse, patting her nose gently as he walked over.

You, seemingly did not care to hold your tongue in the presence of a prince - nor greet one properly.

“Must you be such a brute? You are scaring the animals of this meadow.” You pouted, it appeared childish to him. You were a woman, he knew as such for you had been a contender to marry his eldest son Daeron, but your father had declined upon learning the drunken nature of the man.

“You are Baratheon’s spawn then.” He grunted, he regretted ever stopping for you. But then again, his mother had raised him better than to leave a girl alone and vulnerable no matter the circumstances. “Spawn is a rather insulting term is it not?” You rebutted, you did not stand. Why would you? He was interrupting your private time.

“Should you not be with the other ladies?” He raised an eyebrow, eyeing the state of your undoubtedly expensive skirts now coated with, dampened but drying, mud. The dramatic groan of annoyance you let out caught him off guard, he was struggling to hide the amusement it brought him. He had never met a woman quite so openly dramatic, many saved that for the privacy of the bedchamber - if even then.

“Why does every man think that we ladies want to spend all day with one another cooped up like chickens. It is not enjoyable, it is not fun, and we do not often like each other. Gods forbid I want to enjoy the scenery you men get to frolic in freely - even then you do not use it to your full advantage! Look at the beauty of this place, and entirely undisturbed as well!” The smile of quiet amusement that fell upon his face at your passion was unusual for you to witness. He was spoken to be brazen, stoic, hating of all people including publicly his children. Yet here he was, Maekar the Anvil, grinning at your description of what men were doing wrong. “You can move on, I do not wish for company.”

“I was raised better than to leave a woman vulnerable, even if the scenery is so enticing.” His voice was low, but equally as enticing as the sight before you as you tore your eyes from it to gaze up at him. His words were an indication for you to move on, not waste his time. He had no authority over you, well maybe technically speaking he was a prince so he did, but you were a Baratheon - and stubborn by even those standards.

“Your presence is not wanted nor desired my prince, you best hurry back.” You instructed, in any other circumstance such a tone could end in punishment for your house but seeing as the fact he was bothering you, you deemed it more than appropriate for the situation. However much to your surprise, he sat down in the tall grass to your right. Your brows furrowed at the gesture. “No need to hurry when there is no one waiting on me.” The way he said it even struck a sliver of guilt within your chest, you had not been the one to wound him in such a way but your attitude had likely added to the internal bleeding.

“And why is that?” You asked sincerely, you had no dealings with Targaryens so you had no knowledge of their doings unless your father got drunk enough to start spewing anti-targaryen propaganda disguised as dark humour. “My eldest and youngest sons have strayed from the path on the journey here. Their whereabouts are unknown. My second son… he does not need me truly, he is independent and a man now.” The confession of his children cut deep, you were close in age to his eldest two, slotting right between them in terms of it. You had no siblings of your own so you could not share the sentiment of them. “I didn’t take you for one to confess feelings.” Your smirk was gentle, but telling. Only trying to lighten the mood when he felt so sentimentally dampened by his kin.

“Well. They don’t listen to me, my brother has other occupants to adhere to. And you won’t tell anyone as the last three days I have seen you in no company but your own.” You stared at him, blinking. This man was known to scare off any who dared to tread to close and he was insulting your lack of company? The audacity of a man never failed to impress you.

“So you are watching me now?” You watched him falter at your words, trying to silently regain his composure with a deep breath. “You’re hard to miss.” He admitted, “your father always makes sure you are the best dressed in the room.” There was no doubt within that statement, the finest silks, head to toe gold from crown pieces to earrings to necklaces and rings, intimately sewn adornments onto the black priceless fabrics of your owns all designed and paid for by your father. You were spoken of to be the best dressed in the realm on more occasion than one, envied for the loving coin your father carelessly doused you in.

“Well. I cannot deny my fashion sense outranks yours even if my status does not.”

He chuckled quietly at the bluntness of the statement, among Targaryens at the least he was given the grace of being best dressed. Baelor did not care especially and allowed Jena to adorn him as she saw fit, Aerys had more pressing matters than the intricacies of clothing, and Rhaegel was naked more often than he was clothed. Sure Maekar dabbled in fashion, that was no secret. His time in Dorne as a growing man had taught him a thing or two. What fabrics complimented, what caught an eye - or on the contrary, what forced you to blend in. His children were always styled well of course, he took pride in the cohesion of his boys. Though two were no longer boys, the third he had not seen in over a year, and the fourth would happily run around in a potato sack if he let him. Regardless he could not deny you the truth in your words. You did always look stunning.

“Mm. I could have your tongue for that.” He nodded, eyes narrowed

“But would you go through the effort? You look rather depleted my prince.” Gods he hated that grin, you resembled your father in that alone. The arrogant smirk of the Laughing Storm. Unfortunately in Maekar’s eyes, in his life experience and from reading the history, if a child had a Baratheon parent they were undoubtedly going to come out near identical. There hadn’t been a Baratheon born for centuries without the hair or the eyes. The case was no different in you. You had your own features yes, ones that were not your father’s. But even then, your essence was entirely that of an arrogant stag - attitude and all. “No.” He mumbled, “but I can see why your father hasn’t managed to marry you off yet, what with a tongue like that.”

You glared at him, smirk depleted the same as his energy. But he had gotten under your skin, he knew it and you knew that because he was watching for your reaction, corner of his lips upturned tightly. “If you must know my father is speaking to Leo Tyrell’s father.” You answered proudly. Did you especially care for Leo Tyrell? No. But the Highgarden was said to be the most beautiful standpoint in Westeros, who wouldn’t want to make that their home? If you could not marry for love you would certainly be marrying the man with the nicest house.

Maekar looked as if he’d eaten a particularly sour berry, he scoffed in distaste. “And here I thought you had taste Lady Baratheon, Leo Tyrell would not make a good husband for you.”

“Oh do tell?” You rested your chin upon your knees, listening truly and intently.

“He’s a pushover, he cannot hold a satisfactory conversation, he’s a good fighter i’ll give him that - he’s bested my Aerion a few times but he lacks the wit to keep up with a mouth like yours.” He explained in a way that was subtly animated, his hands following the guidance of his words as you nodded along. “I mean there is always Symon Stark in the north, Winterfell.” You continued, watching him roll his eyes so far back you feared he might blind himself. “Symon Stark would not put up with the insolence you carry. And with a dress as you are currently wearing you’d freeze to death in the north.” Your mouth hung wide, “you said you liked my fashion sense!”

“I never said I liked it i just acknowledged it’s more widely favoured than my own.” His hands fell upward in mock defence as you let out a near animalistic noise. “God’s you are rude Maekar Targaryen! Bloody rude!” You exasperated, he only laughed softly, shaking his head.

You shook your head in annoyance, “Tybolt Lannister was the last who asked. Don’t get me wrong I had my eye on the gold that would come from that alliance but he was so bloody arrogant I wanted to smack him.”

“Should have done it.” Maekar nodded, leaning back lightly as you took a breath, more of a huff really, then continued. “Oh let me tell you Maekar I bloody wanted to, he was all we Lannisters all know how to treat a woman right, and so i said to him is that the reason why I’m the fourth woman this moon you’ve tried to court, and he turned all you’re not the fourth woman-” Maekar was highly amused at the animation of your story, the changes in your voice and tone, not to mention the yapping motion you were making with your hands for yourself and Tybalt Lannister. “Then he went to his father and said he didn’t want anything to do with the Baratheon brat, well, let me tell you my father ripped him a new one. There’s one man who can call me a brat and that’s my father, and I only allow it because he pays for everything.”

“Oh is that so my dear?” He teased as you nodded rapidly, “Yes. He always calls me a spoiled brat but then he’ll say you’re the light in this world, daughter so I don’t really get the chance to be mad at him, or he buys me another necklace. I like necklaces you know, gold. But I think the red and gold is tacky as it reminds me of the Lannisters even though that’s what you can most often find. I prefer gold and sapphires.”

“They are more expensive.” He acknowledged, looking down at you and the sapphire and gold necklace that hung by your collarbone, the pendant a golden stag crowned in the icy blue gems. It was small and subtle, but definitely there, and most certainly worth more than what he was wearing - and for a crown prince that was certainly quite daunting, a Lady of a noble house having a necklace worth more than royal attire. He could only chuckle at the thought.

“They are. But if I desire them, I will get them.”

“You will never find a husband willing to provide the level your father does, not even with a face that can pout like yours.” He responded gruffly, but you supposed there was a compliment dug in there tightly.

“No?” You questioned, eyes gazing up at his as he shook his head, “no. And those men you have told me about are certainly not worth the time of day.”

“But then I am left without a husband.” You pouted, you didn’t especially care either way but you enjoyed toying with this prince, watching the way his emotions played on his face, hitting either side of the scale repeatedly. “Good. You’d be better off without them.” He concluded.

“Why? Would you like to wed and bed me, my prince?” His eyes widened as your laughter filled his ears. He glared at you, cheeks reddening lightly, “and here I thought we were having a genuine conversation.” He stood, dusting off his trousers and whistling his horse. “Well. It was a lovely conversation my prince, enjoy your journey.”

“Don’t be fucking daft.” He grunted, “get on the horse.”

Your eyes widened, lips parting “excuse me?”

“You heard what I said, get on the horse.”

“But I am not done out here!” You protested, yet he clasped your forearm and pulled you to stand, feigned annoyance plastered over his aged features.

“Nobody likes a whiny brat, get on the horse. I already told you I was not leaving you out here, shut up and get on.” You huffed before grabbing your skirts and mounting the horse, he took place on the saddle behind you, his firm chest feel-able even through the fabrics of his tunic and cloak. “Do not call me a brat.” You glared, the only angle you could truly locate his face from, was up. Meaning you were staring directly at that scratchy looking beard that suited him oh so well. “I can see why you have your nickname.” Was the only response you got, not an apology. So you complained again as you begun your journey.

“Apologise.”

“No.”

You watched every passing tree, bush, or even the skyline as it passed you as you ventured back to Ashford castle, wallowing in your last taste of freedom. He noted the travelling of your head, sensing your eyes were tracking the movements of the scenery he prompted his horse to slow, allowing you to watch less hurriedly. Maybe he was perceived as a brute, yes, but he was not unkind. The silence between the pair of you was welcome, neither of you needed to say much else, he was simply your escort home by this point.

You begun to near Ashford, you knew this because you could see the rising pavilions and bonfires. An involuntary sigh escaped you at the sight of the courtyard. A stable boy took the reins of the horse as Maekar stepped down, putting out a hand for you, and only once you were back on firm ground did he guide you in the direction of the nearest Kings Guard. “Please see to it this insolent girl is returned to her father, best he knows she was wandering in the dark and alone in Ashford’s meadow.”

“Why you foul git how-” You begun, but Maekar cut you off with a firm nod of direction and the Kings Guard clasped your upper arm before near dragging you to your father’s tents.

Mentally exhausted from such a taxing, yet amusing, conversation Maekar followed the winding paths up to the guest wing of Ashford castle. Baelor stood in the bay window of the corridor, he turned to eye his younger brother with a small smirk.

“Have a nice accompanied evening did you?” Baelor questioned, an eyebrow raised as he fought back a grin.

“Bloody Baratheon’s.” Was all Maekar could manage in response, shuffling into his bedchamber and slamming the door enough to rattle the hinges.

A/N: guys i have a thing for targaryen men in fields can you tell?? ooc maekar but idrc. hope you guys enjoyed seeing as i haven’t written for maekar in a lil while. but why this was kind of cute as fuck.

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@noone1233nobody @antobooh @mikariell95 @kravitzwhore @vanillafan6 @ae-gax @galactict3a @aleemendoza2425-blog @feral-postings @n3rdybirdee @mossthedevouring @loveslide @serduncansdelight @seekingtherapyasap @moonlights-muse @icebearcucumber @poisonedsultana @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @qardasngan

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“Sister!” Lyonel calls, his voice booming through the hall, his presence nearly filling the vast space, the storm with which he is made of expands to encompass your room and you look up, eyebrows rising at the glee upon your brother’s face. 

            “Brother,” you mock, tone an exaggeration of his own. He narrows his eyes at you, his expression falling into one of irritation which makes you smile, pushing to your feet, pain flaring through your leg as you reach for your cane, one he made you of an antler, limping towards him. “What do you want, Lyonel? I was reading.” Your book is resting on your bed, the history of dragons, the fire closed, a black lace ribbon enclosed to mark your page. 

            “I have arranged an alliance for our house,” he says, victory alighting upon his face as he crosses to you, picking you up and sweeping your around, the skirts of your dress flaring, legs still covered by the pants you insist on having sewn beneath, skirts that tear-away if needed. 

            “Put me down, you fool,” you snap, antler cane a hazard as you spin and he sets you down gently onto the floor, his touch that of a protector. One who feels that he has failed you. And maybe he has—maybe what they did to you was because Lyonel failed. You don’t know. “Now, what is this about an alliance? They usually only come about through a mar—NO! You didn’t! You swore, Lyonel! You swore you would not!” You stumble back from him, the pain in your leg growing larger than normal, the pain radiating up and up and up, wrapping like a vice around your neck. 

            “I swore that I would not if it would not help us,” he says, his Laughing Storm smile fading, replaced with the grim expression of someone who is breaking. Who is broken. 

            “Who?” Your voice is dark, the image of a wedding dress and veil that of a death sentence. You can taste the kiss of the executioner’s axe upon your neck; you can taste the kiss of death upon your skin for that is what a wedding would be. An execution. 

            “A Targaryen,” he answers, his eyes looking down at the floor. Looking anywhere but at you. 

            “Which one?” you ask, gritting your teeth and limping back to your bed, needing to get off your limb, off the affliction that you’ve lived with for more than a year. An affliction that you’ll live with for the rest of your life. 

            “I do not know,” he says and you freeze in your walk, turning back to him, eyes narrowing, lips pursing. 

            “How do you not know? That’s typically ironed out in any contract,” you say, watching your brother, assessing him for any hint of weakness, of anything that could betray him, but you see nothing except regret. Regret that he has used you as a pawn when he promised he never would. Regret that he has sold you like a broodmare when he promised he never would. 

            Regret that he can never protect you even when he promised you he always would. 

            “They will choose tomorrow when they see you,” he says and you can feel the sting of tears, the ones formed of anger and you lick your lips, biting your tongue in the process, biting back the words you want to yell at him. The words that you have held on for far too long, but you can’t. You just shake your head and turn away from him, limping to your bed and collapsing upon it, face-down, the material dampening the sound of your rage as your brother leaves the room. 

            Leaves you to the fate he has created. That he thinks he has created. 

***

            The sun has gone down, the moon replacing it, shining through your chamber window and you carefully tear away the skirt of your dress, the pants you have sewn in now visible as you tuck your cane into the band of your suit, gripping the stone of the window’s walls, heaving yourself up onto the platform, the ivy that clings to Storm’s End just to the left side of you. 

            You do not intend to marry anyone, especially not a Targaryen. Especially not one that is a variable—a constant would be one thing, but having yourself be a choice is not what you will have. You will not put yourself through that humiliation for you know, you know, you are undesirable, the events of the last year having done so. 

            As you stand on the window ledge, haloed by the moon’s light, you think back on that moment. On that fear. 

            On what you survived. 

***

            The festivities of the tourney have spilled into the paths between the tents, raucous laughter and shouts emanating from outside of your tent, piercing into you and you sigh, throwing your blankets off your body, climbing off the cot and swearing under your breath as you dress, quickly as you can. 

            You cannot sleep with the celebrations going on and you curse your brother for making you attend the festival, curse him for trying to act like a father now that your father is dead. It doesn’t matter what you tell him, he feels he must raise you as his daughter, no matter that you’re seven and ten. No, to him you are still a child and must accompany him to everything. But what he didn’t consider was just how close your tent was to the forest, to your safe haven. 

            And so you slip out of your tent, your guard rolling his eyes at you and shaking his head. 

            “Truly? At this hour?” he hisses, eyes darting left and right, tracking any potential harms to you. “Your brother will have my head if I let you go, my lady.”

            “Then give me a dagger. A weapon is enough,” you whisper and he does, giving you his and shaking his head, eyes straying from his watch to you.

            “One hour,” he says and you smile at him, whispering your thanks as you walk away from your tent, skirts swishing against your legs, the forest up ahead, so close you can almost smell the moss and hear the insects and their choirs. 

            So, close, yet not close enough. Not close enough for a hand grabs your arm, pulling you back, pulling you against a solid chest, a mouth hot on your neck, wet pressing against the skin. 

            “I’ve never seen a whore so fancy before,” comes the voice of the man who has you, the man who will try to take you. 

            “I am no whore,” you snap, jabbing your elbow up and back, into the tender place between the man’s ribs, giving you time to break away from him, to pull away. “I am a Baratheon. Lord Lyonel Baratheon’s sister.” You turn around to see the man who dares to lay a hand on you, but you don’t know him, someone dressed in common cloth and you startle at the sight in his eyes. 

            You startle and start to run, turning around and tripping over your skirts, aiming to get away, but he lunges after you with a roar, his hand finding your skirts, pulling on them and knocking you to the ground, your knee slamming into the hard-packed earth. You can feel him as your skirt is pushed up and you kick back with your leg, hitting him in the groin and he falls while you fumble for your dagger. 

            But while you fumble, the man beside you has his out and he slams it down and into your already aching leg, the one whose knee is shattered, slamming it down and cutting a hole in you, shattering your bone. You scream, the sound piercing the night air, piercing through the festivities and you lift your dagger, stabbing it beside you, into the man. Over and over and over. 

            But the damage is done. He’s dead. 

            And you will never walk the same again. 

***

            You shake your head, banishing the thoughts, the memory as your hand reaches out to grasp the ivy and you hold tight to it, rappelling down the wall with your good leg, landing softly on the ground, turning around and getting ready to go to the stables, to take your horse and run. 

            Just run and be free for once. 

            But you never get the chance because Lyonel is there with the guards, his expression stern and angry, but at the same time proud. Proud of all the pain that you handle and keep pushing through. Proud of you in general because that is who he is. 

            “I’m afraid you cannot run this time, sister,” he says and waves his hand, the guards slapping shackles on you and you jerk against the chains but there is no give in the iron. “Take her to them. Now. Before I change my mind and let her run.”

***

            It has been a day and night and now you are here, being led through the Red Keep by two guards, their grips like iron, like your shackles, upon your arms. You know that the Targaryen’s will be assembled in some room, waiting for the presentation of you, of the Baratheon girl well known for the blood on her hands. You know, but you have a plan. 

            You always have a plan. 

            “Let go of me!” you cry, struggling against the guards, voice rising in pitch and volume with every word. “Let go of me! You know I cannot run! Let go! You’re hurting me!” Your words echo off the stone walls, reverberating around you, the act of desperation playing nicely. You continue on in that vein until you hear a door open, several footsteps cutting through the silence, harried and angry. 

            Maeker and Baelor emerge before you first, Baelor’s face twisted with concern and Maeker’s in first irritation and then surprise at the sight of you, of the way you are bound like a common criminal. 

            “What is the meaning of this?!” Maeker demands, voice harsh and cutting, violet eyes narrowing upon the guards who hold you while you continue to struggle, Daeron and Aerion joining the older two. “Let her go.”

            “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” one guard says, glancing at you, a barely concealed smirk upon his face, your witting accomplice, “but we were instructed by Lord Baratheon not to release her. She’s liable to run you see.”

            “What with her leg?” Dareon asks, stepping forwards, his beautiful eyes startling sober. “You expect her to run on that mangled thing?”

            “If we release her,” the second guard says, “we cannot be held responsible for what happens.” You bite your tongue hard enough to taste metal, bite it to suppress the smile growing despite the pain in both leg and tongue. 

            “Yes, yes, fine. Release her,” Maeker says, waving his hands and the guards let go of your arms, uncuffing your shackles, setting you free and from the wink the first one gives you, you know all is in place. All is as it should be. 

            “Thank you, Your Grace,” you say, your voice lilting with pleasantness, the voice of an obedient daughter and wife. The voice that is a lie. “And I’m sorry for what is about to occur,” you add, free hands tearing the skirt of your new dress off and body limp-running to one of the windows. You’re fast, despite the pain and the damage to your leg; a secret you and Lyonel have kept, preferring no one to know just how much pain you can stand and keep going. 

            You hear the Targaryen’s shout as you climb onto the window ledge, their footsteps behind you as you unlatch it, swinging it open and glancing down to see a horse waiting below for you. You glance over your shoulder, a line of men behind you, waiting with bated breath for what you’ll do next. They think you’re choosing death. 

            Little do they know, you’re choosing life. 

            “So sorry gentlemen,” you say, “but I’m afraid our little visit must be cut short. I have a life to live on my own.” You wave once, a smirk curving on your face and then you jump, one strong tendril of ivy beside you, grasped in your right hand as you slide down the wall, pushing off just enough to land on your horse’s saddle and then you’re gone. Away like a shot, leaving the men staring after you. 

            Aerion watches you, your silhouette on the horse’s back enticing him, the fearlessness in your gaze something he found so attractive. So odd. 

            He’s used to people staring at him with fear and anger and disgust, but never victory. You looked as if you had won something and he craves that look. He craves you. And he doesn’t like it. But he especially doesn’t like seeing you on horseback, running away from him, your hair streaming behind you, having come free from the noble braid. 

            He didn’t originally want you—in fact, his opinion was to marry you to Daeron the Drunk, his idiot brother, for you as a cripple were not worthy of his blood. But now? Seeing how you ran even with the pain you endure, how you leaped out the window onto a horse? How you have skirts designed to tear away to leave you free in breeches?

            He wants you. And he will have you. 

            “Ready my horse!” he cries, a passing servant nodding, fear glazing their eyes as they run, preparing to do just that, practically running away from him. “I claim her,” he says, turning to his father, his uncle. 

            “No,” Maeker says, eyes narrowed at the window, still watching as your form dives into the forest not far from the Keep. “You cannot claim that which runs.”

            “We’ll never find her in the forest,” Daeron says, his face slack with longing and pain as he watches your silhouette disappear within the darkness. “She knows it better than anyone.”

            “You know her?” Aerion demands, walking to his brother, elbow pressing against his throat, slamming him back into the stone. “Why did you not tell us this?”

            “I am her friend,” Daeron says, struggling against Aerion’s iron hold. “I met her once when I was drunk, stumbling through the forest. She came down from the trees like a goddess of the wood and she cared for me. She cared for me and so I sought her out, time and time again. But she’s never shown me her place before.”

            “How could she have a place in that forest? She’s from the Stormlands,” Aerion hisses and Daeron’s face mottles with rage but at the same time confusion as if he no longer knows himself. 

            “Whoever finds her,” Baelor whispers, focus on the forest’s horizon, “will wed her.” He turns to look at his brother and nephews, eyebrows rising, mind on you, the fierce girl whose equal he has never seen. Not in bravery nor stupidity.  

            “It will be me,” Aerion says.

            He will make sure of it.

***

            You let out a breath once your safe in the forest, urging the horse through the trees, weaving in and around at a canter before you leap from the saddle, grasping a sturdy branch of an oak tree, hauling yourself up onto it, scaling the tree as tears stream down your cheeks, silent screams caught in your throat. 

            You climb despite the pain in your leg, the pain that never goes away. The pain that pervades your waking hours. You climb and climb and climb, knowing that you cannot be free, not truly, until they have exhausted their search, a prize having slipped from their grasp. You settle onto a top branch, leaning back against the trunk, the horse long gone and that’s when you hear them—all of them. 

            You hear their shouts and the gallop of horses and you wait. You wait when you hear Baelor beneath you, then Maeker and Daeron and Aerion. You wait until you hear them gone and then you sigh, looking up at the sky, at the clouds drifting across. 

            “Daeron said that you could climb,” comes a voice just beside you and you glance over, fear gripping your heart, its cold grip like that of a vice, restricting your breath as you look into the violet eyes of the Dragon Prince. 

            “I don’t know him,” you reply, swallowing hard around the anger that has knotted in your throat. “So, I don’t know how he knows. Unless, perhaps, he dreamed it.” Aerion closes the distance between the two of you, his body settling across from you on the branch, the limb sturdy enough for both of your weights. 

            “He should not have,” he whispers, eyes tracing you, straying to your left leg, your mangled leg, curiosity shrouding the purple. 

            “Why? Because dragon blood should not associate with a storm? With a cripple?” Your words are harsh and cruel. Pointed, but he simply smiles at you, his hand pulling your leg to him, ignoring the hiss that escapes you, the hypersensitive skin flaring along his touch points, pulling the fabric of the breeches up to expose the mottled skin.

            The skin of your leg is a blotchy red and purple, swollen in places surrounding the stab wound you received and Aerion sucks in a breath between his teeth, looking up at you, tenderness you did not expect in his eyes. 

            “No,” he answers, “but because you are mine.”

            “You cannot claim a wild thing. You cannot claim a storm,” you counter and he leans forwards, towards you, your heart rate catching, speeding at his closeness. This feeling is a first, but maybe it’s because he’s here, before you and talking not attacking, not berating. 

            “Maybe I do not,” he whispers, “but beseech you to choose me.”

            “Why?” you ask him, pulling your leg away from him, the fabric falling again to conceal the change the Maester called permanent, forever. The change your brother called a Storm’s Curse. “I’ve heard of you, Dragon Prince. I know you take what you want. I know you despise weakness and certainly those of us afflicted with damage. I know you value the blood in your veins. So, why do you want me?” You do not expect him to answer; you expect him to claim you and make you his. 

            Perhaps that’s why he answers.

            “Because I have never seen anyone like you,” he whispers, tone thoughtful, words slow. “I am what you said and at first, I did not want you. I didn’t want you in my family at all, but them you…you ran. You ran on something no soldier could—we’ve heard of your curse you know, the pain worse than the injury. The permanency. Yet you ran and you ignored all proper laws. You do what you want and I want that. I want…I want someone who is not afraid of me. And I didn’t know I wanted that until now.”

            “So, that’s why you haven’t just taken me,” you whisper and he nods, his hand coming to take yours in his. 

            “I cannot promise to be a good husband. I cannot promise that we will not fight, that I will not say things I will not end up regretting. I cannot promise not to be possessive, to be jealous. I cannot promise to be gentle, but I can promise to love you.” You can hear his honesty, the value he places in his words and you nod. 

            You accept if only for the peculiar feeling he causes within you. 

            And you hope you will not regret it. 

***

            And you don’t. You don’t regret it when he helps you down the tree, helps you on his horse, the two of you riding out of the forest, meeting with his family, laughter spilling from the two of you the whole ride as you tell him stories of Storm’s End and Lyonel at his request. You ask him for stories, but he says he prefers not to for he is not as kind as you. He says you would not like his stories and you surprise him even more when you tell him to try you. 

            You don’t regret it when he does tell you, whispering all the things he’s ever done, his soul feeling washed clean. You don’t regret it because you’ve found someone who understands and you can tell him how it felt to kill, how necessary in the moment but how it stains you now. How it weighs on you now. 

            You don’t regret it on your wedding day when you vow to him your life, your love, your everything. You don’t regret it when you dance with him, his arms taking most of the weight from you, holding you and sheltering you even as his dragon’s tongue lashes out at every one else. 

            Everyone but you that is. 

            You don’t regret it that night when he’s tender and careful and gentle, whispering praise over degradation, ever so conscious of your trembling, the flashbacks. 

            You don’t ever regret it because you love him. Somewhere in his talk, you felt that you could love him and you do. It grew and it grew and it grows still. 

            You love him like he’s your soul. 

            Perhaps he is. 

            Your soul that is, your other half. 

            You hope so. No, you know. 

            “How are you, my darling?” he whispers now, his breath on your neck, lips pressing into the delicate skin. 

            “Just fine,” you whisper, fear a chokehold on your throat as you stare at the wine before you. The wine that has the scent of poison, but not poison for you. No, poison for the babe that grows within you. 

            The one no one knows about. 

What affection you had for him, though – fantasized and imagined, grown alone in bedchambers too small for your parents’ ambitions, based on heroic tales and songs – soon dwindled, and in only a matter of months.

Sharp was his tongue, and quick was his temper.

And that superior air you had once found handsome ? You now wished you could erase from his face.

Yes, the Rider of Elkor, the largest dragon at that time, was as handsome and strong as we was cold and inaccessible. You were taken aback by his many flaws : the perpetual distance he cultivated – even with you – and the lack of emotions he displayed with some kind of barely hidden pride.

Flaws you endured, first without a word, without outrage nor scandal. Flaws you had been taught to forgive, to look past, to consider great strengths.

Never did he utter an insult, never did he raise his hand. Yet, in his lack of inclinations toward you, in the way he ignored you, in the moments he always missed and in the loneliness he made you face, each night, you felt all the promises made at the Sept crumble into fine dust. And when perched on your balconies, deep in thoughts, wind blowing your hair into a halo around your face, you felt pieces of you go with it, falling like frozen petals on the dark blue waters of the Blackwater Bay.

Soon with them, you too – the beautiful, graceful, charitable, kind-hearted noble lady – faded, becoming more jaded and bitter with each passing day.

“ ‘Tis only fresh grief, my dove. See in his distant behavior, the dignity of a a honorable King ; who, in front of a watchful court, wishes only but to respect the memory of a beloved Queen.”, “two decades shan’t be erased in barely two years daughter, perhaps is he trying to spare his son from enduring further pain”, “give yourself grace, time is your ally”, “I’m sure he is fond of you”, your mother would write you. Always the same reassuring words, the same tempering tone ; trying to appease your wounded heart with what you believed were but empty promises. To your parents, their Queen consort of a daughter, which they had managed to marry to the most important man of the realm, could not be anything but happy ; grateful for the political moves she and your father had taken great efforts into making.

You were Queen, you were the winning one. You were living the dream you had fiercely dreamt, the life every girl wanted – what could you want that you already did not have ?

⸝⸝ ⸝⸝ ⸝⸝ ⸝⸝ ⸝⸝ ⸝⸝ ⸝⸝ ⸝⸝ ⸝⸝ ⸝⸝ ⸝⸝