#romancebuild

The rain had finally abandoned them an hour before they crested the last ridge.

Summerhall revealed itself slowly — not in the abrupt shock of towers bursting from forest, but in rising lines of warm red stone emerging from the hills like something grown rather than built. The sun, freed from cloud, struck its windows until they flashed like burnished copper. Banners bearing the three-headed dragon stirred in the wind, dark against the pale sky.

Emma drew her mare to a slower walk.

For all her practiced composure, her breath shortened.

This was no tourney field. No temporary courtly spectacle.

This was her home now.

Maekar rode beside her, silent as he had been for most of the final approach. His black destrier moved with steady confidence, as though returning to familiar ground sharpened rather than softened him.

“You are staring,” he said.

“I am assessing,” she replied, chin lifting slightly. “It would be unwise to pledge myself to a place without first judging it.”

“And your judgment?”

She studied the broad curtain walls, the square towers, the long sweep of inner roofs stepping down with the slope of the hill.

“It does not beg to be admired,” she said at last. “I respect that.”

A faint exhale through his nose — not quite a laugh.

The gates opened at their approach. No horns blared. No elaborate procession awaited them. Only disciplined efficiency: guards straight-backed, servants prepared, a steward already descending the steps to bow.

Maekar dismounted first.

He did not immediately offer his hand.

Emma did not wait for it.

She swung down from her saddle cleanly, boots striking the packed earth. The wind caught her riding cloak and sent it snapping behind her. For a moment, the courtyard quieted — watching.

Not the fragile Ashford girl.

Not a decorative bride.

The Princess of Summerhall.

Maekar’s gaze lingered on her only briefly before he turned to issue quiet instructions to the captain of the guard.

“Welcome home, Your Grace,” the steward said with careful deference.

Home.

The word settled somewhere deep in her chest.

The inner yard smelled of stone warmed by sun and faint woodsmoke from distant kitchens. Emma walked beside Maekar as servants hurried to see to their trunks and horses.

And then she saw them.

Three figures waited at the base of the inner steps — varying in height, in posture, in temperament.

Daeron stood slightly forward, having dismounted before them he had fled before either her or maker had entered the yard, silver hair falling into eyes too sharp for his years. He watched her as one studies a rival knight — curious, guarded, skeptical.

Behind him, Rhae stood poised, composed as a lady twice her age, her expression carefully neutral but her violet gaze keen.

Daella lingered half a step back from them both, hands folded before her, nervous energy visible even from a distance.

Maekar’s stride did not slow.

“Father,” Daeron greeted.

The word carried weight. Respect without softness.

Maekar inclined his head to his daughters. 

Daeron swept his hand toward her in a dramatic fashion. 

“And this,” he said, “is our new mother.” 

Emma knew that the young man did not know what to make of her. They had shared a few words on the road and fewer roads at ashford.

The air tightened.

Emma did not flinch.

She stepped forward of her own accord, removing her gloves one finger at a time — deliberate, unhurried.

“I am Emma,” she said simply. “You may call me that until you decide otherwise.”

Daeron’s brow lifted faintly at her refusal of formal distance.

Rhae stepped forward first. “Princess Emma,” she corrected gently, though her tone held no malice. “Welcome to Summerhall.”

Emma smiled. “Then I am grateful to you, Princess Rhae, for the welcome.”

Rhae blinked — surprised, perhaps, at being answered as equal rather than child.

Daella curtsied quickly, nearly stumbling in her haste. “We—we are pleased you are here.”

Emma’s gaze softened. “As am I.”

Daeron folded his arms.

“Aerion sends no greetings,” he said coolly. “He has sailed for Lys.”

“I had heard,” Emma replied evenly. “And Aemon?”

“At the Citadel,” Rhae answered. “And Aegon travels with Ser Duncan.”

So the household was scattered.

Emma inclined her head slightly. “Then we shall have a quieter beginning.”

Daeron studied her for another long moment — measuring, perhaps hoping for a misstep.

“You rode in the rain,” he observed abruptly. “Most ladies would not.”

“Most ladies,” she returned, “tend to melt in the rain.”

The corner of Rhae’s mouth twitched.

Maekar’s hand came briefly to Emma’s back — not possessive, not guiding. Simply present.

“Enough,” he said. “We dine at dusk.”

The children dispersed, though Daeron glanced back once more before vanishing into the inner hall.

Emma released a slow breath.

“You did not warn me I would be inspected,” she murmured.

“You were not,” Maekar replied. “They were.”

She glanced up at him sharply.

He did not elaborate.

Summerhall unfolded slowly over the afternoon.

Emma walked its corridors without escort, memorizing turns and stairwells, noting where light fell brightest, where drafts crept through stone. She stepped onto balconies overlooking the training yard, watched squires sparring below. She paused in the small sept tucked within the inner ward — modest but well-kept.

It was not ostentatious.

It was practical.

Lived in.

In the western gallery, she found a tapestry half-restored, its threads faded but its dragons still fierce. In the library, shelves lined not only with histories but with treatises on governance and warfare — Maekar’s hand evident in the selections.

By the time she reached the eastern wing, the sun had begun its descent.

Their chambers awaited.

The door opened to warm lamplight and wide windows overlooking the hills she had seen from afar that morning. The bed stood heavy and carved, draperies drawn back. A hearth already crackled.

Shared.

She stepped inside slowly.

Her trunks had been unpacked with care. Dresses hung in the adjoining wardrobe. Her writing desk stood near the window, parchment laid out in quiet invitation.

Maekar entered behind her.

“This was my chamber,” he said.

“And now?”

“Ours.”

The word was not easily given. She heard that.

Emma walked to the window. The hills beyond were turning amber under the falling sun.

“It suits you,” she said softly. 

He watched her as she traced the carved bedpost with her fingers.

“You may change what you wish,” he offered.

“I will not erase you from it.”

Something in his posture shifted — subtle, but real.

“You need not preserve me either.”

She turned back to him.

“I am not afraid of your presence, Maekar.”

A pause.

Then, quieter: “Good.”

Later, when the household settled and twilight deepened, Emma seated herself at the writing desk.

She unfolded fresh parchment.

The hills beyond the window darkened into shadow as she dipped her quill.

To my dearest Elinor and Edmund,

We have arrived at Summerhall at last, and I confess it is not what I imagined. It does not glitter as courts do. It does not dazzle. Instead, it stands — firm and wind-worn — as though it has weathered every storm and expects to weather more.

She paused, glancing toward the hearth where Maekar stood, removing his sword belt.

The children received me with the composure of young rulers rather than babes. Daeron measures every word I speak. Rhae is sharper than she allows others to see. Daella trembles but watches everything. Aerion has sailed for Lys, and Aemon remains at the Citadel. Aegon wanders the realm like some hero from a song.

A small smile touched her mouth.

I suspect I shall have to earn my place here — not demand it.

She hesitated before writing the next line.

I do not think that displeases me.

Behind her, Maekar approached quietly. He did not read over her shoulder — a courtesy she noted.

“Will you tell them you are happy?” he asked.

She considered it.

“I will tell them I am not afraid.”

He stood beside her, gaze drifting to the dark hills beyond the glass.

“That is enough,” he said.

Emma set down her quill and folded the letter carefully.

As she pressed her seal into warm wax, she realized something unexpected had settled within her.

Not certainty.

Not ease.

But belonging — fragile and new.

Summerhall did not overwhelm her.

It waited.

And she intended to meet it.

____________________________________________________________________________

The morning at Summerhall came bright and wind-washed, sunlight spilling across the red stone like molten gold.

Emma had risen early.

She’d taken to walking the grounds before the household fully stirred — before petitions, before duties, before the steady weight of being Princess of Summerhall settled upon her shoulders. The hills rolled outward in soft waves, grasses bending under the breeze. Somewhere below, stable hands were already at work. The air smelled of earth and distant rain.

She liked it.

Summerhall did not loom. It breathed.

Maekar joined  without announcement.

She heard him only when his stride matched hers along the gravel path. No herald, no throat-clearing. Just presence.

“You walk as if measuring it,” he observed.

“I am,” she replied. “If it is to be mine, I should know its edges.”

“It is yours.”

“And yours.”

He did not argue.

They passed beneath an old oak whose branches twisted toward the sky like grasping fingers. Emma paused, turning slowly, committing the sightlines to memory — the eastern tower, the practice yard, the curve of the outer wall.

“It feels different from Ashford,” she said.

“It is.”

She glanced sideways at him. “You are a wealth of poetry this morning.”

His mouth twitched faintly.

They walked on, close enough that her sleeve brushed his hand with each step. This time, he did not shift away.

Their shared bedchamber sat in the eastern wing, catching the first light of day.

Shared.

The word still startled her when she thought it.

The bed was larger than the one at Ashford, carved dark wood and heavy posts, hung with deep crimson drapery. A hearth stood opposite it. A long window overlooked the hills. It was not ostentatious — Maekar would never allow that — but it was solid, warm, enduring.

The first night there, Emma had stood near the bed, fingers grazing the carved post.

“We are to share it,” she said lightly, though her pulse had quickened.

“Yes.”

“That is… efficient.”

“It is marriage.”

She laughed softly at that.

The next morning she was dressed by new handmaids and servants, women she had never met. Silk in red and black draped her frame — a gift, they had said, from Princess Daella. You must have a gown in the house colors. The fabric caught the morning light and deepened it, the crimson rich against her skin, the black severe and unmistakably Targaryen.

She studied her reflection.

Summerhall suited her more each day.

“Then perhaps they should stand aside.”

The door had opened without fanfare.

Maekar entered as he did most spaces: quietly, and yet impossibly present.

The servants curtsied at once. “My prince—”

He did not look at them.

His violet eyes found her in the mirror and remained there.

Emma turned in her chair, lips curving. “My prince?”

He inclined his head at her greeting. For a moment, he said nothing. The silence stretched, but it was not uncomfortable. His gaze traced the line of her shoulders, the fall of silk over her waist, the pearls resting at her throat.

That was his way.

“You are… well attired,” he said at last.

One of her ladies stifled a smile. Emma flicked her a warning glance before returning her attention to her husband.

“Thank you Lord Husband,” she replied lightly. 

He stepped closer, boots soundless on stone.

He lifted one hand in a small, controlled motion. “Leave us.”

The servants gathered their things at once and withdrew, casting curious glances that Emma pretended not to see. The door shut softly behind them.

Silence settled — thicker now.

Maekar moved until he stood directly before her. Not hurried. Not aggressive.

Intent.

“I have brought you a gift,” he said.

Her brow arched faintly. “You have?”

He reached to the table behind him where, unnoticed until now, a narrow wooden box had been set down. Dark polished oak, unadorned save for a small dragon carved into its lid.

He placed it in her lap.

“For you,” he said simply.

Emma looked from the box to him — surprise softening her features. “What is it?”

“You may open it.”

Her fingers brushed his briefly as she lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled in black velvet, lay a slender chain of darkened silver. At its center hung a small dragon wrought in red gold, wings half-spread — not elaborate, not gaudy. Strong lines. Deliberate craftsmanship. The eyes were tiny chips of garnet that caught the light like embers.

It was not a courtly ornament.

It was Summerhall.

She looked up slowly. “You chose this?”

“Yes.”

Her throat tightened unexpectedly.

“It is not delicate,” she murmured.

“No,” he agreed. “It is not meant to be.”

She lifted it from the velvet. The metal was cool against her palm.

“It is a stunning piece,” she said softly.

“I thought,” he started, stepping closer, “that you should wear something no one makes mistakes."

His fingers brushed hers as he took the chain gently from her hands.

“Turn,” he murmured.

She did.

He moved behind her, lifting her hair aside. His knuckles skimmed the back of her neck — a small, deliberate touch that sent warmth along her spine. The chain settled against her skin, the pendant resting just above her heart.

His fingers lingered as he fastened it.

In the mirror, she saw him watching her reflection — not the jewelry.

“You are my wife,” he said quietly. “Summerhall should know it.”

Emma’s breath slowed.

She turned back toward him, fingertips rising to touch the dragon at her throat.

“I would have worn your colors without command,” she said.

“I know.”

He bent to kiss her — deeper than courtesy, surer than before. His palm slid along her back, broad and steady, anchoring her against him. There was no haste in it, no reckless hunger. Only intention.

Her fingers threaded into his hair, loosening the careful severity of him.

“Maekar,” she breathed when his mouth brushed the curve of her throat.

He lifted his head slightly, eyes darkened but clear.

“You will ruin my gown,” she warned.

“I will have another one made,” he replied evenly.

She laughed again — breathless this time — and he drew her closer.

His hands settled firmly at her waist, then lower at her hips, guiding rather than forcing until the edge of the bed met the backs of her knees.

“Tell me if I go too far,” he said, voice thickened but controlled.

She shook her head.

Outside, Summerhall carried on — servants moving through corridors, guards training in the yard, wind sweeping the red hills.

Inside, the world narrowed.

He did not rush her. Even in his growing desire, there was deliberation. His mouth traced a slow path along her shoulder, hands learning her shape through silk and linen. She trembled not from fear, but from the steadiness of him — the way he held her as though she were both strength and solace.

When at last she clung to him, breath unsteady and eyes bright, he pressed his forehead to hers, grip still firm at her hips.

“You distract me, woman,” he murmured, a rare thread of warmth in his tone.

“Is that not my privilege?” she whispered back.

His thumb brushed the pendant resting against her collarbone — the small red dragon gleaming between them.

“Yes,” he said. “It is.”

Authors Note:

ok so… hi 😭

i’m actively teaching myself how to write smut in this fic, so if you feel the tension building in chapters like this one… that is VERY intentional

we are in the “learning the characters / emotional intimacy / slow burn that will absolutely snap later” phase

i want it to feel earned, not rushed, so thank you for sticking with me while i build that skill 🖤

also… maekar being soft but still terrifying is everything to me